* * *
As the ship docks at Port Asmyr, the captain is still deeply unhappy with the situation. He disembarks first and speaks to the high fae soldiers charged with checking the cargo and taxing the ships. Nothing can happen until those males are paid, and so the rest of us wait.
When the soldiers finally allow us off the ship, the captain stays with me for as long as he can. I make my way toward the nearby village of Asmyr, which clings to the coastline, and when the high fae soldiers stop the captain to pay customs and taxes on his load, he's careful not to look in my direction. Every inch of his body points away from me as he does everything he can to avoid tipping them off to the fact that I’m not a simple traveler like the rest of them.
I'm careful to position myself at the edge of the crowd, not wanting any of the other travelers to be accused of aiding me if I’m discovered, and I keep my head down as I go into the village.
The travelers slowly break off from each other as they find their own paths, some stopping at the tavern while others find the family and friends waiting for them.
There’s no celebration or joyous welcome to be seen.
Even here at the edge of the water, where there should always be provisions thanks to the bountiful ocean, I can see that the villagers are far too thin. There’s a desperate look to them as they shuffle along the cobblestone roads, their hair lank and their skin sallow, ill health showing even through the myriad skin tones.
Not the regent’s guards, of course, all of them high fae and impossibly clean in these filthy streets. They all wear cloaks of a deep, navy blue trimmed with silver, broadswords buckled at their belts, their pale skin and white-blond hair standing out like beacons in the crowd. They’re made even more distinct by their height, each at least a foot taller than the rest of us, their shoulder span wider than even the goblin part-bloods. Physically, there’s no denying their superiority but, if the rumors are to be believed, they lack the basic morals I’ve come to hold as nonnegotiable in my own life.
I won’t bow to any of them without cause.
They all look as though they've never missed a meal in their lives, and yet everyone around them in this small port village is starving. There is much talk in the Northern Lands of the regent and how he rules in his nephew’s stead. After the untimely murder of his brother, Solas Celestial had taken the mantle of the regent and demanded respect as though he felt no mournful weight of such an undertaking, something that had certainly raised suspicions across the other kingdoms. News of his capricious nature and wanton ways reached the Northern Lands centuries ago, as did the choices he’s made to the detriment of the lower fae and part-bloods. Faced with the catastrophic results of his actions here in the port, I find him detestable.
I’ve gotten used to the hypocrisy of social ranks, which are clear even in the Northern Lands where the kingdom is more bountiful, but that doesn't mean they don't set my teeth on edge. I suppose that the deckhand is one of the lucky ones, having a job that provides all her meals. She didn’t look as rail thin as the rest of these folks.
The captain wasn't exaggerating when he said a lot has changed.
My original plan was to purchase a horse to ride to the Ravenswyrd Forest and trust the Fates to lead my mate to me there, but I can’t do that without the regent’s guards seeing my face, so I’m forced to walk. A little farther down the road and through the village, it becomes clear to me that there are no horses to buy anyway.
There's no food either.
If I could make my way into the tavern without anyone spotting the silver hue of my eyes, I’d be able to find a tankard of mead and maybe some bread, but there are no markets or food stalls anywhere, none of the provisions and typical signs of life that were here when my brother and I left the Southern Lands, so I have no choice but to make my way out of the small village on foot.
It's not so bad.
I haven’t lost my ability to walk for days on end. My time serving in the war strengthened such things. My only complaints are the aches on one side of my stomach and on my back, where my scars are, but I can ignore them well enough. I was seen by one of the best healers—aside from myself, of course—in the Northern Lands, but wounds caused by the Ureen never heal without leaving a mark. My scars will ache in the cold until my last breath.
The Fates don’t care about such things, and now I’ve returned to the Southern Lands where there’s no shortage of chill.
I walk for the rest of the day, watching the sun climb above me and then descend slowly in the sky. The farther I walk, the more desolate the land becomes. It’s summer here, but there are no signs of life in the ground around me.
There should be wildflowers everywhere and livestock grazing in large expanses of pasture. This deep into the season, there should be signs of farmers readying for a plentiful harvest, and yet there's nothing.
Devastation stretches as far as the eye can see.
When I stop for the evening along the well-worn path, I still have at least a full day’s walk ahead to reach the Augur Mountains and the Ravenswyrd Forest beyond them. I find a small cluster of dead trees and make camp between them, my stomach clenching at the sight of their stark branches. These trees should be covered in foliage and greenery, and yet there’s nothing here. No sounds of birds singing in the dusk, no insects calling out their tunes of hard work, no sprites or imps playing in the barren fields. If I wasn’t absolutely sure of the season I left behind in the Northern Lands, I would assume it was winter, though a rare snowless day.
I dig my hands into the dirt beneath me, my own pool of magic reaching deep into the ground to find a sign of what’s gone wrong, but all that comes back is a void, same as I’d felt in that human part-blood who lacked something so intrinsic to me.
There's no magic left.
Deep in the recesses of the earth, magic should flow freely, the natural springs of the essence of life that have been here longer than the Unseelie. Sorrow blooms in my chest, an old wound opening up once again.
No one is taking care of the land.
The high fae gave up such practices long before I was born, but when Pemba and I left, there were still witches taking care of the solstices and equinoxes. There had to be for the land to continue to provide for the fae folk. Whether the practitioners fled after we did or gave up the traditions, without magic and sacrifice, the land is on the brink of true destruction.
One it won’t be able to come back from.
None of the witches care about the lands anymore, proving that their war has never been about taking back power from the high fae to protect those who are more vulnerable. When Pemba told me that rumor, I refused to believe it, but what I’m seeing confirms those suspicions. Kharl’s war has never been about redistributing power. He doesn’t care about the lands or the traditions of our people.
My brother and I learned a lot about the War of the Witches in the Northern Lands, and Pemba became obsessed with finding out who killed our family and coven.
