“Is there more that you could do for Prince Roan if we had the proper supplies? Fae flowers and the like?”
I turn to face her more fully, crossing my arms and trying to ignore the pull of the fabric across my shoulders. I’m not going to soften my answer; the truth is always the best course of action. “There’s a lot more I could be doing, not just for him but for everyone who lives within Yregar’s walls.”
Her eyebrows creep up her forehead as I continue, “I’ve seen the villagers. I know they need care as well. If I can fill the garden here with a proper healer’s crop, I’ll tend to them all, not just the high fae.”
Firna shakes her head. “The prince will never allow it. We don't understand these things well enough to know that your intentions are true. The healers all left the Southern Lands when the war broke out, and we were left to fend for ourselves.”
I scowl at her. “Why did the healers leave?”
She looks around carefully, but all of the maids are still working diligently in the kitchen, performing miracles with the ingredients to help the food stretch as far as it possibly can.
“Most healers in the Unseelie Court were witches, and the rest had witch blood. Millennia ago, the high fae had healers of their own, but they stopped teaching such things and their magic was lost. They didn't care about using it, they simply hired witches and provided good homes for them within their castles, living harmoniously, but then the war broke out. The high fae became suspicious of even the most loyal healers, even those who were part-bloods. Any attack on the royal bloodlines was blamed on the healers letting the witches in. Some were killed, some left to join the witches in their anger, and others just…disappeared.”
My eyebrows tuck in tight as I curse under my breath.
She nods at my reaction. “The people here are afraid of you. The stories they've all been told are old, older than most of them are, especially the servants within the castle. They know that witches aren't a threat only to them, that being known to be friendly to one is to flirt with death. The high fae make no exceptions…even the Seers are gone now.”
I have half a mind to walk back into that healer's quarters and throw these words in Prince Soren’s face. How dare he sit there and lecture me about our fates with all the evil his people have wrought against my own?
I swallow around the lump in my throat, grief seizing me so hard that my chest aches with every breath. The covens are gone, all of them either killed or driven out. Thousands of innocent lives, witchlings and the elderly, those who served the kingdom and never caused harm. My fate has led me here to save a kingdom that has shown my people only the very worst of injustices. The desperation of the forest is an echo in my mind, and I can’t help but fear that even ending the war won’t be enough. The witches are gone, the survivors may never return, the land may continue to decline because the balance can never be restored.
My body fights against the chaos in my mind to keep working even as I want to lie down and die on the stone floor.
Firna wrings her hands as she watches this consume me, fretting silently until finally I get control of myself once more. My magic never once slipped, but the knowing look in her eyes is enough of a reminder of what fate will befall me if it ever does.
“Tell Princess Airlie that her husband will live. I dug the poison arrows out of his chest myself, my magic weaving around him as it wove around his son. Afilthywitch helping another high-fae prince, even at great personal cost, because none of the high fae have ever given a blessed Fates-fuckabout the innocent witches of this kingdom. Kharl Balzog’s deceptions only swayed the weakest from our path—the rest wanted nothing to do with his madness. I know my role in honoring this land, do any of you?”
I turn and leave the pantry behind, ignoring the looks of the maids and soldiers as I walk back to the healer’s quarters by myself. Unescorted, fuming, and uncaring of the consequences.
I ignore Prince Soren’s presence in the corner, knowing well that if I open my mouth right now, a curse will fall from my lips and his life will be forfeit. The land would welcome his blood spilled in sacrifice, but the Fates would be swift in their own reply to my disobedience.
With a deep breath, I remember the terrifying sight of the tear in the sky and calm myself down. I don’t think of the Ureen—Ineverthink of them if I can help it—but the tear is enough to remind me of my purpose. It doesn’t matter what the high fae have or haven’t done. The Fates have spoken and I have no choice but to obey.
Seeing the ghastly pallor of Roan’s skin helps to dampen the rage within me, reminding me of my purpose as a healer once more. Airlie doesn't deserve my scolding tongue, and I regret my temper unleashing in my reply to the waiting princess. With any luck Firna will soften some of the sharpness of my words, but I doubt it. None of these people have changed their opinions of me or my kind. I could save a thousand royal babies and still be loathed regardless.
Moving around the workbench, I start brewing the next cup of tea for Airlie, a ripple of irritation itching at my skin at the eyes still following me. No matter my feelings, I’ll provide her and the baby with all the care in my power. With great determination, I force my mind away from Prince Soren’s presence and slip back into a quiet contemplation once more, going through the motions and clearing my mind of the anger that spilled over. I left my grief and regrets behind in the Northern Lands and, though I don't want the icy casing around my heart once more, I don't want to live with such rage within me either, choking and consuming me until I'm nothing but vengeance and fury.
“I heard you speaking to Firna. Write a list of what you need to help Roan,” Soren says from the corner, breaking the silence and my concentration.
There’s censure in his voice, but a wave of satisfaction rolls over me. I’mgladhe heard me, glad the words made their way to his high-fae ears, and I hope they haunt his every moment until he never knows peace again, just as my people have been haunted.
Unable to bring myself to look at him, I simply write out the list on the small scraps of parchment with the inkpot and quill Firna left behind for me. Those two simple items and the stove crackling with the fire behind me are the greatest gift the high fae have unwittingly given me, though I won’t be able to make good use of them under such keen surveillance. The moment I’m able to prove myself to them, or if their scrutiny slackens, I’ll do just that.
Not all fae folk need a horse and a long journey to send messages.
When I hold the list out to Prince Soren, he doesn't move to take it, so I place it carefully on the workbench and walk out of the quarters into the small walled garden, gulping in the fresh air to calm the storm within me.
Blind rage within someone as powerful as I am, the Mother of a coven as old as the Southern Lands itself, is a dangerous thing. I pull a small paring knife from the pocket of my dress, slipped in there earlier as a backup in case the one I selected proved too big for the work. I’d forgotten about it until now.
I walk to one of the overgrown planters, the stink of death in the air around me, and my magic swells in misery inside me.
Sitting down on one of the flagstones, I drag the blade across my inner arm and then press my hand against the dry and cracked remnants of soil. The earth reaches out toward me, greedily drinking in the magic I offer it in giant pulls that feel as though they’re going to consume me whole. It soothes the hurt inside me, squeezing into the dark recesses of my mind as the exchange takes over everything, pressing me into its embrace as it fills me up. The small ache of hunger in my belly disappears as the earth sustains me, providing for me as I pour into it.
I feel Prince Soren step into the door frame to watch over my actions as I take a deep breath, my eyes glowing so bright I can see their reflection on the stone in front of me. My skin tingles as the magic passes through the planters around me, still filled with wilting and dead remnants of a once thriving garden. The dead plants begin to fall away to the ground as the earth within them churns, the soil reviving as my gift of life is multiplied tenfold around me. There's no saving the dead crops, but I've renewed the life within, giving the earth the ability to prosper once more. The milk thistle will grow now, and any other plants I find.
The problem, of course, is finding them.
When I stand back up, brushing the dirt from the horrible Unseelie high-fae dress I'm still wearing and then flicking the dirt away from my arm and admiring the perfectly healed skin there, I glance up to meet Prince Soren’s eyes where he’s still watching me from the open door, his shoulders spanning the frame. There’s a scowl on his face, his eyes hard as he stares down at me, his arms crossed over his leather-bound iron chestplate, still spattered with blackened witches’ blood. Even in the calm wake of my exchange, my temper simmers at his reaction. Any act of magic is distasteful to him, but I hold a palm out toward the gardens around me, silent as I gesture at the stark transformation I’ve wrought with a single act of giving and irreverent to his misplaced scorn.
