Tauron looks down at me, his face stern. “We just spoke about this, Soren, and this isexactlyhow she works her way under your skin. You allow her little freedoms and, before you know it, there’s another curse laid on our people, only this one sees us truly over the edge to Elysium, the high fae never to walk the Southern Lands again!”
I look back at the witch, toiling away in the garden, grunting and heaving as she clears the last of an overgrown tree. It’s long dead, but the roots are still deep in the ground.
That doesn't look like freedom to me, not as I know it.
“It's obvious she has knowledge of healing arts and magic that’s been lost to our kind. Why not let her restock our stores and revive our lands while we watch for her treachery? The Fates demand I keep her, for now at least. This is more useful than having her sit in a cell and take up the time of my most trusted family. It’s worth the risk.”
Tauron stares at her for a moment longer, his eyes piercing like daggers thrown in her direction, before he claps me on the shoulder once more. “Go. You need to bathe, and while you’re at it, figure out what we're telling Airlie. We need to have our story straight before we see her. I can watch the witch until you’re clean.”
I don’t need any more encouragement.
When I get back to my chambers and into the bathroom, I remove my armor, the iron and steel dropping from my hands and crashing to the ground as pain makes me careless. Wincing, I raise my arm and find the dagger wound still marring my side. My movement opens it once more, and blood drips onto the marble floors, smearing all over my bathroom as I move. It would be far easier if I allowed an attendant to help me but my rooms have always been off-limits to the household, the one sanctuary I allow myself for now.
I’ll have no choice but to accept their presence once I’m king.
Cleaning the cut with a rag and warm water, I’m careful to ensure none of the black witch's blood touches it and poisons me with its toxins. Once it’s clean, I bandage the entire area tightly, mimicking the patterns that the witch made on Roan's chest. It's a much better technique than my own, which I learned on the battlefield out of necessity, and once I’m able to sleep, my high-fae healing will kick in to knit my skin back together, safe now that the wound is clean.
There was no sign of poison, no redness or purpling veins the way Roan's wounds had looked, and there’s no reason for concern as I finish up in the bathroom. I dress myself slowly as I breathe through the stinging pain, the wounded area burning like the fires of the old fae if I’m too rough with my movements.
My mind can handle a lot more torture than my body can, my wits still strong and clear as my chest aches from the healing. I learned many centuries ago not to push too hard, not unless I was in my most desperate hour.
I leave my chambers and walk straight into Airlie’s, knocking on the doors as I come through.
She calls out to me from her sitting area. Firna is hovering over Airlie as she sits and fusses with a baby's blanket in her hands, stitching away at a gift for her son as he sleeps in his crib in her room under the watchful eye of another trusted maid. She made dozens of them during her first pregnancy and none during this one, something I'm sure she now regrets, but I know guarding her heart from the devastation of that loss again was all she could do to get through it without losing herself.
“You better be here to tell me that my husband is awake and calling for me, Cousin. I will accept no other news.”
Airlie’s tone is saccharine sweet in her cutting defense as she worries about Roan. Firna casts me a long look over my cousin’s bowed head, a soundless warning that I don't need.
“Your husband is alive and healing as we speak. I’ll let you know as soon as there is any change.”
She gives me a sidelong look. “I think you can do better than that for me, Soren. I'll be joining you in the healer’s quarters just as soon as I finish tending to my son's needs.”
“I don’t want you moving through the castle, Airlie. The witches may be focusing on the Outlands for now, but I have no doubt Yregar is next. It’s better if you stay in your chambers in the heart of the castle with Firna and my soldiers on guard. Roan is heavily guarded and taken care of; Tauron and I will both stay with him until he wakes. There’s no need for you to leave the comfort of your chambers in this state.”
Her spine snaps straight, her eyes flashing as she glares back at me. “And what state would that be, Cousin? My son is here, and we’re both healthy and safe by all accounts. My husband is the one in grave condition, and I’ll be at his side until he wakes.”
My jaw clenches, and it takes me a moment to find an even temper to speak to her once more, imploringly. “It's not safe for the two of you down there. The witch is watching over Roan, and it's better for you to be up here.”
Airlie scoops her son into her arms with practiced ease, no longer holding him as though he's nothing but a dream. She’s come to terms with his safe arrival, enough to be sure he's not going to disappear the moment she closes her eyes, and pride shines in her every action.
“I trust that witch with my husband's life, just as I trusted her with my son. Roan said all along that the Fates have led you to her for a reason. She's not just your mate, Soren, she’s the future queen of the Unseelie high fae and the Southern Lands. My loyalty is to you and your fate, and now with her. You and Tauron are suspicious enough for the rest of us. I’ll spend my time tending to my family instead.”
She takes another step toward me and the door, and then her eyes light up. Turning back to Firna, she holds out her hand expectantly. “You brought the book I asked for, didn't you? I‘d like to show it to Prince Soren before I go.”
Firna cringes and shoots a glance at me before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small leather-bound book. It’s black and covered in gold lettering, swirling and looping so much it takes me a moment to see it’s the old language. The library here at Yregar—and some of the tomes it holds—is as old as the castle itself, and though I spent much of my childhood in there with my tutors, I haven’t given it much thought since my parents died and the war broke out.
I scowl, but Airlie waves it at me with a smile. “Rooke said to all of us that the high fae have forgotten. Maybe we should work on remembering some things, Cousin.”
I scoff at her and the ridiculous idea from my Fates-cursed mate. A war is raging that doesn’t care how many innocent lives are taken, and yet the witch wants us to spend our days reading and telling stories of a time long gone, a past filled with greatness that we can never hope to get back to? She’s here to undermine us, to drive a wedge between me and my closest confidants, and I can see it happening right before my eyes.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I wince as the movement pulls on my wound. I turn away a little so that Airlie doesn't see. “You're going to read old fairy tales at the witch’s request? How novel.”
Airlie looks at me with pity, and my skin tightens on my bones until I want to tear it all off with my bare hands. Her tone is soft, as though she’s breaking bad news to a child, as she says, “No, Soren. I'm going to read our history and try to remember the purpose of the high fae—the one that led the First Fae to rule our kingdom in the first place. It might be too late for us all, I don’t know, but maybe I can teach my son a different way.”
* * *
The witch lets Airlie stay with Roan for an hour and no longer, answering her questions kindly and with patience. She explains to her the exact wounds he had, how her magic healed some of the damage but not all, what more she can do if necessary but the ways in which his body would be irreversibly changed in that case.
