Page 61 of Realm of Nightmares
“My birthday.” The words fell from her in a whisper, and she twisted the twine handle of the bag in her hands. “My birthday is Samhwyn?”
He inclined his head, a line of concern furrowing across his brow. “You didn’t know?”
She shook her head, unable to voice the depth of her gratitude.
“I see.” The god of death straightened, then cleared his throat, and for the first time he looked uncomfortable in his own skin. “Why don’t you clean up and join us for dinner tonight? The Samhwyn celebration is tomorrow evening. I look forward to seeing you there.”
He slipped out into the corridor without another word, closing her bedroom door behind him.
Maeve set the bag down on the bed and stared at the dress. She would have to wash up, not only if she wanted to try on the gown but also if she was expected to attend dinner. Heading for the bathing suite, she froze when a high-pitched whining noise sounded from the other side of the closed door.
Not wasting any time, she yanked the door open, ready to face whatever was on the other side waiting for her, and was attacked by a ball of white fur and wings.
Thefaolanleapt upon her, licking her nose and cheek, covering her in wet kisses. Maeve lost her footing and stumbled back as the pup pounced, sending them both careening to the ground.
A pink satin bow was wrapped around her neck and Maeve giggled, scooping thefaolaninto her arms as it nestled and settled into her lap. Attached to the bow was a crisp white notecard and precise, scrawling script.
Happy Birthday,Your Grace
I hope you’re not offended by the gesture, but
I simply couldn’t help myself. Cahira seems to
be quite taken with you.
Enjoy her.
The note was pennedwith an elaborate “A” at the bottom.
“Cahira,” Maeve said with a laugh as thefaolannuzzled against her, its soft fur like velvet beneath her hands. “Is that your name?”
This time, she couldn’t help the tears sliding down her cheeks. Nor could she stop smiling.
ChapterEighteen
Dusk blanketed Niahvess, the early evening painted darker than usual given the constant overlay of clouds cloaking the sky. Tiernan stood in the courtyard, where the palm trees hung low, as though they were weeping in despair. The fountains dried up days ago and the gurgling streams winding through the palace were nothing more than a slow trickle.
Aran stood beside him, readying his pack, taking inventory of the supplies they would need for Maghmell. His dark red hair was twisted into a knot at the back of his head, and a determined line stretched across his brow as he tucked a few pumpkin scones into his satchel.
He would miss the Samhwyn festival, the first one the Autumn Court had celebrated in years, and he seemed to think it would work in their favor. Autumn would host festivities for three nights straight, including commemorating the return of their High King. Aran hoped Dorian would be too distracted with all the happenings to notice his absence, and though it sounded good in theory, Tiernan didn’t think it would work.
But it was too late to consider any repercussions now. He would deal with an infuriated High King once they returned from Maghmell.
Tiernan took stock of his leather satchel. It was filled with rations, freshly sharpened daggers, a flask of water, and some extra clothing. Already he was sweating beneath his armor, but the warming layers were necessary. Where they were going was a frigid wasteland, a desolate region of ice and snow spread over the dark, perilous waters of the Cloudborn Sea.
They were equipped with thick gloves and fur capes for added warmth. If it was up to Tiernan, he’d pack an animal pelt to sleep on, but it was best to travel light across the Ice Straits. Added weight would only slow them down.
Aran was strapping a band of daggers across his chest when Lir approached. He held two weapons with finely crafted hilts and expertly honed blades. Bowing, he offered one to each of them.
“New blades for you and the High Prince, my lord.”
The edges of the swords were serrated to impressive points and when the smooth length of the blade caught the faint light, it glimmered black, then violet.
“These have been dipped in nightshade,” Aran murmured, inspecting its tip. “An exquisite weapon.”
Lir nodded, maintaining his quiet façade, but the silver of his eyes sparked with pride.
Brynn handed them each a jar filled with a pasty, light yellow salve.
