There are no black markings on my face or my arms. There's no raving madness within me, no fire put there by Kharl Balzog and stoked until I'm nothing but a vessel of his hatred turned into a weapon against the high fae. Prince Soren knows that I left this kingdom. We spoke long ago, when I was barely more than a witchling, through our mind connection, and he knew my heart then to be pure and true.
How many other witches have been slain by him and his people without question, purely for the silver eyes in their head? Pemba didn’t know my fate, but he was obsessed and furious at the rumors of what the Savage Prince was doing in the Southern Lands, hunting down every last witch and part-blood until there were none left but those under Kharl’s control. There was never a fair trial for those people, or evidence of their supposed crimes. They never had a chance to prove themselves innocent.
If the rumors are to be believed, this man killed them all regardless.
I struggle but manage to keep my tone even. “I’ve never been good at sitting by and watching people suffer, even when they don’t deserve my help. It's not how I was raised.”
One of his eyebrows creeps up his forehead. “In the forest of madness? How did the Goblin King know you have family there—or was that a lie as well?”
A ripple of irritation works its way down my spine, the casual dismissal of my sacred home a greater insult than any other he's thrown at me. He watches me a little too keenly as I struggle with the indignant response I want to give him before I finally settle on a calmer option.
“All of the lower fae and part-bloods know of the Ravenswyrd Forest and what lies within. Many high fae as well. Just because it's outside your knowledge doesn't make it false.”
Stepping over to the fire, I add more wood to stoke the flames. There’s a small stack of logs that Firna dropped by earlier for brewing Airlie's teas, and as Roan begins to shiver and sweat with the first signs of a fever, I prepare myself to fight his illness right alongside him.
The healer’s journey has always been to take the hand of someone in need and stand with them as they face the Fates’ ruling, to heal them so they can go on with their lives, or to ease them from this world and into Elysium as gently as the Fates allow us to do.
Roan is strong and determined on the table, still breathing and fighting to return to his wife and family. I will fight with him for that too.
In the old language, I murmur a prayer to the Fates. It's an ancient incantation, carved within me from the moment I took my first breath, and one I keep murmuring for this man and his family.
When I finish, I glance up to find Prince Soren’s eyes sharp as he meets my own. “You sound so devoted to the Fates, and yet you’ve sat by and waited for them to unfold for you. That's not the way the Fates work, and you know it.”
My eyes narrow back at him, but he steps toward me, his tone cutting. “It’s our job to reach out with everything inside of us and take our fate, even when every inch of your body rejects it, as does mine. No fate is simply given and plays out without work. We're told what we have to do, and then we walk that path until our legs give out. You speak of the high fae forgetting everything, and yet I know that better than you.”
It’s like a slap to the cheek, a reminder that I didn’t just flee the conflict of the Southern Lands. I ran fromhim; I ran the moment the Seer spoke his name and the fate that tied us together.
I chose to run, and that choice led to two hundred more years of suffering for the people of this land, everything here withering away while I attempted to make a new life somewhere else. The Fates looked inside the little witch of the woods and knew that I would flee the moment I heard his name. I long for the hollowness I brought back from the Northern Lands that vanished along with the curse, because now guilt is twisting up inside of me once more. The Fates knew I wouldn’t be able to face Kharl and help to fix the kingdom as I was, they knew I’d run to the Northern Lands and become the witch I am today.
Blinking away the tears that well in my eyes, I take up a fistful of the clean rags and press them against Roan's chest, easing my magic out of him as I let his body begin the natural healing process. The skin around the puncture wounds begins to knit together before my eyes as his body heals rapidly in the high-fae way.
“I didn't forget. I returned here and lost myself for a moment in the despair of the land, but I'm walking toward my fate now.”
* * *
I speak with Firna, and she escorts me to the kitchens to look through the storage areas myself. I doubt I’ll find something helpful within the meager supplies, but Prince Roan needs all the help he can get. Prince Soren stays behind to watch over the injured high-fae prince as he sleeps, his face grimacing and flinching as he heals.
I took his pain away and absorbed it into myself, burning my magic stores a little so I wouldn’t have to feel it, but I can't keep up the connection while I’m elsewhere in the castle. Not without leaving behind a trail of light and glowing brighter than the full moon on a clear midwinter night, and I think I’ve pushed the high fae far enough for today.
The threat of the witches still hangs over my head like a monster of the Fates, my magic reserves strong enough to keep myself alive, but if they attack the castle, we’re woefully unprepared. From the descriptions of the witch armies I’ve heard from the soldiers and villagers, the high fae are used to fighting the mindless rabble, and though their numbers give them an advantage, they’re not a difficult enemy to outsmart and defeat.
If a powerful witch arrives, or a coven of them, the castle will fall.
The kitchen staff are prepared for my arrival, and none of them flinch or startle away from me as Firna leads me through into the large storage pantry. The cavernous size of it only makes the bare shelves more stark. There's nothing here, not enough food to get through the week let alone the coming winter, and I curse under my breath at how close they’ve come to ruin. Thank the Fates the Goblin King changed his mind about the trading route—whatever opportunity he saw in Prince Soren might just save Yregar.
There's nothing within the cupboards that can help.
The only herbs they have are for flavor, and they’re in such bad condition that even if they once held medicinal properties, those would be long gone by now. Firna hovers behind me, and when I stand once more and shake my head, she frowns, deep lines between her brows as she presses a hand to her forehead once more. She’s no longer afraid to show her true emotions around me, the prim façade gone. Maybe the bond that I felt in the birthing room wasn't just one sided; perhaps Firna and Airlie felt it as well.
“The princess heard that Soren has returned. She has a lot of questions about her husband, and I don't know how to answer them without causing her stress,” Firna murmurs to me, her voice low and her eyes imploring as she looks to me for guidance.
I look around at the rows of flour sacks, an abundant winter store for a large family but not enough to get this castle and the villagers through the week. Even with the tight rationing and eagle-eye of Firna’s command, we’d all starve if not for the Goblin King’s grace.
I wonder how many of them will acknowledge that.
“You can tell her the truth, which is that he was injured during the fighting at Fates Mark as he rode home to her. I’m tending to his injuries, and I’ll care for him as I've cared for her and her son. If Prince Soren allows, she’s welcome to come see him, and I’ll do everything I can to have him awake and meeting his son soon.”
Firna glances at the small rows of dried leaves on the top shelf, where the warm air still circulates, and then around at the rest of the bare shelves, her face pinched.
