Page 25 of The Fox Heir

Every muscle in my body aches. No doubt my skin will be speckled with bruises when we get back to the castle. Even my tailbone hurts.

“I’m fine.”

He holds up his palms in frustration. “I have no idea what to do with you.”

I glare at him as I retrieve my red cloak from the snow and stomp back toward the castle.

Chapter 8

The castle does little to warm the sting from my frozen fingers and toes. I stomp through the main doors, dripping and half-numb. My boots leave slush in their wake. Halfway back from the forest, the ice storm broke past the fae barrier. It pummeled me with sleet that soaked through my cloak and froze in patches. Now the wet fabric clings to my skin. My hair drips steadily down my back, tangling in icy knots. A villager taking shelter glances up as I pass, then quickly looks away. He doesn’t even comment on the blood and mud streaked across my clothes.

After a day like this, all I want is to go back to my room. I need to stare out at the mountains and dream of spring, when I can go back to Llwyn. Back to Caerwen Palace to kill my father. Happy thoughts. Warm thoughts.

As I walk, frigid drafts slip through invisible cracks in the walls, carrying the scent of damp stone. I hate this damn castle and the chilly Annwyn people in it. My heart longs for warm summers and the clear skies of Llwyn.

I pivot, making a rash decision. If I’m going to be stuck in this miserable castle for the next three months, I might as well make myself at home.

As I pass the kitchen, the staff are tidying up the remains of a modest midday meal. The clink of tin plates echoes through the corridor as I hesitate near the open doors. Inside, a scullery maid is scrubbing a pot at the washbasin. Steam rises in lazy tendrils as she leans over it, sleeves damp to the elbows.

The staff ignore me, though I feel their wariness. I can’t blame them. I’m a mess. The ice in my hair has melted and so have the crusted mud and blood on my cloak. Warmth radiates from the hearth and I look at it longingly, but turn away. If I’m right, the cellar should be nearby.

Beyond the kitchen, near the outermost wall of the castle, I spot a low wooden door with rusted iron latches. My knees groan as I crouch, muscles tight from the cold. I grasp the iron ring and heave the door open, the hinges groaning. Cool, stale air rises from below. Beyond the door there’s a dark stone staircase that descends into pitch blackness.

I wrench a flaming torch from a sconce along a nearby wall, then descend into the cellar. My footsteps echo with each step down.

At the bottom, there’s a veritable treasure trove of food. One would never guess that Annwyn has a problem with hunger by the look of this stocked cellar. Salted meat hangs from hooks along the ceiling. Baskets filled with carrots, potatoes, and other root vegetables overflow along the left wall. Bushels of dried herbs hang from pegs and, below that, shelves are filled with blocks of salt, crates of apples, and rows of pickled and preserved produce. There are even boulder-sized wheels of hard cheeses coated in protective wax, some with tiny bites out of them from mice.

It strikes me that this cellar might be more valuable to the people of Gwyllion than any royal coffer or bank back in Caerwen. No wonder the villagers all seem to take meals in the castle, even if they don’t live within its walls. To them, this cellar is a treasure trove.

My eyes peer through the room as the flickering flames create shadows that sway with each movement. Finally, I find what I’m looking for. A wooden door waits at the back of the room. When I open it, it reveals aisles of ancient wooden shelving.

The wine cellar.

A small smile spreads across my lips. It feels foreign on my frozen face. I can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled. Maybe not since Llwyn. Maybe not even then.

I reach out and grab the nearest ceramic jug with my free hand. Shining black eyes peer back at me from the empty space.

“Ack!” I stumble backward, dropping the precious jug of wine. It cracks when it hits the dirt floor, leaking wine in a dark burgundy pool.

The tiny gray creature stares at me with unnaturally dark eyes that shine like polished coal. Its short, pointed ears twitch, catching every sound. A squashed, wrinkled face gives it the look of a bat, though it has no wings, just spindly limbs. When it grins at me, rows of impossibly white teeth gleam beneath its upturned nose, each one small and needle-thin.

Anger flares up in my chest. All I wanted was to drink wine alone in my room without another damnable thing happening to me today.

“Shoo!” I wave at it. “Why can’t you lot just leave me alone?”

My nerves are long-since fried today. I do not have the patience to deal with more of Gwyllion’s infernal strangeness.

“Go away!” I yell at the fae, waving the torch in front of it. It doesn’t budge. I grab another jug as it stares at me. “What are you, the cellar guard or something?”

A second pair of watery black eyes appears in the hole. Then a third. The fae creatures just sit there staring and grinning. I take a deep breath to give them a piece of my mind.

Behind me, someone clears their throat.

I spin to find Nalina watching me from the doorway. Her strong frame casts a long shadow behind her. As if this day could get any worse.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

She lifts an eyebrow. “I might ask you the same, but I think I can see why.” Her eyes travel to the jug of wine in my arms. I hug it protectively. “You know theft isn’t taken lightly here in Gwyllion. We all share supplies; it’s how we ensure everyone survives. Maybe it’s different where you come from?”