Page 3 of Horn of Winter

Up ahead, a wisp of fog briefly stirred, though elsewhere the cold night remained free of its presence. No surprise there, given this wasn’t actually fog but rather our ghul giving notice that she’d seen us but hadn’t yet decided whether to reveal herself or not. We continued on down the sloping path, past tombstones that were no longer legible and graves so old only a few stone markers or rusted ironwork hinted at their location, eventually reaching the small bowl-shaped seating area. Grand old oaks ringed the area, their gentle song of contentment filling the air, and the golden rivers of energy that pulsed through their limbs and leaves were so bright it was almost blinding. Humans tended to believe it was only light elves who could manipulate trees, but both the Aodhán and Tàileach pixies had that skill. The difference between us and elves was our ability to manipulateallwood—not just trees, but anything made from them. Time, usage, and even the thickness of paint or stain could curtail that ability, but healing and rebuilding wooden structures remained a booming business for many in either line.

Just not mine or indeed Eljin’s. Like my brother, he was a relic hunter, and in fact now worked with Lugh at the Fae Museum.

I let myself drown in the beauty of the trees’ song for a couple of seconds, then sighed and said, “We wish to speak to she who is the mistress of this necropolis.”

The tendril of filmy gray stirred briefly to our left, then a surprisingly cultured, if whispery, voice said, “And what might you seek from said mistress?”

“Information.”

“Few know of my existence. Fewer still come here to ask questions.” She moved closer, remaining indistinct except for the long, clawed fingers forming at the very end of her incorporeal being. “I find it intriguing it’s a pixie whose line has fallen out of favor with the old gods and a golden elf belonging to a family with a reputation for brutality who do so.”

“Not all that was, is,” I replied. “The old gods are once again active, and they again seek the help of those who once served.”

“That is information I had not known, and I thank you for sharing.”

The ghul moved around us, her long claws gently brushing up Mathi’s right arm and across the back of his neck. He didn’t move or react, but the look he cast me was less than impressed. I somehow restrained my grin.

She appeared to my left and slid her fingers down my arm, her nails gently scraping the pale puffer sleeve. “You have an energy that is not of this world, young pixie. It tastes of storms and violence.”

“My father is a minor storm god. His energy?—”

“Is not the violence I sense. It is far more personal than that. Explain.”

I hesitated, though in truth, if I wanted answers I really had no choice but to comply. She felt even older than what I’d been told, and that meant it was entirely possible she had the capacity to interact with the living in an unpleasant manner. Just becausewe believed ghuls were harmless didn’t mean all of them were. There were always outliers, no matter what the race.

“My mother was murdered. I seek those who are responsible.”

“As I said in conversation with another seeker only a week ago, revenge is a dish best served cold. Remember that going forward.”

“It sounds as if you’ve some experience with revenge,” Mathi said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

A smile flashed—a brief reveal of sharp black teeth in a sea of gray. “Nowhere near as much as you, Mathi Dhar-Val.”

He raised a pale eyebrow. “You know who I am?”

“Oh, I know many things.” Her attention flicked to me, something I knew through the sudden shift in the weight of the air. “Is that not why you seek me, Bethany Aodhán?”

Instinct stirred uneasily. While I’d like to think it was nothing more than a coincidence that we weren’t the only ones who’d come here asking questions, it was odd that she knew both Mathi’s and my names. Perhaps Fate—who, like many other old gods and goddesses, liked tossing grenades humanity’s way occasionally—had decided our lives had been entirely too comfortable over the last forty-eight hours.

“Was the other person someone you’ve talked to before?” I asked. “Or someone new?”

Again, her gruesome smile flashed. “New.”

I scanned the deeper shadows, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. If this person had visited last week, it was unlikely they’d be back again so soon. Unless, of course, the information provided wasn’t adequate. “What did he or she want?”

“Such conversations are my business, not yours, though I will say your motive stems from the same source as hers.” She paused. “I will also note she was not as polite as you. In fact, I would go so far as saying that of the many unhinged minds I’vecome across in the eons I’ve spent on this land, hers might be one of the finest.”

Oh, great, another nutter wandering around Deva. Just what we needed. Hopefully, she wasn’t armed with a dangerous relic like the most recent ones had been. I shared a glance with Mathi, who said, “If you cannot tell us what your conversation was, can you at least give us some clue as to her identity?”

Her filmy presence briefly sharpened, revealing a hunched, skeletal figure with long bony arms attached to those murderous claws. “No, I don’t believe I can at this moment. Few are those who come here to talk directly, and I treat such moments as rare and precious jewels. I will not abuse their memory by sharing our conversation, even with those as delicious to the eye as you.”

“But will you share information gleaned from those you follow?” I asked, more to draw her attention away from Mathi than anything else.

“Of course. What is it you wish to know?”

I hesitated. “What knowledge have you of the scrolls the Ljósálfar hold in their vaults alongside the Éadrom Hoard?”

“Little enough. They were created eons ago by the ancient ones, and this place did not exist at that time.”

---