Page 47 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

Impossible colors cleave the sky open over the stable.

Dama’s chained hands.

My hand goes to my throat as the words form on my tongue without my permission?—

Cyrne, pherin, and aurelime.

“After you,” the king says, gesturing to the large wooden door.

I pull my eyes from the shattered sky and lower my brows, jerking my head to the door.

He smiles softly, and for a moment, my breath catches. The king certainly fashioned himself a lovely mask.

“I won’t be caught within trampling distance of those beasts,” he muses flatly.

Sure, me, too. But one of us doesn’t have a choice.

“I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished.”

I nod. Slowly, lowering my head along with my lashes.

“You’re welcome,” says the king, and I pull open the large wooden door.

The barn air is slightly cooler, smelling of sweet hay and animal sweat. There are only two stalls, one on each side of the structure.

Both horses lean over their stall doors, curious.

We never had horses in Tiriana—but I watched demon guards and the occasional wardens ride in every week with supplies. Watched them hunt us on their backs.

And these horses, though massive, hold their ears upright. Their eyes are locked on me, but they show no signs of irritation or fear—no tension. I take a breath, nod to both of them, and give the rest of the barn a cursory glance.

Grooming equipment and riding gear line the far wall. Shovels and rakes for cleaning stalls are on the right wall. There’s no loft above—nowhere for a small fae woman to hide.

Slowly, I go to the riding equipment, searching saddles and padding and bags for something Sinea might have left for me. Another scrap of paper, a note. Something.

I find nothing.

The horses track me as I go to their grooming supplies and rifle through that as well.

I pick up every brush, every oddly shaped comb and cloth, and feel their eyes on me.

Nothing. It doesn’t take long to look through the cleaning tools, and again, I find nothing.

I was only delaying the inevitable. Sinea wouldn’t have drawn me a picture of Tyr’s horse if she didn’t want me to talk to the beast.

I approach the black one, Cindermaw, slowly. Dama’s fucking chains, he’s huge. Not just tall—though, he is that—standing at least double my height. He’s rippling muscle barely contained under sleek fur. A head so strong and broad he might be more myth than creature.

He lets out a short chuff, and I hope that’s a good thing .

I stretch out my palm, holding it loosely, praying to every dead demon god he’ll meet it.

The beast’s nostrils twitch.

I keep my hand where it is, a few finger lengths away, hanging in the air.

Please don’t fucking eat me.

The horse’s long, powerful neck extends, and he presses his wet, leathery nose to my palm.

I let out a sigh, and he does as well, though it’s more like another snort.

He rubs into my hand, and I continue the motion upward along the midline of his pale, bare face.

Except his face isn’t bare. The fur there is finer, like smoothed velvet.

I thought you looked like this because you were bald. But you aren’t, are you?

Certainly not.

The voice in my mind is as clear as my own. Grounded, ancient. And entirely uninvited.

My hand jerks away, and I stumble backward.

Both horses let out loud chortling neighs, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think they were laughing at me.

“If you require saving, Amara, I’m afraid you must do so yourself,” the Withered King hollers from several paces outside the stable door.

I stare at the horse, ignoring the king. How are you in my head?

But my mind stays quiet.

I stare at the horse, and he stares back, half-lidded, eyes and brow soft. So I turn to his brother, Duskreaver, the horse I haven’t met yet. He’s the opposite of Cindermaw, white coat with a black mask of markings on his face .

He’s just as large, as imposing, and stares at me with far too much knowing in his gaze.

What about you? I suppose you talk too?

But he remains silent. I stare at the horses, folding my arms over myself.

Ah.

They require touch to communicate.

I stretch out my hand to Cindermaw, and he meets it instantly.

It didn’t take you nearly as long as it took the white-haired one.

If I could have, I would have laughed out loud. They don’t call Tyr by name, just the white-haired one.

A slow, warm hum seeps into the edges of my mind—rising and popping like?—

Now, what have you come here to discuss, young one?

I smile at him. Young one is what the Withered King calls me occasionally.

The horse pulls his nose from my palm, rearing up onto his hind legs and letting out a?—

I cover my ears, ducking low in the aisle between the two stalls.

Bleeding realms, I didn’t know horses could roar.

It’s a harsh, throaty bellow, unlike any noise I’ve ever heard from?—

Well, from anything before.

Ears still covered, I turn to glance at his brother. He juts his neck far over the stall door, and I touch it with my elbow.

What did you say to him?

Well, I’m not very well going to tell you, in case it makes you lose your mind too .

“Amara?” the Withered King shouts from an even greater distance from the door than before.

I ignore him.

Cindermaw, having stopped his display, crashes back down onto his front feet and immediately pushes his face out of the stall.

I give him a wary look.

He shakes his head and juts his nose out farther.

I don’t know why, but I decide to stretch my arms across the barn and touch both horses at once. One hand on Duskreaver’s nose, I eye Cindermaw as I gently touch his nose.

The moment I connect with both, that warm fizz at the edge of my brain explodes into an avalanche of effervescence, like tiny bubbles of laughter popping over and over.

Brother!

Brother!

My head swims with their conversation. The time is coming, yes?

Yes, most assuredly.

Do you think…

I do.

And what of the white-haired one?

He’ll do as he always does. His best.

I’m drowning in them, in their connection, their history, the bond they share. It’s so much?—

I have to pull my hands away.

They snort at me in unison, and I hold a single finger to my lips.

I don’t move until they acknowledge.

Duskreaver tosses his black mane over to the other side and lets out a chuff.

Cindermaw, while not as expressive, dips his head lower in acknowledgment. And I reach for them both once more. As agreed, both horses stay quiet, though there’s still an underlying bubbliness coming from both of them.

I can’t handle both of you talking in my mind at once.

Duskreaver nods against my hand, drawing my gaze.

Apologies. We don’t often get to speak to one another.

I let out a slow breath and start again. Well, that’s something I can see to. But on to the matter of my visit .

I pause, not sure where to start.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here. Lorien stole my voice and power by using my attendant against me. She left me a note with your likeness on it, Cindermaw, and so, here I am, wondering what two demon horses might know about it.

Cindermaw nods into my palm, and I turn my head toward him.

First, young one, Lorien stole nothing from you, or you wouldn’t be able to speak with us.

I shake my head. That can’t be true. The shadows are quiet. They don’t respond to me anymore. And I cannot speak. Not with my voice, anyway.

Duskreaver noses into my hand, and I swivel to meet his wide stare. The False Light can’t take what’s intrinsic to you.

But he has.

No, the horse says, simply. He’s only hidden it away.

Cindermaw nods into my hand. You must only find it again.

I take a moment, letting their words find meaning. Do either of you know how to find Tyr? Or rather, where he might be after confronting Lorien?

The white-haired one will come for you when it’s safe. Now I suggest you follow your cowardly death king back to the keep, Cindermaw says without hiding the disdain in his mental voice .

I try not to ask, but I simply cannot resist. You don’t like him?

Cindermaw blows air through his nose, top lip curling. He is a fearful thing. Afraid of his own shadow, I’d wager.

I purse my lips at him. I was scared of you when I first met you, too, you know.

The giant horse locks his gaze on mine. Yes. But your form is small. Weak. You have every right to fear a creature like me. The death king is not. He has no excuse.

When I meet the Withered King outside, he’s seated on a rock at the edge of the fenced paddock.

“Oh, good. You survived. I was wondering how I was going to tell Tyr I let his horses eat his—” He pauses, unsure what to call me.

I take the demon king’s hand, now smooth and supple with youth. Can you hear me? I think as loudly as possible.

After several moments of sustained touch, the king’s brows pull together. “If you’re flirting with me, I might remind you that while I’m fond of human women, I would break you in half and suck out your soul if given the chance.”

I snatch my hand from his and give him the dirtiest glare I can manage.

“Ah, not what you were suggesting. Then I beg your pardon. I am loyal to Tyr for reasons not yet on your horizon.”

I shake my head and motion against my hand.

“You wish to write?”

I give him a look that says “obviously”, and the demon king smiles sheepishly and conjures a bit of vellum and an inkthorn.

I take it and use his back to write:

The horses don’t like cowards and don’t ever speak to me that way again.

The Withered King laughs. “ Again, I apologize, Amara. You aren’t the plainest read. And I care not what Tyr’s beasts think of me. They are unnatural and barbaric. He should never have brought them here. ”

Before I can write my response, the king stiffens. His eyes widen. “To Shadowfell, that is.”

I don’t care to ask what he thought I might have thought his words mean. Instead, I scribble on the vellum and put it in front of his face.

“Why can’t I see through Tyr’s illusion magic?” the king reads aloud. He takes a deep breath. “Lovely penmanship. I’d guess your mother took years to instill that quality in you.”