Page 79 of A Thief Among Fae

The grooves are shallow, worn soft by time, and the new moon leaves the world flattened into black and deeper black. I test each hold before committing, shifting my weight carefully to feel for loose stones. I climb by touch more than sight, mapping the wall with my fingertips for every ridge and shallow lip of mortar.

Halfway up, the stone I grab crumbles. One second it’s there, the next it’s falling dust.

My weight pitches backward.

I slam my forearm against the wall, fingers scraping hard enough to burn as I reach for anything that will hold. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the pull of empty air.

Then a narrow edge catches under my fingers. I seize it, press in close, and force my breathing back under control. “Thank you, Elowyn,” I whisper.

Wind tears along the wall, flinging grit into my eyes. I blink hard against it, my vision blurring. The stone smells so dry and ancient.

Don’t look down. The thought comes uninvited, as sharp as a command. I lean in closer, my forehead nearly brushing the wall as I reach up. “You’ve done this before,” I murmur to myself. “Remember? That tomb you raided when you were nineteen.”

I had triggered a trap, fallen into a concealed ditch, and had to claw my way out of it. The memory invigorates me, and my nervousness transforms into daredevil anticipation. If I survived that, I can climb this wall.

My pulse pounds by the time I reach up and feel only air. I grasp the ledge and throw my body onto the walkway. A laugh bubbles out of me.

Alive.

Slowly, the others join me. Maeve is out of breath, but Finnian and Brandur simply stand and stare at the Bay of Teeth below. Without the moon, the rough waves are black as pitch. The pinprick glows of lanterns on boats sway, giving the illusion of dancing fireflies. It’s a sight that steals my breath away.

“Now, let’s go over the details.” Finnian opens the pack, then staggers as the wind whips against him. He pulls out the rolled planks. A rope on each side connects the planks through punched-in holes. It almost looks like. . .

A bridge.

“No, absolutely not,” I protest.

Finnian pouts. “C’mon, Cyn. The Snow-Shod manor is right there. See the hare finial?” He points. “If one of us stays behind and holds one end, then you just need to secure the other to the roof. Then we can walk right across and enter through that conveniently open window.”

“It’s too windy. If I don’t hold it still with my magic, you’ll fall right off,” I argue.

Brandur harrumphs. “Then hold it still with your magic.”

“I don’t know if I can!” The admission flew out of me before I could hold it back.

“Then we climbed up here for nothing,” Maeve says, not with blame, but disappointment.

“This is Dez’s plan for the tomb, isn’t it?” Finnian asks me. “Consider this a trial run.”

Pinned by the weight of three expectant gazes, I wince. “I’ll try. But you have to remember, my magic doesn’t work on people. If you fall, I can’t catch you.”

That definitely sours the stakes, but everyone nods.

“I’ll hold the bridge,” Maeve volunteers. “I wouldn’t be useful inside the manor.”

Finnian hands it to her. She unrolls it across the walkway, and I untether the other side. The bridge might as well be a kite as I stretch it over the street below. It twists and bucks, each gust fighting my magic. When it bumps against the snow hare finial, I bite my lip and focus on knotting the loose ends of the ropes around the roof’s upturned eave. Each time the wind steals the rope from me, I try again.

After tying the knots, I sigh in relief. Then I let go. The bucking only worsens. Maeve gasps, fighting to keep hold of her end.

I can fix this. I outstretch my Gift to encompass the entire bridge and will it still. The strain pinches my mind, but I think I can hold it long enough for the three of us to cross. “Finnian, it’s safe if you’re ready to⁠—”

“The newcomer crosses first,” Brandur says.

The newcomer? Shit. He means me. Which is fantastic, considering I’m the one who has to concentrate to keep this damn thing from flinging us to the cobblestones below. Brandur’s frown and crossed arms communicate one thing clearly: if I refuse, I’m off the team.

“See you in hell, Osian,” I mutter as I test my weight on the bridge. If only the God of Death would help me now.

Since the bridge is anchored at both ends, my Gift doesn’t have to bear my full weight. I focus instead on the planks ahead, fixing each one in place before I trust it.