Page 93 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

Desperate, I hurried toward Mara. I would pull her away from this, make her look atme, not at this poor creature tormented by her very presence. I would be quick; I wouldn’t look at Nerys, wouldn’t give whatever power I held the chance to snare her.

But merely being near the harpy, it seemed, was enough. Nerys strained mightily against her chains and managed to shift just the slightest amount—enough to look at me, and at Gemma a step behind me.

She let out a low, awestruck groan. Her putrid breath puffed into my face. “Three of you,” she whispered, “all at once? Gods help me. What are you? Who are you?”

I couldn’t help but look at her. I shouldn’t have; there was no need to. And yet I think part of me was curious to see what would happen, to confirm that this was real. Could my simple presence, combined with my sisters’, muddle a mighty Olden beast?

The harpy’s yellow eyes—round and small as river stones, dull as old brass—darted helplessly about the room but always, always, came back to us: Mara, then me, then Gemma. The sight of us didn’t render her completely helpless; she still struggled against her bindings and clawed at the floor, her massive body vibrating with anger.

And yet she gaped at us, struck with confused dread, and then Mara spoke, her voice stony. “Tell me who you work for.”

The harpy squeezed her lipless mouth shut. Her skin bulged over her profusion of yellow fangs.

Mara pressed on. “I know you work for someone. Harpies are selfish and solitary, concerned with their own welfare above all else. They don’t attack humans out in the open like you did, not unless they’ve a very good reason. So what is it?Whois it?”

Finally, keening quietly, rocking herself as best she could despite her chains, Nerys began to speak. “I work for He Who Is All,” she rasped. She spoke falteringly, fighting against every word. “I came to Edyn in search for new children for His city.”

“Whose city?” Mara said sharply.

“He Who Is All,” Nerys spat.

“And what city is this? Where is it?”

The harpy croaked out a pained sound; I couldn’t be sure if it was a laugh or a sob. She closed her eyes, their faint yellow glow disappearing behind lids of wrinkled skin.

“The splendor of its revels,” she said, “the palace in the green, the towers in the night.”

“Whatcity?” Mara insisted.

Gemma hurried over, put herself between the harpy and Mara. “Stop this,” she hissed. “You’re hurting her.”

“And do you think all the people who’ve been taken, who are being kept byHe Who Is All, aren’t hurting?” Mara snapped.

I turned blindly for the stairs, tears in my eyes.Gareth. Alastrina.I felt sick, like the worst kind of coward. Once again, we were in a place we shouldn’t be. Once again, we had brought only ruin and pain.

“We’re leaving,” I bit out, turning toward the stairs. “Gemma—”

But then I stopped, for at the top of the stairs stood the Warden— not a hair out of place, her square-shouldered black gown pristine. She held her hands clasped behind her back and surveyed the scene dispassionately.

“Tell me more about the revels,” the Warden commanded, her cold, clear voice booming through the small chamber.

The harpy shivered in her chains, sucked in a rattling breath. “They are like nothing that has ever been or will ever be. Oldens in the finest robes, Oldens in jewels, feasting and drinking. Flowers in the streets, honey in the goblets, fae in gowns of moonlight, vampyrs who’ve nothing to fear, for there is no sun in this city. There are only shadows made by the cool white moon. And humans…there they become the animals they truly are, pathetic dregs of weak-minded gods.”

“You’re lying,” Mara said, her voice hard. But I saw the slight twinge of surprise on her face. “Fae and vampyrs are proud and tribal. They keep to themselves. They wouldn’t ever deign to live in the same place.”

The harpy laughed deep in her throat. “You think you know so much about the Old Country, little Rose. But you have not seen its grandest city, and you should pray that you never do.”

“The city called Moonhollow?” the Warden asked mildly.

Nerys lifted her head, folds of skin peeling open to reveal her eyes once more. She looked longingly at Gemma, who had turned away to hide her face. “No,” the harpy growled.“Mhorghast.”

The Warden started gliding down the stairs. I scrambled out of her way, blurted, “Stop, please,” but whatever power I possessed that held the harpy in its tormented thrall seemed to have no effect on the Warden. She walked on, unhurried, untroubled.

“What an interesting word,Mhorghast,” she said smoothly. “Is that the true name of this city, then?”

The harpy glared at her. Drool dripped from her fangs. Her naked legs shook. “Mhorghast.You say it improperly. You dare to misname it.”

“Mmm.” The Warden crossed to a small table in the corner, upon which stood a series of stoppered bottles, each filled with a sickeningly bright liquid: yellow, green, red. There was a gun there too, though not like any I’d seen Lower Army soldiers carry. Not as long as a rifle, but much thinner than one—a simple, sleek design. And beside it, an array of feathered silver needles.

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