Drystan starts walking again, prompting the two of us to follow as Bram replies, “A little. It’s still hard eating in this form. Sometimes it feels like I’ve forgotten how to use two legs.”
I can imagine. In situations like the ones he faced, being in our animal forms gives us a survival advantage. Having a smaller, more evasive form which needs to eat less must have helped him tremendously in Fellgotha. But Bram was gone for almost a century.
That’s an awfully long time to give yourself over to the animal half. It’s a miracle that he’s as sane as he is.
“I understand,” I offer. “My wolf would’ve gone feral if I’d faced what you had.”
Sometimes, it feels like the animal side of me is halfway there already. The curse of being a strong shifter is that the animal is always closer to the surface than others’.
“Thinking about home kept me sane,” Bram admits, as we reach the bottom of the stairs. “I made a list of all the things I wanted to do when I returned. So many books I want to read, places I want to go.”
The prince holds up the books, then turns in the opposite direction to the sanctum where Drystan is headed. “I’ll meet you all by the horses. I’m going to make sure all of my things are packed.”
“If you see Lorcan, and he’s not got both eyes on that Barghest, hit him,” Drystan calls back.
Bram’s eyes widen, but he nods once and takes off in the direction of the temple gates.
“There’s no way Prince Bram is going to hit an assassin,” I mumble, lengthening my stride to catch up with the unseelie.
Drystan raises a brow. “You underestimate how annoying the redcap can be.”
Two
Rhoswyn
Drystan’s continued refusal to look at me is nothing new, but after the events of last night, it stings.
My wings flutter as I walk, still reacting to my agitation, even though they’re hidden beneath my glamour. Their feather-light brushes against my spine does nothing to soothe me. Instead, my skin is tight and my smile forced as I finally turn a corner and reach the grey stone courtyard before the temple sanctum. Kitarni is waiting beside an ornate stone door with a gnome in priesthood robes. Her bark-covered face is surrounded by blossoms that drip petals onto the flagstones beneath her, and her companion is brushing the ones which have fallen on him away good-naturedly.
Forcing my irritation at Drystan’s heavy-handedness to the back of my mind, I offer the gnome a small—and hopefully regal—nod of acknowledgement. As I approach, he bows low. Kitarni does the same. Nervously, I find myself reaching for Lore, gripping his hand like a lifeline.
Like all gnomes, he’s barely two feet tall, but his long bushy beard is so white it gleams in the morning sun like snow. His bow causes the ends of it to sweep the paved floor, and when he stands up, his beady black eyes remain fixed on my feet.
Probably safest that way, given that I’m not sure Lore’s earlier threat was an empty one.
“Nicnevin, this is Nirbert,” Kitarni introduces proudly. “He’s been called to serve as head priest of this temple.”
The gnome shuffles in place, not looking up, and I notice Lore crowding my back protectively.
“Marlen is deeply humbled to host our lady Nicnevin at the start of your pilgrimage.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, my hand tightening around Lore’s as I look around at the other priests, who are doing their best to look busy with various tasks nearby. When no one says anything else, I turn my focus to the carved stone door. “Is this the sanctum?”
I know it is, but playing dumb is apparently the correct thing to do because the gnome brightens.
“It is.” He rubs at his rounded belly thoughtfully. “It’s been well-tended since your lady mother—Danu rest her soul—began her pilgrimage here so many years ago.”
He speaks like he was there, but that can’t be right. My mother started her pilgrimage several millennia ago. While this gnome looks old, he can’t bethatold, surely?
I suppose, with the fae, you never know.
I don’t know if it’s rude to ask, so I turn to face the door. Sensing that the pleasantries are over, the gnome gives a tiny cough, and another priest—an ogre this time—rushes to push the door open.
The great grinding sound of stone against stone echoes off the walls of the courtyard, revealing a small blossoming arboretum beyond.
Lore reluctantly releases my hand, and Kitarni gives me an encouraging half-smile. I slip off my boots and tread barefoot over the cool stones between me and the flourishing clover lawn beyond. Soft leaves tickle my toes as I step through the carefully tended inner garden to the great tree at the centre. It’s an immense twisted old blackthorn, and the fragile white blooms cascade from the branches like snow in the breeze.
The path to the gnarled trunk is dotted with more petals, and I resist the urge to linger. I’m here to do a job. I have to get this done so we can get on with what really matters: saving Florian and the other fae trapped in Elfhame City.
