The way she structures the sentences is an echo of dozens of goblin soldiers I spent time with in the Seelie Lands, and I bow to her respectfully, the goblin way.
She smothers a grin as she bows in return, the two of us interacting in a manner foreign to Reed, who scowls at us both.
The thumping upstairs grows louder, and a sigh ekes from Whynn’s lips.
I smile once more. “We’ll be on our way. If you or the children ever have need of a healer, please come and see me at the healer’s quarters at the castle. There's a gate and a side entrance, and both are always open to you.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
Soren
With no word from any of my scouts about the supplies from the Western Fyres, I take stock of just how little we have left and what I'm going to do if the Goblin King has betrayed us.
My scouts who act as my eyes within the kingdom have been waiting at the edge of the Goblin Lands for days, knowing that Darick should be coming through with the first fleet of wagons at any moment, and yet there's nothing, no sign of the supplies we’ll soon perish without. The two weeks that have passed isn’t enough time for the wagons to get to Yregar, but they should have left the Goblin Lands by now.
The morning that Firna comes to tell me they've cooked the last batch of bread and halved everyone's rations to see us through the following day, I refuse to eat anything myself, sending the food back with her to put on Airlie’s plate instead.
The Keeper of Yregar looks apprehensive, but she nods. “Prince Tauron and Prince Tyton did the same. None of us have told Prince Roan that it's the last of the food, because the witch said he needs to eat to regain his strength, but he has his suspicions. He’s been giving the princess more of his share anyway. She's hungry with the feeding of the baby, and we’ve all been slipping her more from our own plates.”
She's not saying it for praise. She's saying it because that's the truth of the matter and how concerned the entire castle is. If the wagons don’t arrive soon I'll have no choice but to ride out myself in search of them and travel through the fae door, leaving the castle in a fraught state once more, but there's no use protecting us all from a witch army attack if the people within the castle have already starved to death.
I go to the barracks to discuss such a plan with Corym there only to find Roan in the sparring ring, moving through his paces as he fights away the aches and stiffness from weeks healing in a bed.
He looks haggard, but when he sees me, he grimaces and shakes his head. “I’m fine, I just have a very hungry son calling for his mother at all hours of the night.”
Despite the heavy feeling pressing over me, I smile, watching as Roan turns and blocks a sword from a soldier to his left. Spinning and turning together like a dance, they move around each other in the ring. Corym watches them both just as closely as I do, nodding in approval when he likes what he sees, and I do too. The soldier holds his own against Roan, but the Snowsong heir moves smoothly, taking each blow easily as he puts them both through their paces.
He's less brutal with his movements than I am, more graceful on his feet, and his technique has always been flawless. We were trained together by the same swordmaster as faelings, but over the years I’ve dropped the precise actions we were once so eager to get right. Now my own technique can only be described as a brutal and damning display of the depths of my rage for what has become of my kingdom and the fae folk within.
As Roan taps his training sword on the soldier's chest, marking his victory, he jerks his head for another to enter the sparring ring. There’s a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead, but his color is good.
He sees my assessing gaze and calls out, “Stop standing over there and fretting about me. I was given the all-clear by the healer, and I’m not likely to drop dead from a bit of light sparring.”
I frown at his choice of words, but he stares back at me in defiance, the golden hue of his eyes unwavering as he very artfully calls me out. None of the soldiers would guess that's what he’s doing, but there's no question in my mind. By pointing out the witch’s good work he's pointing out all the ways he expects me to accept my fate to her.
Good thing I already have an answer for him. “Have you spoken to Aura lately? She's having quite the fun, planning our winter events.”
His eyebrows rise, but his eyes remain trained on the soldier moving toward him, no war cry on the male’s lips as he hacks away at Roan. He’s far less technical but a mirror of my own footwork, effective and more of a challenge for Prince Roan.
“I heard rumors that she’s planning the nuptials, but I thought it was nothing more than idle gossip,” Roan says as they break apart again, effortlessly keeping up with the conversation and the fight before him.
Many eyes bore into my back, but there's no easier way to break such news to my household than to discuss it openly like this, sending the correct information out amongst those most loyal to me so there's no obscuring the truth of the matter.
“The Fates demand I marry her. It doesn't mean I have to like it or treat her as anything other than the witch she is, but I’m sick of being stuck under the whims of others, and by marrying her I fulfill the requirements of the Unseelie Court and take the throne. This is the only way to end the war, and I’ll choose my kingdom over my own wishes, always. I’m a Celestial Prince—that doesn’t come without sacrifice.”
I look across the barracks and find Corym watching the fight, a stern look on his face. He nods along to my words as if agreeing with the path I'm choosing. Every last one of my soldiers knows their meal this morning was smaller and that tomorrow's will be their last. They all know that fighting off the witches and reclaiming our kingdom has been made impossible by the regent splitting up our forces and refusing to take the offensive, protecting Yris and his lifestyle over the good of the land. That will change only under my rule, and after centuries of living this way, there's no denying the truth of it.
There's murmuring along the wall, soldiers slowly sharpening their gaze and standing at attention. Roan and the soldier in the sparring ring both pause as well. All the eyes of Yregar turn toward the commotion, and we hold our collective breath as we wait for confirmation of the witches’ attack.
Just as I'm about to snap, one of the sentries steps back over to lean down and call out, “The wagons are here, Your Highness! Darick has returned with the supplies!”
I scowl, disbelief rippling in my stomach as I meet Roan’s eyes.
The castle doors open again, and Tauron jogs down the stairs, a sneer on his face. “How could he have returned and not passed by the scouts?”
I move with them both to the stables, Ingor holding out Nightspark’s reins as the stable boys quickly saddle horses for Roan and Tauron as well. The only explanation is the scouts’ deaths—that the witches found them waiting at the edge of the Goblin Lands and killed them—but that doesn't explain how the wagons have arrived here safely.
The answer to that becomes clear as we begin to ride out, one of the soldiers calling along the walls, “Soldiers! There's an army of goblin soldiers waiting out there!”
