CHAPTERTWENTY
Soren
Tauron stays with Airlie all night, watching over her as she sleeps, despite her protests, but there’s no sign of labor. Other than the baby bouncing on her bladder and her scathing attitude about Tauron’s offers to help her to the bathroom, the night is uneventful. When I stopped in to check on them both in the morning, Airlie looked in the best health she’s been in for months, with more color in her cheeks and her ankles back to a reasonable size.
As I expected, the witch’s words were an attempt to goad me into letting her out of the cell with promises of her experience as a healer. She's far more patient than I would’ve guessed, more than I thought a witch could be. My perception of their race as a whole may be skewed by the manic soldiers I’ve been facing on the battlefields, and this is a good reminder that they aren’t all like that.
The handful of witches I met in my early faeling days before the war started were more like my Fates-cursed mate in temperament. Calm, reasonable, and with a quiet power in the way that they held themselves. The few who lived at Yris in my father’s household were deeply respected and well-versed in the healing arts, the skills that their people usually traded with the high fae. I’d almost forgotten that it was possible to speak to them, to understand them, and, worse of all, to be fooled by their calm and passive demeanors.
A monster lies beneath my witch mate’s skin.
It hides itself well in her smooth movements and long, unblinking stares, but I can see it. With the right pressures, I’ve provoked a fiery anger out of her, and I found the monster within staring back at me. The moment I show her weakness, bare my throat for even a moment, she’ll go in for the kill.
After sending out orders for a small group of soldiers to prepare to ride out, I sent a maid to collect Sari for her journey home today. We’ll be traveling through the fae door to get her home to Yris Castle, a full day to ride there and back even with the help of the old magic. I wouldn’t be so worried if it weren’t for the witch’s trick, Airlie’s health at the forefront of my mind.
I would put off the trip if Sari hadn’t become such a taxing guest, snooping around the castle with her guard at her heels.
I ready myself for the day and check in on Airlie one final time to be sure she’s safe. Once she’s cursed me and my meddling ways thoroughly, and I'm assured that she’s in perfect health, I go to my reception room to meet with Tyton and the two messengers who arrived at the castle in the early hours of the morning only minutes apart, their messages important enough to delay our journey until I've heard what they have to say.
I’ll push the escort group hard on the ride home to make up for it.
Fyr bows deeply to me as he steps forward, and nods his head at Tyton, who stands at my shoulder as well, before he reports in.
“The witches and rogue goblins arrived at Fates Mark, but thanks to the fae door, Prince Roan beat them there. He was able to defeat the witches and meet with his father. The Outland forces have secured the borders once more, and Prince Roan is confident he will be returning to Yregar shortly. The Outland soldiers found more witches about to travel into the Goblin Lands, but they fled to the Brindlewyrd Forest when Prince Roan arrived to deal with them himself. They’ve set up camp in the temple at Loche Mountain, but Prince Roan has stayed within the Outlands for now, sending scouts to monitor them instead.”
Roan knows better than anyone that our kingdom is infested with raving witches, striking us at every opportunity, and if we can keep the scouts there to track their movements, we have a better chance at cutting off their attacks before we lose more innocent lives.
The temple at Loche Mountain was ransacked the night they murdered the Seer there centuries ago, killing her for whatever future she was instructed by the Fates to speak. Though the words were never her own, Kharl killed her for them just the same. To insult the Fates by brutalizing and murdering one of their vessels is unthinkable, and it’s more glaring evidence of the madness that Kharl has dragged his entire race into.
We’ve given up trying to eradicate the witches from the forest.
It makes the journey to Fates Mark and the Goblin Lands fraught with danger, ambushes possible at every ledge and cliff. Roan spent most of his formative years in the area and can usually travel through unscathed, but larger groups need to be heavily armed and constantly guarded to have a chance of getting through.
The Goblin King has never called for aid.
I nod to Fyr and dismiss him, waiting until he’s ducked out of my rooms before I turn to Darick, the other messenger. Tyton raises a hand to put up a sound barrier, covering us so we can discuss the more complicated and sensitive mission he’d been sent on without any prying ears picking up on the details.
The fact that Darick has arrived back to me alive and in one piece, still of sound mind, is a good sign. I’d begun to worry I’d sent him to his death. He's been home long enough to wash up, though the smell of his horse still clings to his clothes and fills the room. It doesn't offend me, in fact, his urgency is the reason I sent him in the first place.
“I made it across the border and a full day's ride into the Goblin Lands before the soldiers picked me up. They held me captive for a few days before we got a translator to pass on your message and get an answer. The Goblin King has agreed to speak with you and only you. He will kill any representatives sent in your stead and consider it a grave insult.”
If I were king, that would be a treasonous threat. As the heir, it rides the line, but I’d have to get the Unseelie Court to agree with me to do anything about it.
Opening the trading route is more important than having his respect right now.
I exhale deeply, glancing at Tyton before I nod at Darick once more. “You did good work. Go down to the kitchens and get some breakfast before you hit the bunks. You've made your parents proud.”
I’m expecting him to grin and duck his head like he always does, praise being his favorite reward, but instead he looks at me with a grimace on his face and shifts uneasily on his feet.
“When I was riding back through the Shard, I came across some of the regent’s guards. They were transporting prisoners…livewitches.”
I scowl, my eyes flicking down to the map laid out before me. I know every inch of my kingdom like the back of my hand—every inch except the Goblin Lands, which are impossible to enter without express permission and the guidance of the Goblin King himself. The Shard is a mountain range that lies directly between Yregar and Fates Mark, the gateway to the Outlands, where the snow never stops and the icy wasteland is deadly to any who attempt to cross it without a knowledgeable guide.
“Why did you go through the Shard in the first place?”
Darick wrings his hands. “A band of witches came out of the Brindlewyrd. They caught my trail on the way back from the Goblin Lands and followed me for miles. I knew I couldn’t fight them off by myself, and so I rode into the Shard, knowing they weren’t likely to follow me.”
It was a smart plan, one that probably saved his life. With cliffs made of ice and razor-sharp rocks, the formations in the Shard change throughout the year, thanks to the unpredictable weather in the Southern Lands, and it makes navigating them almost impossible. Still, I’m surprised Darick chose to ride through the treacherous mountains. There are a few places in the kingdom he chooses to avoid, and the Shard is one of them.
