There's never been a day that Aura has considered anyone's actions to be about anything but herself, and she’s been trying to drive a wedge between Airlie and Roan since the day the Fates put them together. Finding a way around the obvious demands of a fate is a dangerous endeavor, but others have done it. There are marriages within the Unseelie Court that are in name only. The unions were consummated and, until the curse put a stop to it, produced an heir before the mates chose to live separately. This was the path Aura tried to push on Airlie.
She wants her daughter home.
She's shallow, a female who wants nothing more than a pretty daughter to make her look better, hollow and shell-like so that she doesn't have to contend with a strong mind. Add to the mix that Airlie has one of the smartest and most keen minds I've ever known. It must have been torture for Aura to raise such an independent and beautiful child, knowing that she was going to eclipse her in every way possible.
I have no sympathy for my aunt and very little love.
The only positive I can find about her is that she's loyal to the true crown, standing up for me and my lineage as vehemently as she would if I were her own child, and it’s enough for me to excuse almost anything my aunt can throw at us. She prefers the regent’s lavish lifestyle and pandering over my own reputation and lack of concern for it, but she's a purist regarding the Celestial bloodline, through and through. Probably because she believes that any weakening of my claim to the throne might affect her own status, but it keeps her loyal all the same.
We need every last supporter we can find in this war.
The longer the silence stretches between us, the darker the cloud around Roan becomes. He frowns and rubs a hand over his chest as we continue on.
“What's wrong? Do you sense something?”
He glances at me and then sighs, his eyebrows drawing down tight. “Some of the regent’s guards were overheard talking about traveling into the Outlands. I think the regent is going to try to intimidate my father again, and he hasn't beenwellsince Mother passed.”
Roan isn’t talking about his father’s health, but his state of mind and the obsessive bloodlust he’s poured into the soldiers at his command to avenge his wife’s tragic death. The Prince of Snowsong holds the Outlands, the southernmost region of the kingdom, and lives in their ancestral castle, Fates Mark. The coldest territory in the Southern Lands, the Outlands always has snow, even in the height of summer, and though that deters many of the high fae from traveling there, it’s one of the most beautiful places in my kingdom.
Fates Mark is carved into the peak of a mountain, marble and stone fused together with magic into a stunning display of the First Fae’s power. It’s breathtaking to behold, and even more wondrous within. The Snowsong bloodline has lived and guarded the area since the high fae came to these lands, and there’s a deep pride in Roan to hold his title and be the next caretaker of the Outlands and his people there.
Fates Mark and the Outlands are now more heavily guarded than the Goblin Lands, but not always with the best tactics. Roan’s father is reckless in his grief, and the regent knows it. He’s exploited the weakness before.
Roan nudges his horse closer to mine, as close as Nightspark will allow, and murmurs even more quietly despite using the old language to conceal our conversation, “We guarded the castle and the witch too well for your uncle to kill her—this is his retaliation. If anything happens to my father, it will force Airlie and I to return to Fates Mark. Any of our circle leaving your side is a risk to you right now, Soren, and the regent is going to do his best to cut you off from the protections you hold. There areveryfew things that could force me to leave you exposed like that. My father is one of them.”
I nod slightly. “I’ll send soldiers tomorrow. We won’t leave him vulnerable. No matter what, we will get through this together, like we always have. Your father will be safe—I'll make sure of it.”
* * *
Stepping back into the castle, I scowl as the maids and servants who bustle through the hallways to clean up in the wake of the Unseelie Court’s visit to Yregar. It was a colossal waste of food and time, and my temper flares until the entire castle is ducking their heads and running at the sight of me. The leftover food was taken to the villagers at first light, but the foods that are expected to be served to the court are wasteful and exorbitant and use up more ingredients than necessary, because the court is so fussy and eager to look as though they have a refined palate.
Our stores could have lasted until midwinter but, after a single night of enduring the court, we’ll be lucky to make it through the end of summer. My sword hand begins to itch, a slow fire building in my veins as the fury builds inside of me, futile but unavoidable. And so it will go until the Unseelie Court wants to admit to themselves and each other that we’re in dire straits, or I take the throne and force them to face reality.
Whichever comes first.
The only way forward is my marriage, thanks to the split within the royal families. Though shocking and a hot topic for the gossipmongers, the witch being revealed as my mate isn’t going to change the decision of the court, and the stalemate of the court will hold. The reactions last night told me everything I needed to know, and the regent’s display succeeded only in making the divide between the families wider.
Only two votes to overturn the Unseelie law that requires me to be married to take the throne are unaccounted for, but there’s no use attempting to sway them. The Goblin King holds one, but he’s never cast a vote, nor his father before him. He won't side with either of us, not really, and my best guess is that, if we force his hand, he’ll back whoever he thinks he has the best chance of winning a war against. Someday, that male is going to break the treaty and take sovereignty of the Goblin Lands for the goblins.
I’ve had very few dealings with the Goblin King, an impudent male who can’t even speak the common tongue. A few short weeks after my parents’ murder, he came to Yregar, offering condolences as his excuse, but he was sizing me up. I was barely more than a child, pathetic in his eyes, I’m sure, and he left after a single interaction, never even dismounting from his horse. My strongest memory of him is of the disdain he had for me, which transcended the interpreter he spoke through.
He's known to kill indiscriminately if you should trespass on his land, and the justice within his own court is said to be equally brutal. When the Sol King sent out his declaration of open borders, after witches, exiled goblins made up the highest number of migrants to the Northern Lands. I once questioned the king about his feelings on the matter, and he gave me a measured look before simply replying, “They’re no longer my people. Let the Sol King use them as bait for his monsters of the Fates' anger.”
That sort of callous attitude is exactly why I've watched him for years. My father had warned me, even as a child with the many tales of my grandfather’s battles in the civil war that had ravaged our kingdom for many centuries, that the Goblin King is a knife in the dark, waiting for my back to be turned to strike. He’s as dangerous to me as the regent, and to forget that is to sign my own death warrant.
The Seer holds the other vote, a mark of respect to the Fates, and even before she fled to the Northern Lands she had never cast a vote, instead holding her neutrality in her own form of respect.
I want nothing more than to return to the training barracks and spend the day working through some of this frustration with my sword, but there's no chance of doing that without sacrificing the good of the household. Instead, I try not to take out my vicious mood on everyone around us as I go through the everyday dealings of being the head of a royal household. There are dozens of issues and concerns at Yregar, and though many are beyond my current capabilities to address, I’ll hear about them all and resolve what I can.
Tauron and Tyton are still sharing guard shifts over the witch, in case my uncle has left a spy here to kill her. When they made up a plate of the banquet leftovers for her, intent on ensuring nothing was wasted, the food was tested and tasted before the plate was slid across the filthy cell floor to her.
Tyton has been the most successful in getting information out of her. Something about his magic calls to her; she watches him a little too keenly for my liking, and I've spoken to Tauron about keeping her away from his brother. The acts of magic that witches are capable of are horrific. The curse to stop high-fae babies from being born alive is only one of their many magical assaults, and there isn’t a high-fae soldier under my command who doesn’t know of the death curse that took Yrmar from us. I don’t know for certain that it’s even possible, but if the witch finds a way to take Tyton’s magic and use it to get herself out of the dungeons, I’ll never forgive myself.
Although Tauron would destroy her before I had the chance.
Within a week of the Unseelie Court departing, a messenger arrives in the early hours before dawn, the air wet with dew from the mists that linger over the dead fields surrounding Yregar.
I’m awake before his arrival, sleep slipping through my fingers like sand most nights, and I meet Fyr in my reception room. As the entry room of my chambers, it holds my desk and chairs but nothing else, and two soldiers guard the doors at all times to ensure no one enters the small sanctuary I call my own. My chambers aren’t the opulent extravagance of the heir’s suite at Yris, but they’re more than enough for me.
