Silence falls over us once more, only the sounds of our shoes against the stone to be heard.
I mull this over. The choice of rulers for the Southern Lands is a regent who happily wines and dines as his people starve and a prince who gives away food for free but has a terrible temper and a scarred face, a drawback for the vacuous Unseelie Court who don’t value the story it tells of a future king who fought on the front lines of the war for his kingdom. It seems like a no brainer to me, but the Unseelie Court is incredibly stupid.
That's nothing I didn't already know.
When we reach the cell I find a chair waiting in it for me. Nothing fancy or comfortable, just simple wood carved into a makeshift seat.
“The princess had that put in there. She doesn't want you getting dirty again, in case the Unseelie Court comes back. Now that they know what you are, you're not to shame the prince any further. You should thank the princess for her kindness,” the soldier says. He slides the door shut again, his voice formal and practiced.
The sound of the lock slipping into place ricochets through the cell as loud as cannon fire.
I don't feel even the tiniest bit of gratitude within myself. I feel nothing but spite and an awful tenderness in my toes, knowing that, as the negotiations for my marriage begin, the only opinion not being taken into account is my own.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Soren
I wait in the kitchens for Tyton to take over from watching the witch for me and then flee back to my reception room to bury myself in my work there until the shame curling in my gut dissipates.
I couldn’t stand being in her presence any longer, the grime scrubbed away from her skin and the beauty of her that had struck me dumb at Port Asmyr once again unavoidable. It was easier to convince myself that the pull I felt towards her was nothing but the Fates when she was dirty but not even the silver flash of her eyes could cool the fire now raging within me, fury and longing stoking higher with every second with her walking behind me.
At my command Sari stays in her rooms for as long as it takes me to walk the witch to the dungeon before she sneaks down to the riverside wing to meet with the lords and ladies who live at Yregar under my protection, the maids and servants quick to report her movements to me.
Tauron and the soldiers don’t return from Mirfield. There’s no word from them even as the smoke dissipates from the horizon. Hundreds of fae folk are dead or need to be accounted for, so it’s not concerning.
Yet.
The next morning, Sari appears in my reception room at dawn with another bright smile and a determination that won’t be swayed. She insists on shadowing me for hours, wandering with me through the castle and the grounds and making all sorts of sad sounds about the state of things. Her guard grows more and more tense as the day goes on and my answers stay vague and banal, neither of them getting any sign from me about my true state of mind.
When Tyton finally comes and collects our cousin with the excuse of wanting to see her new pony, leaving Corym in his stead with the witch, I’m ready to throw myself into a writhing pit of witches with nothing but my practice sword just to get out of the never-ending spiral of questions and comments.
Why aren’t you growing any begonias, cousin? They’re my favorite.
The ground doesn’t just die, Soren, get the gardeners to fix it.
Your guards are patrolling too much, it spoils the quiet of the garden. How are we supposed to enjoy our walks if they’re marching about covered in weapons? Ghastly.
She scowls at Tyton for interrupting us, but he reaches out and tugs on one of her perfect blond curls, an echo of their shared childhood of long ago, before we’d seen the pain and horror of war. When her scowl transforms into a pretty grin, Tyton's face clears in return.
I make it back to my chambers only to find Firna waiting for me with a long list of problems in the kitchens that I have no solutions for. When she sees the look on my face, she merely nods and says, “We’re doomed if there isn’t swift action soon, Your Highness.”
She’s the only servant in my household who would ever speak to me so plainly, but as my mother’s most trusted maid who then became my nursemaid, nanny, and then the Keeper of Yregar, she’s as close to family as any non-royal can come. If she says we’re in trouble, then we need action, now. I can’t wait until the winter solstice. Yregar and all who live within our walls will starve long before then.
I must go to see the Goblin King myself.
I meet Firna’s eye over my desk. “Roan will be home in a week, maybe two. Once he’s back with Airlie, I’ll do whatever is necessary to open a trade route.”
Fiona bows her head at me, respectful but no-nonsense to her very core. “I also need to talk to you about the witch.”
The pressure building inside me leaves my bones feeling restless and frenetic, but I force myself to sit still. “What about her?”
Firna’s mouth turns down at my sharp tone, but she speaks through her discomfort. “There’s too much talk in the castle about her. If she’s the mate the Fates have given you, and you intend on marrying her, you need to get her out of the dungeon. Not for her own good—the witches made their choices, and they can suffer the consequences—but for you. You’re the rightful heir, and you can’t let your fate with that female tarnish your reputation.”
She doesn’t voice the true ending of that sentence—more than your uncle already has.
Those words hang in the air around us just as heavy as the ones she did speak. There’s no need to play games with this female to attempt to save face; she’s known me longer than any other. She held my mother’s hand in the birthing room and supported her through my earliest days. If she’s saying this to me, there’s no denying the truth.
I give her a curt nod. “I will make some changes.”
