His tone is baiting, waiting for me to deny him and claim he’s under the witch's spell, but I just shake my head dismissively. “You need all the energy you have to stop Airlie from slitting my throat for dealing with the witch, and I need help convincing Aura that the wedding must still take place, only now we need further accommodations to force the witch into submission.”
Tauron’s jaw flexes but he nods. “There's nothing in the old laws that say she can't be chained to the temple or that we can’t torture her consent out of her. It’ll be a wedding for the history books, for sure.”
Roan's eyes flick between the two of us and he shakes his head slowly. “I know your reasoning, and the accusations are damning, but the witch must be the best actress I've ever seen, far better than even Aura. It's hard to fake such indignant reactions, or the care she has for my son.”
The silver of her eyes flashes in my mind once more, raking against me until my head pounds, and I grit my teeth as I shrug. “She was trained for this, I have no doubt, and that's why she came so close to convincing us all. The Fates have tested us all; the kingdom came close to ruin.”
Tauron shakes his head. “She never got close to convincing me. No acts of healing or good faith can cover the stink of a witch amongst our ranks.”
I nod slowly, and Roan groans quietly, rubbing a hand over his eyes before he murmurs, “And the Goblin King? How are you going to explain your witch mate standing in a temple draped in chains with Tauron looming over her, his plans of torture finally unleashed? It might just be enough to make him choose a side and finally support someone, and it likely won’t be you. He could break the Unseelie Court’s stalemate and crown your uncle as revenge on her behalf, especially if your suspicions of his own plans for unchecked sovereignty are correct.”
I’ve long since recognized the meager possibility for that to happen because, no matter how hard the Goblin King spurned me and my messengers, his loathing of the regent was always threefold. My uncle’s messengers were sent back to Yris in pieces whereas mine were simply turned away at the border.
It’s a real possibility that the witch who charmed him in a single conversation might turn his loyalties to my uncle just as quickly.
I shake my head at them both. “We still have weeks before the winter solstice, and the witches to deal with before then. We’ll see Yregar through it all before we worry about the Goblin King.”
Roan nods slightly. “I’ll send word to my father for Outland soldiers, but there's every chance the witches will arrive first. We’ll have to defend Yregar on our own.”
* * *
Airlie leaves the Grand Hall shortly after Reed and the witch do, Firna hurrying after her with another plate of food as the keeper sees her up to her rooms safely. A frown settles on my face. I worry not only about harm coming to my cousin on the trip back to her chambers with her son secured in the sling, but about the very real possibility that she might attempt to sneak down to the dungeon and offer aid to the witch.
Either prospect is a very real concern.
Roan watches the path of my gaze and then turns back to me. “I’ll take care of Airlie. She's not going to commit treason and go against your commands.”
When I shoot him a droll look, he grimaces back. “I’m not saying she’ll obey without an argument, but she knows your word is final.”
I nod, confident that I'm going to hear every defense possible for my Fates-cursed mate from Airlie, every second of her ire a lesson in patience, but it’s a virtue I’m now well-versed in, thanks to the Fates and their cruelly twisted games.
Tyton leaves the gathering early, rubbing a hand over his temple and making excuses, fatigue etching deep lines into his otherwise eternally youthful face. Tauron stares after him and makes his own excuses, then follows his brother.
I stay in the Grand Hall until the last of the lords and ladies retire. Long gone are the days of wanton drinking and partying, but everyone is reluctant to return to the solitary confines of their own rooms. The witches will arrive whether they go to bed or not, and yet they drag their feet.
The Fates murmur to me, their warnings growing louder and louder in my mind as the hours pass us by. I don't even think to attempt to get some sleep, the frenetic power that bubbles in my veins promising that the time of reckoning for the curse being broken by the birth of the high-fae prince is close.
When the first of the sentries begin to call out sightings of lit torches on the horizon, I go down to the stables and find Tauron waiting there for me, our horses already saddled and another prepared for Roan.
I raise an eyebrow at him, but he only shrugs back. ”He'll be here any minute. We both know he’s delayed only by Airlie and her opinions.”
Before I can answer, the door above us swings open and Roan takes the castle steps down to us three at a time, dressed once more for war with a steely set to his golden eyes as he takes stock of the preparations around us.
“Have you sent out the archers? Better for them to pick off as many witches as possible before the masses hit the wall. We don't need a second wave coming through while we’re trying to make repairs.”
I nod, then lift my eyes to the lines of soldiers waiting on the inner wall, looking out over the village as we move our forces steadily into position. “Make sure the iron cages are fitted between each section of the wall. I haven't forgotten the climbers, and neither should you.”
Tauron shudders at the very mention of the witches that scaled Yrmar’s walls, killing the soldiers there before opening the gates and letting through the death-curse witch and her box of destruction.
The climbers then were barefoot, using their fingers and toes like hooks digging into every tiny hole and crevice as they scaled the stone structure in seconds. Black spittle dripped from their mouths and their eyes rolled wildly in their heads, their screams and screeches as destructive as banshees, seeming as though they’d been overtaken by the madness within the Ravenswyrd Forest, only worse. Murderous and unforgiving, they didn't flinch or falter as we picked off their comrades, ignoring the arrows that pierced their backs and limbs and stopping only when their hearts refused to pump. They were death incarnate and enough to make anyone’s skin crawl at a single glance.
The soldiers open the gates of the inner wall for us to ride through, and at my instruction they leave them open for now. I direct soldiers to move the villagers into the Grand Hall as a safety precaution. With the extra defenses I’ve put in place, there's no reason to believe the witches will breach the outer wall, but I offered these people my protection and protect them I will.
Bands of soldiers stream into the village and begin rounding people up, throwing children from the street over their shoulders as they bark out orders. They move quickly, quiet and determined in their work as they take no excuses for delay. The Grand Hall is big enough for a thousand high fae reveling and dancing, and it’ll shelter all the villagers, as emaciated and damaged as they are.
The horses jog steadily beneath us, traveling farther and farther until we close the distance to the outer wall and the fae door that lies beyond. The soldiers there are watching the black, writhing mass roll over the desolate plains ahead, no coverage for the witches as they descend.
I stay on Nightspark’s back as Corym stands on top of the wall, calling down to me as the horde grows closer, “There’re at least a thousand of them, all but the commanders on foot. They're not holding formation, it's definitely a rabid pack. They're wearing black, no insignias or defining marks, and they’re yelling amongst themselves. There are no wagons or any sign of a curse box, no protected riders amongst them. We’ll keep watch for one.”
