Page 108 of Across an Endless Sea

That’s how, half an hour later, I find myself trailing her as she meanders along the palace wall, nodding to the sentries on duty and keeping an eye out for the silver-haired knight commander.

Rose tried to make me wash off her dust, but I refused. Now she can barely make eye contact with me, or anyone else, as I walk beside her, wearing her mark like the badge of honour it is.

It’s not quite a mating mark, but it’s a claim just the same. If I had wings, I’d be sneaking my dust into her hair, across her skin, onto her clothes… My wolf yips in my mind, helpfully reminding me that we can still shift and smother her in our scent.

“This place feels… different,” Rose muses, pausing to run her fingertips along the names inscribed on one of the merlons thoughtfully.

“Different how?”

She shrugs. “I can’t describe it.”

“It is possible,” I say, thinking about it. “That you’re feeling the lingering presence of the soldiers whose ashes are interred here.”

Rose gapes at me. “There are fae buried on the wall?” she asks, looking around.

I nod. “It’s an honour that was started by Nicnevin Maeve after the second war with the Fomorians. There are thousands of warriors interred beneath the foundations.”

“But I went to a graveyard with Lore and felt nothing,” she protests, running her fingers along the inscriptions with new reverence. “And surely these warriors would’ve preferred to be buried with their families rather than underneath a wall.”

“It’s considered an enormous honour,” I reassure her. “People have fought for their loved ones to have the right to be buried here. I even know of a few who’ve had their kin cremated, then sneakily scattered the remains in the moat, just to get close.”

My pa earned the privilege—though his marker is farther along—but I don’t bring that up.

Rose falls silent. “But their spirits are in the Otherworld, surely. Why would I feel them?”

I shrug. “I’m no expert,” I admit. “Drystan might have more of a clue…”

“He’d rather have his tongue cut out than talk to me about spirits,” Rose grumbles.

I snort at the idea. “Would it surprise you that he spent most of your absence scouring the courts for a necromancer to teach you?”

The confused crease between her brows is adorable, but she shakes it away. “I don’t understand him,” she admits. “I understandwhyhe doesn’t look at me now, but he doesn’t make any effort to fix the situation. He won’t offer to teach me anything, but he’ll happily foist the job onto someone else?”

“He’s used to being alone,” I remind her. “He’s been that way for centuries.”

“He told me he was the last of his kind,” Rose admits, and I file that away for later. I have my own suspicions about what kind of fae Drystan is, but I won’t talk about it behind his back. “But surely there are other fae he would’ve talked to? He must have made friends…”

I shake my head. “The Winter Court isn’t a place for friends, Rose. You’ll understand when you get there. I don’t know much about his heritage, but I do know he was raised in the palace of Calimnel, and that the king had a heavy hand in his upbringing.”

“Is he a prince?” she asks.

“If he’s Cedwyn’s son, the king has never claimed him as such,” I reply evenly. “But it’s not for us to speak of such things. We came here to practise, remember?” Shaking off thoughts of Drystan, I gesture at the walls. “Their names are written down. Try summoning someone.”

“Summoning someone?” She blinks at me. “From the dead?”

I chuckle. “You do it practically every day with the old Nicnevins.”

“Mab would prefer you didn’t call her old,” Rose mutters, and I grimace.

I am never going to get used to being followed around by the old queens.

“Apologies, Nicnevin,” I mumble. “But the point still stands. This is no different from summoning your guides. The old stories say necromancers used names to call fae back from the Otherworld. There can be no harm in trying.”

There’s no one around, and all of the warriors buried here swore oaths to defend the Nicnevin. There’s no reason for them to behave violently towards Rose.

Rose traces a name again, and I’m about to interrupt, to ask if she needs help reading it, when she surprises me.

“Arrin Orvendellion,” she mumbles, sounding out the words slowly, as a child might.

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