House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(119)

He and Lore stand in the hallway, discussing something in low tones. I read their bodies to decipher the current mood. My father’s posture is stiff, his features tight. Although Lore isn’t quite as relaxed as he was after our shower, when he senses me approach, he raises a smile.

My father’s dark gaze tracks my approach. “Good morning, daughter,” he says in Crow.

“?lo, Dádhi,” I reply in his tongue.

A weary smile crimps the corners of his mouth and eyes. He may have retired early, but the shadows smudging his blackened eyes speak of a short night, perhaps even shorter than my own.

“So, where are we off to?”

“Moath’Thábhain.”

Mof hawben. My mind manages to translate the second word: tavern. I’m unsure what the first one means, though.

“Moath means north,” Lore says. It’s on the other side of the kingdom. “I told him you’ve yet to venture that far.”

Excitement stampedes up my spine but stops and teeters as I remember my trek with Phoebus across this kingdom. “We’re not walking, are we?”

“You do not care to stretch your legs, ínon?”

“Um . . . well, um . . .” I snag my lower lip and gnaw on it.

Lore shakes his head at Cathal as though he can read the man’s thoughts, but the only thoughts Lore can read are my own. What he’s reading is my father’s temper, which is written all over his face.

“You woke her too early, brother.”

“And you kept her up too late, brother,” my father all but growls.

“Can we please fly? I so love flying.” And not discussing how close they are. Thankfully, they aren’t blood brothers, but they are best friends, which makes my relationship with Lore a tad odd.

After a final glower his king’s way and a handful of muttered Crow words, my father gives me a sharp nod. His skin bursts into feathers and his arms elongate into wings. Thank Gods Lore’s realm was scaled the way it was because its inhabitants are massive.

My father crouches, extending one wing so that I may climb aboard. Lore holds out his hand and, although it makes my father’s eyes burn a little blacker, I allow the king to help me up. The second I’m settled and my arms are looped around Cathal’s neck, he takes off.

We travel down hallway after hallway, skirting Crows both in feathers and in skin, through the greenhouse where I just have time to wave to Lorcan’s mother before Cathal dips beneath the archway. Three beats of his powerful wings later, we reach the Market Tavern. And then we are sailing across hallways that rise several stories high. Balconies—or rather landing pads—are carved into the stone. Most doors are closed but some are opened, allowing me glimpses of the no-frills abodes beyond.

I take everything in. Every scent and sight and sound. Each time we pass beneath a landing hatch, I tilt my face to the sky and let the rising sun beat down on my upturned face. How glad I am that Lore is in a pleasant mood because I so love sunshine.

When my father finally lands, the sky beyond the narrow windows shines the cerulean of Isolacuorin canals. But Isolacuorin canals remind me of Dante, so I push all thoughts of them and him away and concentrate instead on the marvel of rock and timber before me.

Although crafted from the same elements as the other two taverns, the North Tavern has an entirely different feel to it. Perhaps because it’s a medley of small nooks and crannies instead of an open space, and the seating has been scooped from the rock instead of built from wood.

The tables, too, are made of stone. The only elements made of wood are the pine trees—actual trees—planted helter-skelter in giant stone pots. They stretch so high, their serrated crowns skim the myriad of tiny, convex mirrors that span the ceiling and glitter with both sunlight and torchlight.

After I hop off my father’s back, I twirl on myself and gape in awe.

“Your mother wanted us to move here—well, in a nearby apartment.” My father has shifted back into skin. Like me, he is gazing upward. “She’d found us the perfect”—his Adam’s apple sharpens in his throat—“the perfect nest.” His lids seal shut for a few long heartbeats.

“Is it no longer available?”

“I’m certain the owners will be up for a trade—after all, everyone prefers to live down South. In the dead of winter, the air doesn’t turn quite as brisk as it does up here.” He gestures to one of the half-moon nooks, and I sit.

The stone is cool beneath my thighs, and the table, smooth as marble beneath my forearms. A female Crow approaches with a smile that wavers at the sight of me. My lackluster reputation has clearly traveled far and wide. I refuse to let it affect my mood. She might know of me, but she does not know me.

My father asks what I want, and I tell him that I eat everything save for fish and meat. This seems to stun him. He returns his attention to the tavern maiden and shoots out a long list of dishes before refocusing on me.

Once she leaves, he links his hands in front of him on the table and studies his blunt nails and knuckles. Which are bruised. I’m about to ask him what happened when he says, “Your mother doesn’t eat animals either, like most Shabbins. It helps that the slaughter of animals is prohibited on Shabbe. Crows are exempt from that rule for our bodies need animal protein.”

“And Faeries?”

“Faeries have to abide by Shabbin law, the same way Shabbins were made to abide by Fae law when they could still venture out into the world.”