I meet the herald’s gaze with my own, and his eyes widen as he steels himself against the rage there, but I keep my tone level. “I look forward to hosting the court. My home is always open to the esteemed high fae of my kingdom.”
The herald bows like he’s taken a knife to the gut, clutching his stomach as his back barely bends, and then he stalks out of my chambers with viciousness echoing in his steps. He’ll stay overnight and leave at my uncle’s command, but if he thinks to lash out at any of my household with that demeanor of his, he’s going to find himself sitting in the dungeon beside the witch.
Or bleeding at the end of one of Firna’s kitchen knives. My keeper doesn’t suffer the tumultuous moods of any males, not even my own, though she’s respectful in how she deals with me.
My stewing is broken by Roan jerking his head toward the door and muttering in the old tongue, “He knows it’s not just a rumor. When the court arrives and finds out it's true, he’ll use it to gain more favor.”
Roan’s been in a foul mood since he found out that Airlie went down to speak to the witch without a guard or her husband to protect her. Even with the thick iron bars between them, there were at least a dozen dangers for his heavily pregnant wife to face on such a task, and the two guards being killed with no weapon to be found only sent his mood to the very depths of Elysium.
I can’t bear to go down there and lay eyes on the witch again myself, the tug of the Fates in my chest and my body reacting to her nearness a torture I won’t suffer needlessly. My cousins have taken to learning what they can from her instead, and Tyton was the one to discover she can touch the iron implements we've been using against her without lasting damage, if any occurs at all. The cell contains her because of the lock and the guard, not the iron, and she isn’t buckling under the torturous conditions because iron doesn’t harm her as it should.
It’s clear she isn’t just a witch. Whoever she is, wherever she's come from, she's far stronger than any of her kind that we’ve encountered. The lack of witch markings should have been our first indicator, and I’m determined not to miss any further clues to her scheming.
“None of the families will change sides. If they haven’t before now, our plan here will work,” Roan says, coming out of his mood enough to offer his assurances, but I merely shrug. There’s only one real option for me now, but the confrontation with the court will be easier if my closest confidants are in agreement.
I wait until I can no longer hear the herald’s retreating footsteps before I answer, “Your focus is keeping Airlie safe and calm. Tauron and Tyton will guard the witch, and I’ll play the games of the court. With any luck we’ll satisfy them with one party, and they’ll scurry back to Yris tomorrow, maybe the day at worst.”
Roan curses under his breath and shakes his head, moving to stare out the window toward the horizon as though he can see the Unseelie Court descending upon us. He sticks with the old language but chooses his words carefully. “Tauron and Tyton will have to stand guard for her safety, not the court’s. She’s the missing piece to your ascension. Without your mate, the regent becomes king. He married his mate and produced an heir—Neyva’s death doesn’t impede his claim.”
My aunt, Sari’s mother, died in childbirth, a fact none of us want to consider right now, and the mention of her name brings another scowl to Roan’s face.
My own gut clenches, over Airlie’s condition, and at the thought of all these years of patience ending with the loss of my throne—and the kingdom with it—to my uncle. “We won’t let him win, Roan, not after everything we’ve been forced to endure this far. Keep your focus on Airlie and leave the rest to me.”
Roan rubs a hand over his brow as his entire body emanates stress, murmuring in a defeated tone, “I don't understand what the Fates are doing. I don’t know how much more we can take.”
I know he held out hope that finding my mate would break the curse before his child arrived, and now it’s been snatched away from him. Every time I shut my eyes, I can see Airlie’s face as she held the body of their dead son in her arms, and I can’t blame him for losing faith. My own regrets continue to grow, guilt clawing through my gut at failing Airlie with this witch the Fates have thrown at me. Though I continue to do everything I can to protect our people, it’s never enough.
We need to be rational and not lose our heads at the horrors still to come.
I take a deep breath and push aside the paperwork on my desk, then take the wine glass and empty it in one go. “The regent can't kill the witch without the backing of the Unseelie Court. Airlie’s mother won't side with him, and neither will a handful of the others. To go against the Fates, he needs the support of the most established families, and he doesn’t have it.”
Roan mutters under his breath, “Too many games and guesses for me—it’s a stupid way to live our lives, bound to the whims of others.”
I step around the table and join him to stare at the withered pastures of Yregar. Even the palace grounds look dead and empty. There’s no longer an orchard or a medicinal garden, nor any sort of garden for the kitchen. Nothing will grow in the Southern Lands, and if something doesn’t change soon, my home will be renamed the Wastelands.
That's still preferable to it being ruled by the witches.
Shaking the frustration out of my limbs, I leave Roan and go down to the dungeon. My ill-fated mate never leaves my mind, the silver of her eyes the first thing I think of when I wake and the last thing I imagine before I slip into a begrudging slumber. The solid wall she’s placed between our minds stands firm, but I’m convinced she’s found a way to call to me regardless of the block. The Fates grow impatient with me, pulling at my chest at every waking moment, but I ignore them for now. I’ve been receiving updates of her quiet compliance within the cell but I haven't been able to bring myself to face the reality of my mate.
Until now, when I have no choice.
In a matter of hours, my uncle and the rest of the Unseelie Court will arrive at Yregar, and I will have to plead my case with them. I may have shown Roan nothing but confidence, but in reality I know there is every chance the regent will use this situation to make his next big move. Actually, I'm certain he will.
As I feel the earth envelop me and crush my senses, I expect to hear mumbling or another form of madness. It doesn't matter that, by all accounts, the witch is faring better down here than any we've brought before; my experience says that her sanity should be crumbling under the weight of the castle.
And yet there is nothing.
I meet Corym’s eyes where he guards over the witch and nod to him in dismissal, waiting until he’s disappeared before I step up to the iron cell door, finding my Fates-cursed mate sitting against the stone with her eyes closed. The bucket of water that was brought down to her this morning still looks full, and the plate of scraps from the kitchen has been picked over some. She looks in perfect health, better even than when we brought her here, a plumpness to her cheeks and a sheen to her matted hair. I’ve become adept at reading the condition of those living in squalor, and she’s flourishing.
The hunt for the missing dagger came up empty, even after Tyton searched her with his magic. There’s no sign that she returned to the Southern Lands with anything but the small satchel the mercenaries had taken from her. Clothing, a sleeping roll, and a small purse of Seelie gold—none of the contents gave us any clues about her life before she set foot back on Unseelie soil.
Her hair is in need of a good wash, and her hands are blackened from the grime of the cell, but there’s still a quiet, serene sort of beauty to her. I catch myself leaning toward her, that thread pulling at me until I have to take a step back to regain control, muttering a curse at myself. It’s a betrayal to my people to even notice such a thing, and shame curls in my gut until every inch of my body burns with it.
I want to crush her.
I want to spread her out on a torture table and pull her to pieces slowly, excruciatingly, until there is nothing beautiful left of her. I want to take every piece of frustration and grief and horror that has been given to me by this war and unleash it on her until there's nothing left.
I want todestroyher.
