Page 46 of Wings of Starlight

Clarion clutched her forearm tighter, shuddering at the feeling of blood weeping through the gaps in her fingers. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

Milori hesitated, as though she would keel over if he looked away for even a moment. With a frown, he turned away. Clarion watched the rise of his shoulders as he drew in a deep breath. Swirls of ice crystals poured from his extended hands like mist, sparkling in the moonlight. Frost bloomed across the ground in fractal patterns, then crystallized over the shattered ice, like broken ceramic repaired with gilt.

When he finished, he whistled for Noctua. The owl came to him immediately, hooting softly in acknowledgment. As soon as she landed, he leaned his head against her beak and murmured, “Thank you.” Noctua fluffed out her feathers contentedly. Seeing the bond between them—and just how quickly Noctua had leapt to protect him—hit Clarion somewhere tender.

“She’s incredible,” Clarion said softly.

Milori brightened. Even Noctua seemed to preen.

“She really is.” Milori’s smile faded after a moment. “Can you get on? I’ll have her take us to the healing-talents.”

“I think so.” Clarion clambered onto Noctua’s back as gracefully as she could. When she steadied herself, she frowned down at her arm. “I might have a hard time holding on, though.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t fall,” he replied without hesitation. Never had Clarion met anyone in the habit of making such solemn oaths so readily.

She couldn’t dwell on it, for when Milori joined her, he wrapped an arm securely around her waist. A flush crawled up her neck at his sudden closeness. No, she supposed she wouldn’t fall. The scent of pine and cold water and the promise of snowfall radiated gently from his skin. His presence blunted the skin-crawling sensation of the Nightmares’ wrath boring into her. Like this, she could almost believe she was safe. Without thinking, Clarion turned her face into the crook of Milori’s neck and tried not to notice the way his breath hitched.

Noctua brought them to a sprawling holly bush where the winter healing-talents had established their clinic. All of its leaves were sharp and silvered in the flood of moonlight, and sprays of red berries dripped from the snow-covered branches. Everything was impossibly quiet at this hour. Clarion heard nothing but the flutter of Noctua’s wings as she landed.

Milori helped her down from her seat and led her through a hollow cut in the holly branches. Pale light filtered in through the gaps in the leaves, patterning the hard-packed ground and setting the frost aglow. As they walked, the path began to slope downward.

“It’s underground?” Clarion asked, with some surprise.

“Just slightly,” Milori replied. “It keeps it insulated from the wind.”

Clever,Clarion thought. It was noticeably warmer in here than it was outside. Even so, her every breath plumed in the air. The cold seeped through the tear in her coat, but she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. They came to a stop in front of a curtain of lichen. She tried not to notice the blood beading on her fingertips—and how it pattered onto the ground.

“Hello?” Milori called softly.

The curtain parted, and a healing-talent’s face appeared. She had umber skin and white hair that framed her face in tight curls. Like the healers in the warm seasons, she wore a gown of white; this one, Clarion noted, was made from primroses.

“Milori—” Her smile faltered when she took in Clarion, and it was replaced with momentary shock. Clarion knew she must have looked quite a sight. Blood had dried on her hands and soaked into the beautiful coat Petra had made her, staining the gold a livid red. Half her hair had come loose from its braid and hung bedraggled and partially frozen around her shoulders. “Who is this?”

“This,” he said wanly, “is Princess Clarion.”

Clarion watched at least ten emotions pass over the healer’s face before she settled on dismay. “And how, may I ask, has she ended up in this condition?”

He winced. “We ran into some trouble.”

“I can see that.” Concern bled into her voice. “And you—”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, holding up his hands.

“Good.” The healer rearranged her expression back into stern displeasure, but Clarion could see the fondness she had for him: a kind of familiarity born from knowing each other for a long time. It astounded Clarion how casually Milori’s subjects spoke with him. “Do be more careful with her going forward.”

Chastened, he replied, “I will.”

“I like her,” Clarion whispered to Milori, unable to help her teasing smile.

“I thought you might,” he said. “This is Yarrow.”

“I’m honored to meet you, Your Highness,” Yarrow said with a bow. “I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Me, too,” Clarion said, momentarily stunned. How unusual, to be treated with both respect and warmth. How she wished the warm seasons were more like this.

Yarrow ushered them through the lichen curtain and into the ward. Clarion froze in the doorway, her hand clasped to her chest. The room was filled with cots built from platforms of snow and covered with a latticework of twigs. All of them housed fairies trapped in their tormented dreams. There were far more of them here in Winter. Clarion’s heart ached for them—and for Milori, who surveyed the room with an expression of pure guilt.

It’s not your fault,she wanted to say, but Yarrow urged her along. She stationed Clarion on a cot piled high with blankets. Clarion pulled one around her shoulders and sighed in relief.