He turns the scowl on me, and when he’s sure none of the soldiers are paying us any attention, he says, “I hope you’re thinking straight here, Soren. If the Sol King finds out that we have imprisoned one of his soldiers, we’ll answer to the Seelie Court. We’re putting ourselves at great risk…it’s a political nightmare in the making! The Northern Lands are no longer in danger from the Ureen, and they’ve rebuilt Sol City and the Golden Palace. If he’s unhappy with our treatment of one of his soldiers, we’ll be starting your reign as his enemy. If he wishes to come and free the witch himself, we have no army to protect us. Despite the losses of the Fate Wars, they have far more soldiers than we do. More than your uncle commands at Yris. Even with the Outland soldiers, we’d be at a disadvantage. The Seelie Court trained thousands upon thousands of lower fae and all those who heeded the Sol King’s call for aid. You cannot take this lightly.”
I stare at the old and decaying wood of the fae door, the magic leaching out of it the same way it's been leached out of the earth itself, as I mull over his words. Roan isn't saying this to be worrisome.
He knows better than any of us what the Sol King is capable of from the dozens of stories his mother told him throughout his childhood of her own upbringing in the Seelie Court. Some of that formed him into the male he is today. He’s an Unseelie high-fae prince, loyal to his father’s titles and lands, but he straddles the line between both courts in his thinking. It’s a flaw in the eyes of most of the Unseelie Court, Aura’s especially, but to me it’s invaluable, a perspective that no other within the Unseelie high fae has offered me and one that has saved us many times over the long centuries of this war.
I glance around at the miles of devastation that surround us and sigh before I answer, “He's not going to come over here for one soldier. I was careful about how I spoke to Hamyr and Vorus and what I instructed each of them to say—he’ll never suspect she’s our prisoner. If the regent finds out and sends his own messengers over there to tattle and win favor, I’ll say it’s one of his twisted tales created to undermine my claim to the throne.”
“King Rylle can smell a lie,” Roan mutters grimly, nudging his horse with his knees and directing it along the cobblestone path back to the castle.
It’s a well-known rumor, though I’ve never been able to confirm if he’s just a very intelligent male who sees through the games and simpering of his court or if his magic can truly detect deception. It would be very useful to know for certain, but so far I’ve failed to confirm it.
Roan follows my lead as I direct us back to the castle, Nightspark snorting and sniffling at the soldiers we pass. I keep a tight rein to stop him from biting any of them and run a hand over his withers to try to calm his temper, but it only inflames him further. He’s a willful creature, and his obedience to me doesn’t change his true nature. I respect that about him, and I stroke his neck until he forgives me.
“Neither the official messenger or the scout is going to lie. Everyone knows about the war here, and Kharl’s treason. The witch has been detained, but she hasn't been harmed. None of that is a lie, and the Northern Lands will know it. If anything, we might finally receive aid and provisions. If the Sol King sides with us, then the other kingdoms will answer my requests, and we might even coax some dragons over here to clear out the Witches Ward in one swoop.”
It’s a hollow hope, and we both know it. King Hex of the Dragon Lands has his own problems to deal with, and none of his dragonriders will journey here without his permission.
Roan shrugs, steering his own horse away from Nightspark when my mount’s teeth snap a little too close for comfort. “They all think that we're a frozen wasteland, on our last legs before death. Why should they care if the witches win? Unless they suspect Kharl will turn his sights on their kingdom next…then they might act. Though you should put some thought into King Hex and the Dragon Lands. If his son is leading a revolt, we’ll need to choose a side and hope it wins. If he’s dethroned and we have his son’s favor, we may find the Dragonriders coming to our aid.”
I smirk and nod, an image forming in my mind of a battlefield full of raving, lunatic witches being burned to ashes by one of those giant beasts. It’s a fantasy to me, an incredible magical image that I will no doubt dream about for many days to come.
A sobering thought overtakes me. “How is Airlie?”
Roan shoots me a bleak look. Airlie will never give me a straight answer on how she's feeling or the health of the baby, and so it’s easier to ask her fretting husband instead. Roan doesn't sugarcoat anything. Nothing passes his lips but the cold and blunt truth.
“She's tired. Far more tired with this one than she was the last, and your uncle leaving Sari behind here for afunlittlevisitisn’t helping matters.”
I grimace at the reminder of Sari’s presence in the castle, a strategic move by the regent that complicates things for me in the worst ways. We left Sari wandering through the castle and complaining about the furnishings when we came out here, and Airlie cursed us both to the ends of the kingdom and back for it.
Roan’s expression shutters. “Airlie is struggling more than she’ll ever admit. I’ve already told her we're not doing this again. I don't know how she convinced me this time.”
Airlie could convince Roan to cut off his own legs if she tried hard enough. Thankfully, she adores her husband too much to maim him in such a way.
I keep that observation to myself. This subject isn't one to make light of, and we’ve all begun preparing ourselves for what's to happen in the coming weeks. Their last hope has been scattered to the wind, thanks to the arrival of my mate and her identity. An apology sits at the edge of my lips, but I can't quite get it out, the taste of it bitter on my tongue.
Roan and I have been friends since we were nothing more than faelings, spending the long winter months together in the frozen south and training to become soldiers after my parents’ death. He was my rock in the storm during those years, and even when we were separated thanks to the regent’s campaign against Roan’s family and parentage, it didn’t weaken our friendship.
He can read me as easily as a Seer perceives the Fates spread out before them. “There's nothing to be sorry for, Soren. The Fates are cruel and fickle no matter the circumstances. We knew it was a slim chance, but Airlie still wanted to try. This will be our last attempt.”
His voice is firm, an argument he’s clearly had with his wife and not one he intends to back down from. Roan’s mild temper is deceptive to some, but that tone is the truth of him. When he’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it. It’s why his acceptance of my fate and the witch when we first got back tore at my ego so badly—because hearing him call out my vicious response as useless and a waste of time was the brutal truth.
We all knew it.
Nudging Nightspark forward as I assess the devastation and the state of Yregar and my people, it’s hard not to fall deeper into despair. The village is bursting at the seams, an endless supply of refugees arriving daily as they’re displaced by the war. The crowds of homeless part-blood and lower fae have become ever more restless as the days pass and the rations tighten. We’re building more houses and community spaces for them, but there’s no way to overcome the lack of provisions. We’re building shelters for people we can't feed.
The small boy who clung to me during the temple riot was cleaned up at the castle by the maids, but our search for a parent or a guardian was fruitless, the child abandoned or orphaned by the war. Firna has taken him under her wing, and when Tauron suggested bringing him to the orphanage to see if a bed was available for him, she scowled and told him to leave Sonny to her. It’s not his name, but he’s yet to speak to give us one, and Firna’s nickname has stuck.
Each day when I check in with the keeper about provisions, I hear his giggles and a maid or two chasing after him as he runs wild, a welcome ray of glee in a bleak situation.
My family has a lot of gold, enough money to buy provisions from another kingdom for centuries to come, and yet I can't secure a trading route to bring in imported goods. Every last one of the connections I’ve tried to forge has failed, just as I am failing my people.
It's a sobering situation.
My thoughts stray even further into the maelstrom of our lives and those who have chosen our side, for better or worse. “Has Airlie spoken to her mother?”
Roan scoffs, his hands tightening on the reins as he attempts to control his anger. “If by ‘spoken’ you mean endured Aura’s fussing even though she’d rather face off with a writhing banshee, then sure. She has alotof opinions about this pregnancy, and none of them are helpful or her place to share. Airlie thinks Aura is trying to manipulate her into leaving Yregar before she gives birth, but we’re not going anywhere.”
We share a knowing look.
