Page 35 of The Crimson Throne
Except he wasn’tthatsurprised when the man I killed faded to dust…
Samson crows in triumph at his victory.
“But you only win,” I say, raising a finger to stop him, “because it’s clear both our fathers are shite. Yours only has the edge at being a bigger shite because he’s English too.”
My words were a good distraction, and Samson laughs at me before stretching and starting the process of packing up our little camp.
Even if the tension’s a little less than it was before, every time I close my eyes, I remember the way the man’s body withered into a corpse. He was still alive when his wrists snapped and his face slammed down. I watched the light leave his eyes as he collapsed in the dirt. And through it all, now I hear my father’s condescension as he declared me a failure, his voice not quite loud enough to silence the echo of my victim’s death rattle when I turned his lungs to ash.
A soft intake of breath makes me look up. Samson’s hand reachesfor mine blindly, his attention on the moor. He grabs my fingers and squeezes, pulling my focus as a majestic red deer strides forward. Mist clings to its branching antlers, making them sparkle like silver. The deer tilts its head up, snorting, looking for danger. It’s far enough away to have not noticed us, but when my horse whinnies, the buck stomps a hoof down, tail flicking.
I spare one glance at Samson.
His aura is bright purple and green, the faint colors wrapping around him like the northern lights. His wonder and awe at the sight saturate every other emotion. His eyes are wide, his mouth parted, and I don’t think the lad’s even breathing.
He’s right to be entranced. Part of the power of Scotland is in its wildness. Places like this, where nature rules, are closer to fae magic than in the cities and towns.
Here is a place where, if care is not taken, it’s possible to slip from this world into the fae realm.
It’s happened before.
It will happen again.
But not today.
I turn back to the deer. The buck marches forward a few steps, heavy clouds of breath lingering in the cold air as it fades into the shadows of the misty moor.
Samson holds my hand long after the regal buck disappears.
8
Samson
We ride the rest of the way to Stirling in silence. I don’t dare think it’s companionable…more like she’s only tolerating my presence. Alyth’s focused on the terrain, on staying alert, and I can’t fault her for that. I should be doing the same.
But all I can think about is last night.
She talked in her sleep about someone withering away. I didn’t tell her she said that, but she was dreaming about killing that man, wasn’t she?
I eye her where she rides ahead of me, shoulders pulled back, chin high. Her posture’s all regal. She’s not gonna be out of place at all in a court, and I’d expect someone like her to have no problem murdering a man in cold blood. She’s a lady of the queen, sent off with what must have been fae magic to kill people; she shouldn’t have nightmares about doing dark deeds.
And yet she woke up crying.
How did I factor into her dream? Why did she say my name?
The longer the day drags on, the more I try to force myself to stop rolling these thoughts over and over in my head. But Alyth’s a puzzle my brain’s happy to mull on, saving me from thinking about other puzzles, bigger problems coming my way.
Like the walls of Stirling Castle that pop up in front of us about an hour out from sunset.
It’s a big complex, with sharp, jagged towers wrapped up tight in a gray stone wall, the lot of it set high on a hilltop that lets it be seen easily from surrounding land. There’s a village nearby too, but we bypass it, and Alyth nudges her horse up a trail leading to a wide-open gate.
She jerks on her reins, slowing her horse enough that I come up alongside her. Her face is fixed in a studious frown again, this one locked on that open gate.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
She flicks her eyes to me, and we both feel that this is the first full look she’s given me since this morning.
I watch her breath catch. Her lips part, her chest jerking in a rise that gets trapped.
