My knees buckle and slam to the ground. I dump my face in my palms, my body shaking, but I don’t cry. I’m too pissed off to cry.
After a while, I get to my feet, crumble the note in my fist, and jam it into my pack beside the first missive delivered by that horned owl. Shouldering the bag, I glare at the looming range. Trees conceal the summit, bits of stone and ribbons of moonlight glinting through. The familiar stink of overripe plums and poison sneaks into my nostrils, but the fireflies have vacated the premises, the atmosphere free of their scorching, stinging light.
On either side of the stairs, torch poles guide the way. The blazes crackle, scarves of fire slapping the atmosphere.
I step onto the first stair, then the next. It’s a slow trek, my eyes scanning the slightest disturbance in the creepers. A flash of feathers. Clawed feet hooked on to a branch.
Must be the Fae fauna. In a friendly universe, this escapade would be a dream come true, and I’d lose myself in exploration. Instead, I don’t trust a single chirp or twitch in the offshoots. For all I know, the Fables are wrong about everything I’m supposed to expect, and I’ll encounter exotic birds that shouldn’t exist in this belt of the continent. What’s more, those birds could be flesh eaters or plagues. I might encounter carnivorous pigeons, rabid parakeets, or enormous fucking flamingos.
I hike the slabs, vigilant of shadows and silhouettes. Soon enough, new shapes emerge in my periphery, humanesque figures with abnormal body parts such as wings or arms lined in plumage. The segments slink through the canopy or squat atop the boughs.
I wheel toward them. Tittering, they slip out of sight.
How many are watching me? How many are waiting to pounce?
Will one of them dive like a kingfisher? Will one of them grasp like an osprey?
I’m mighty certain my eyes are wide and wild. Based on the lurching chuckles, this pleases my audience.
I ball my hands into fists, ceasing the tremors. As the elevation increases, oxygen gets shallower yet crisper. Stars trickle across the firmament, alternating between white and teal. My pulse drums, and my thighs burn.
The stairs stretch, and stretch, and stretch ahead. I’ve got no clue if I’m making progress.
The terrain gets windier, my hair dashing around my face. I pause, bracing my knuckles on my hips, my lungs a set of rusty pumps. Rifling through my pack, I reach for the waterskin. As I do, the note I’d crushed into a wad—the one that greeted me at the bottom—springs from the bag and into the air, reshaping itself into a set of flapping wings.
I don’t have time to pick up my jaw. The paper flies ahead.
I jog after it, oxygen sawing through my chest. The flying leaflet hurls itself over a precipice, and I race after the paper, barreling over the final step and wobbling in place at the landing. I don’t see the leaflet anywhere, much less a continuing path.
A crescent niche digs into the mountain. All I find is a signpost pointing toward the dead end, which makes no sense.
The marker reads,The Parliament of Owls.
Footfalls multiply and skulk behind me. Wicked laughter spider crawls up my back.
A smart person would hold her tongue. A smart person would be Juniper or Cove.
I spin and unravel my whip. “I’ve got a noose.”
“And you have a mouth,” an accented voice remarks.
I whirl again and lower into a fighting crouch, my whip flicking out to the side. The chiseled crescent is gone. In its place, the space has broadened into a stone rotunda, its smooth floor paving across the summit, with the depiction of a single mountain embedded in its center and a javelin slicing through the peak’s heart. A fleet of rowan trees line the area’s perimeter, protecting the rotunda that wasn’t there before.
And the throne that hadn’t been there, either. At the opposite end, a massive seat sculpted from rock looms atop a dais. The chair has edges carved into a wingspan, which curve inward.
The bane of my existence sprawls sideways across the throne, his long legs hanging over the right ledge. With an elbow braced on the other armrest, Cerulean cups his cheek in his palm and tilts his head. Two rings of prismatic blue gleam at me, the color popping from his face.
It’s clear he likes dark and billowy clothes that hang haphazardly off his frame. Tonight’s ensemble isn’t much different from the costume he wore yesterday. The only distinction is the coat; this one’s russet instead of eventide black, its upturned collar framing the delicate bones of his visage.
And one more thing. Small, bronze wings fashioned into jewelry cap the daggers of his ears.
The summit opens its jowls to the stars. The rowan trunks slant as if the wind has knocked them off balance.
A ring of owls surrounds the rotunda, the tips of their ebony and flaxen feathers shining. Each avian holds court from an individual tree, the medallions of their eyes lacquered in aquamarine or citrine.
The horned owl perches atop the throne’s crest rail.
All right. So this summit must be The Parliament of Owls.
