After I hang my training gear back up, I check in with the sentries at each of the main watchtowers along the inner wall of Yregar. Every soldier is on edge, preparing for the worst, but there's no news to report. No sign of the witches mobilizing to attack here or of any stray members of the Unseelie Court who might want a peek at the curse-breaking baby, not since Aura arrived.
When I step back into the castle, I find Firna waiting for me, a frown pasted on her lips as she shoots me a stern look. “Her Highness, Princess Aura, has requested an audience this morning. She impressed upon me the urgency of the matter about which she wishes to speak to you.”
I raise an eyebrow back, and she scoffs. It’s out of character for her, but Aura always did get on her very last nerve. “She's sick of staring at the same four walls and wants to know what she can do to convince you to let her see Airlie and the baby. She spent half the night telling one of the maids that it’s her right as head of the family to see him, that their bloodline owes fealty to her, and no matter if you’re the heir to the throne, she is still a Celestial princess and should not be ignored.”
I huff and gesture at Firna to be on her way. “Tell Aura I'm too busy with the army of ravenous witches knocking at our walls to hear her woes, but I'll get to her just as soon as I can.”
Firna smothers a smirk and bows at me, the long and plain skirts of her dress swishing as she leaves. She never did have much patience for the female. Long ago, when she was the handmaiden to my mother and forced to spend long hours with her sister as a result, she formed a deep dislike for my aunt purely due to her treatment of Airlie.
Aura would have more luck getting blood out of a stone than sympathy from Firna.
I walk down to the healer’s quarters. Something about the perceptive look in the witch’s watchful eyes earlier leads me through the maze of hallways into the bare and roughly hewn room tucked away under the castle, the quiet constant of the Fates pulling us together growing more insistent with every step.
It's colder down here than the rest of Yregar, the entire room carved from stone instead of the magnificently ornate marble, decorated with luxurious rugs, that covers the rest of the castle floor. It’s a room built for function, not aesthetics, but the witch hums under her breath as she works. Her face is clear, the permanent scowl that once graced her brow gone as though it was never there.
She's wearing a different dress this time, one made of rough charcoal linen with sleeves that end at her elbows. It looks like something one of the maids would wear, far more functional than the dress Airlie gave her. She moves confidently as she brews another pot of tea and adds the drops of the tincture brewed from the milk thistle, still tending to my cousin’s needs even though Firna and the maids could manage without her. Her fluid movements tighten up a little under my gaze, as though she’s preparing to defend her actions against another round of my scrutiny, but I leave her to her work in silence as I shift my attention to her patient.
Roan's chest still moves steadily, no change in his condition, and my hand presses against the memory of the dagger wound at my side. I might have some lasting discomfort, but the wound is no longer bleeding through the bandages the way that Roan's wounds are.
The witch catches my frown in his direction and nods. “The poison did a lot of damage, and his body is struggling to heal because of it. My words to Airlie were the truth—it's a coin toss right now, and I fear the poison is winning.”
My teeth gnash together, and my gaze drifts out the door to the soldiers standing along the wall. Yregar is the only safe place for us right now, everyone I care for is safe within these walls, and our priority is protecting everyone here if the witches attack. Leaving wouldn't just be a bad idea, it could be catastrophic.
“The herbs you need for him, do they grow in the Ravenswyrd Forest?”
She doesn't even try to mask her reaction to my words, her chin jerking up as her eyes clash with mine. “Of course. Everything grows in the Ravenswyrd.”
I glance down at Roan and find no change in him even after hours of sleeping, the high-fae healing helping some but clearly not enough. It’s a terrible time to leave the castle; every day that creeps by only brings more warning from the Fates murmuring within me, but I swore an oath to every one of my family and friends who chose to follow me. Leaving now will stretch us to the limit, pushing us so close to the edge that a breath of air would plunge us into despair.
When I look back up at the witch, the decision is already made. “Ready whatever you need to harvest it all. We leave within the hour.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
Rooke
Prince Soren decides to leave Tauron behind in the castle and have Tyton and Reed—the scowling soldier who helped him carry Roan's lifeless body into the healer’s quarters—escort us instead.
I’m surprised, knowing how concerned they all are that the trees speak to Tyton, but when I arrive at the stables, he’s standing there, a determined look on his face as he waits for me. The calm and fierce mare Northern Star has been saddled for me once more, and the prince holds her reins out to me. I murmur a quiet thank you as I take them, becausemymanners are still intact.
Theirs are all strangely missing.
Tyton steps closer to me, his eyes not yet glowing or manic from the trees but the trip clearly playing with his mind already. “A Favored Child returned. Let's see what secrets you keep, witch.”
Dozens of my secrets hide within the forest, many I would rather sit in the dungeon and die than face again. But the high-fae princes don’t know where to look for medicinal herbs, and going back home is worth the risk to retrieve them. Spending my time cultivating a garden and restoring the healer’s quarters as I count down the days until I fulfill my fate will be worth every second of Prince Soren’s cold hatred. Going back to my ancestral lands and feeling my coven all around me once more, healing a long-since-accepted ache within me, will be worth it.
Loath as I am to admit it, Roan’s life is too.
Prince Soren is dressed for the ride, back in armor and his leathers with weapons strapped to every inch of his long body, and there’s a determined look on his face as he strides across the courtyard towards us, the midmorning sun catching on the silvery-blond of his hair and turning it into a white, blazing halo and making the cold depths of his eyes stand out even further. His gaze is sharp as he looks over the soldiers that surround the area, the courtyard and stables always full of them as they go about their duties. I hadn’t expected him to change his mind easily about collecting the herbs for Roan, but I’m impressed with his determination to see the task out once the decision was made.
Tauron steps to his side with a sneer on his face as he argues with his cousin. “What if she uses that place to get into his head? She could be the reason the trees haunt him in the first place!”
Before I have the chance to worry that my trip home is going to be ripped away from me, Prince Soren shakes his head, taking his horse’s reins from the stable master. “I need you here, watching over the castle, and you haven't gotten any sleep since we returned. Tyton is more than capable of this journey, and with the fae door, we won't be long. Watch over Roan, stop Airlie from killing someone to get to him, and keep the guard shifts watching the walls. They're going to strike back—this I know.”
Whether a hunch or from his own connection to the Fates, Prince Soren truly does sound sure, but he mounts his snarling beast of a warhorse without another word, meeting Tauron’s eyes one last time before we leave him behind.
Tyton takes up the rear, and the new soldier keeps pace alongside me. He watches my every move, just the same as the rest of them, but his face is carefully blank as we follow Prince Soren through the village to the outer wall.
The village is quiet, subdued as the people all cower in fear, the military presence around them growing only more intense. My heart throbs painfully in my chest as we pass the temple. The doors are shut, and a long line of people are standing on the stones out the front as they wait for food to be brought down from the castle kitchens. I hope that the messenger Prince Soren sent to the Western Fyres has pockets full of gold ready to bring supplies home now, because if he went only to discuss terms, we're all going to suffer a long, painful death.
