The North Wind by Alexandria Warwick

Author:Alexandria Warwick [Warwick, Alexandria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC009090, FIC010000
Publisher: Andromeda Press
Published: 2022-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

It is hours past midnight by the time I return to the frozen Les. The temperature has plummeted since the sun’s disappearance. My coat provides adequate warmth, yet I barely notice it, barely notice the seepage of black shadows in my periphery. I pass through the land like smoke, frail and drifting. My thoughts circle without end.

Once I settle into the boat, the ice melts, and the current pulls me back through the Shade, all the way to where Phaethon awaits. He greets me upon my arrival, and I hurriedly climb into the saddle, my stiff fingers curling white-knuckled around the reins. He doesn’t fuss. Merely turns to make his way through the Deadlands while I huddle in the saddle, wondering how everything went wrong.

I left Elora with little more than a lukewarm farewell. A wave, a pained smile, and I was gone. It was clear I had overstayed my welcome, if I had ever been welcome in the first place.

My chest pains me. My stomach sloshes with wine, my mind fogged, lethargic. The air is cold, but my sister’s judgment was far colder, and I hadn’t the means to defend myself against it. The ache worsens as the land rises and falls. It does not relent.

Eventually, I reach the entrance gates to the citadel. Iron barbs spear into the darkness: a warning to stay clear.

“State your name and purpose,” a guard calls from the gatehouse.

Keeping one hand on the reins, I lower my hood.

It’s so quiet I catch the sound of the man scrambling to an upright position. “My lady,” he stutters. “My lord said you would not return until tomorrow.”

“Open the gates, please.”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll inform my lord of your return.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I call harshly. It’s been a long, arduous night, and my heart feels as though it is full of stones. The last person I want to interact with at the moment is the king. My defenses are too weak. “I’ll inform him of my return.” Lies, but they don’t need to know that.

“Yes, my lady.”

The gate opens to allow me entry. Phaethon plods through, his head hanging low. His shadowy hooves clop against the stone courtyard. Upon reaching the stables, I dismount and lead him inside, taking time to remove his saddle and bridle in the wavering light of the lamp hanging from the post. I’ve unsaddled many a horse in my life, so I don’t have to think while doing it. I don’t want to think.

The darkwalker butts his snout against my shoulder in affection. I didn’t think a corrupted spirit could ever be affectionate, but it seems I was wrong. I rub the soft nose, watching in fascination as the shadows ebb and flow, lapping at my hand like waves. “You are not such a brutish beast,” I whisper to him, those black eyes taking me in with a surprising amount of intelligence.

A bucket of grooming brushes hangs on the stall door. How curious. Does a darkwalker need grooming? I choose a curry brush and begin moving it in a circular motion across the shadowy hide.

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