“My fate is Prince Soren. He is my mate, given to me by the Fates themselves, and our union will end the war. I have no option but to stay with them.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Soren
There’s nothing that we can do as the witch charms the Goblin King, speaking to him in the goblin tongue while the translator remains silent at his side. She continues to bow to him and smile, the picture of a gracious guest on his land. He doesn’t look away from her as she speaks confidently, never slipping on the harsh and monosyllabic language. His eyes hold more respect in them now than they ever have for me.
Tauron and the soldiers shift on their feet, desperate to put an end to this, but I wait it out. We’re not here to stroke my ego or force loyalty from this man, we’re here because there’s no other option. The rows of soldiers might look fearsome, but I’m confident enough to know I’m not in danger here, not the lasting kind anyway.
When the translator finally looks up at the Goblin King, he nods to her, speaking one last time to the witch alone. She startles and then clasps a hand into a fist, pressing it over her heart in a mark of respect to the Fates as she bows one last time.
The translator calls out to us, “The Goblin King has decided to allow a trading route through his lands to the Western Fyres but only under his conditions.”
My breath freezes in my chest and my limbs slowly numb out, but I don't let it show on my face.
I meet the Goblin King’s eyes as I reply, “And what are these conditions he demands?”
The Goblin King answers, the translator speaking for him, “The supplies must be only provisions as you have claimed them to be. The high fae who make the trip must follow the exact route the Goblin King chooses. You will have only three trades between now and the winter solstice. The Goblin King will meet with you again then to discuss if he wishes to keep the routes open and what compensation he should receive for allowing your people onto his land.”
Three trades.
It’s going to take a huge amount of planning and negotiation to get enough food through the goblin lands to feed all of those under my care. I was hoping for a constant stream of supplies, far easier to recover from raiding witches if there’s more to come soon, but it's still a better deal than I thought we were going to be forced to agree to. Meeting with the goblins again, even hosting them at Yregar, is the lesser of many evils.
I nod once, a sharp jerk of my head, and the Goblin King does the same in return, without a word spoken between us. It’s customary for the high fae to clasp palms to seal an agreement, but neither of us moves toward the other. There are too many years of animosity between the goblins and the high fae for that.
Finally, a slow smirk stretches across his lips as he ducks down to speak to the translator once more. His eyes flick to the witch as he speaks to her again, and she startles at my side, sending a long look in my direction.
When she replies to him, apprehension colors her tone and the words drag out of her as though by force.
I look at the translator, my eyebrows raised, and she also smiles back at me. “The Goblin King sends his congratulations to you for finding your mate and honoring the Fates by walking the path they have chosen for you. He has offered such congratulations to the honorable Rookesbane, as well. He looks forward to seeing you both again at the winter solstice to join you for your nuptials—he assumes you’ll be marrying in line with Unseelie law.”
My skin crawls at the very idea, but it's clear that the Goblin King has taken a very specific liking to my Fates-cursed mate, his eyes sharp as they watch my reaction, and I nod sharply to her as though signing my own death contract. “I look forward to meeting with him again then and discussing renewed terms to our agreement. I’ll leave behind Darick to make the journey to the Western Fyres.”
The Goblin King nods as the translator relays this to him, murmuring something back to her before turning on his heel and leaving, barking orders to his soldiers over his shoulder without a glance in their direction.
The translator smiles at the witch before she turns to me, face impassive once more. “The Goblin King says well met. He looks forward to seeing you again.”
She turns to follow him back into the tower, but the rows of goblin soldiers stay where they are, facing us, as unblinking and unmoving as a wall. We have no choice but to mount our horses and turn our backs on them.
I despise showing my back to my enemy, but I ride out without another word, eager to return to Yregar through the fae door.
As instructed, Darick rides with us for two hundred paces and then veers off to the west, with nothing more than a respectful dip of his chin in my direction. Following my orders, he begins his journey to finish the negotiations with the Western Fyres, the lives of our people resting on his shoulders.
The witch doesn't speak a word as we ride back through the living territory and past the fae flowers, an echo of the beauty our kingdom once held.
She doesn't attempt to harvest any of the other plants that catch her notice, her gaze tracing over them all, but when we finally approach the patch of milk thistle she spotted on the ride in, she pulls her horse up short and dismounts to begin picking bushels of it.
Tauron swings from his horse as well, grabbing the reins of Northern Star. The sneer on his face has lifted, nothing but a calculating sort of curiosity left behind as he watches her work.
She doesn't simply tear the plant out of the ground or break off the stems.
Instead, she murmurs quietly under her breath in the old language, a reverent thanks to the Fates for providing exactly what Airlie and the baby need in such abundance, for leading her to it and giving her the skills to find it. She prays to the Fates that the plant will do exactly as it needs to, that the baby will grow and prosper, that he’ll be safe and healthy and loved, and Airlie will flourish alongside him.
I feel the magic in the air, the way that she wraps these healing words around the plants to preserve them as she takes a bountiful harvest with such care.
There’s a calm sort of confidence in her as she moves about the task, the exact sort of healer you’d want to tend to your wounds. Dark wisps of hair fall in curls around her face, her lashes dark as they fan out over her sun-kissed cheeks, every inch of her serene as her hands move swiftly in her harvest. Though I’m struck by the sight of her all cleaned up, her demeanor hasn’t changed. She’s been far too calm about her treatment at our hands, too confident in her own path, and my suspicions grow stronger.
There’s more to her fate than she’s telling me.
