An entire portion here is occupied by high fae who are loyal to me, though outside of my trusted inner circle, and the riverside wing they reside in is large enough that they’re able to live there, comfortable, secluded, and happy without much interference. Airlie will go over to the large reception rooms there every other week to check in on them and I’ll go to sort out any grievances that have arisen, but I mostly leave them to Firna to corral. Most of those high fae avoid the Grand Hall and the village unless there’s a spectacle they want to witness firsthand to fuel their gossip mill, such as the Unseelie Court coming to visit.
The castle is thrumming with extra bodies, with movement and life, and there isn’t a single high fae within the walls of Yregar who is willing to miss this display.
I’m careful to lead my cousins and the witch through the service hallways to avoid any areas where the court might have strayed, and when we finally reach my chambers, we find Roan and Airlie waiting for us there. Roan steps in front of his wife, shielding her from the witch, but she scoffs at him playfully and slips her arm through his, placing herself firmly at his side once more.
“You're cutting it a bit close, aren't you? We’re not going to be able to clean her up and get down to the Grand Hall before the regent demands to see her.”
And throws a tantrumare the words she would normally tack on the end of that sentence, but we’re choosing our words with care now that the court is here.
I shake my head at her, ignoring the creature entirely. “I’m not bathing her. None of us are—she can go down like this.”
Airlie’s petite nose wrinkles, and she stares at the witch sorrowfully, but only for selfish reasons. “I’m not asking you to bathe her for her sake but for mine! I don't want to suffer from that stench. Who knows how long the questioning will last, and I'm going to have to smellthatthe whole time?”
The witch’s scent isn't actually that bad, and the idea of bathing her twists something in my stomach.
Memories flood back to me…the playful tone of her voice, the soft moans she sent to me through our mind link, her willing submission to every last one of my demands as she pleasured herself while she bathed.
My blood heats…and rage incinerates any remnants of the lust that once lingered.
I don't want to offer her any kindness or pleasantries. I want her to suffer in the worst way, and as the Fates have said I cannot simply kill her and end my own torture, this will have to do.
“You don't have to come down with us, cousin. You can return to your rooms, and I'll make excuses for you. If your mother has anything to say about it, I’ll deal with her.”
Airlie scoffs again, and Roan tucks her closer to his side, his hand gently rubbing her arm. He never touches her belly now that it is once again round with child, not the way he did before. It’s as if he’s detached himself entirely from what’s to come to save his own sanity.
I still have no idea how Airlie convinced him to try again.
She stares down her nose at me like I’m an unruly child. “You're going to need all the help you can get in there, and we both know it. Besides, if you're going to use the curse to convince them you must marry her, having me with you will only help your cause.”
Tauron grumbles under his breath, the chains clinking in his hands. “We don't need any help with that cause, they should all remember what’s at stake, and if they don't, then they shouldn’t hold a seat on the Unseelie Court.”
His words are close to treason, and when I shoot him a look of warning, he bows his head respectfully. I know there’s a part of him that would happily go out in a blaze of glory if only he could tell each and every last member of the Unseelie Court what he really thinks of them.
Sometimes I feel that way as well.
“She looks healthy, doesn't she?” Airlie remarks, bending down a little as she squints at the witch. “That's not going to help your case. They’ll have just passed through the village and seen how starved the part-bloods and lower fae who are loyal to us are, only to find a plump witch waiting for them.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “I wonder where the witches get their food. Everything is dying—where are they finding provisions?”
Two questions I cannot answer and that we've spent a lot of time hunting for ourselves, but I can answer in this context well enough.
“She came from the Seelie Courts. The Northern Lands clearly still have food.”
The real question is…why did she return?
Is it only her fate that brought her home, or does she have family amongst the sea of maniacal witches, some vendetta she is here to enact? I can imagine a dozen different options, and any of them could bring about our doom if we handle her the wrong way.
I'm aware of what’s at stake if I get this wrong.
Roan stares at the witch with both distrust and apprehension, but there’s no longer contempt in his gaze. He’s well aware that, when I take the throne, if the Fates have their way, this will be his queen regardless of her heritage and the war we fight against her people. While Roan has never quite understood the complexities of the Unseelie Court, thanks to growing up far away from it, he does have an intense loyalty to the crown and to me. He’s never faltered, not even before he and Airlie found each other and were blessed in marriage, thanks to the Fates.
“At least wash her hands and clean her face, Soren. It's not just herself and her race that she’ll be representing. The Fates have chosen her as your mate, and that means something, whether you like it or not.”
I have always listened to the advice of my oldest and most trusted friend, but for this, I can't even attempt it.
The witch is ruining everything.
We stand and stare at her a few minutes longer, and then the herald arrives once again. “His Majesty the Regent is eager to hear an explanation. He’s calling for you now, Prince Soren.”
The only thing that male is eager for is my downfall.
