Her eyebrows furrow. “How will they change? Do you know why the kingdom is withering, and do you know how to bring it back to life?”
The guards at the inner wall bow at our approach and open the iron gates to let us through to the village. Night might have fallen around us, but the streets are still bustling, littered with the survivors of witch attacks who don't yet have lodgings as they move at my soldiers instructions. It’s cold out—the Southern Lands always are at night—and they’re eager to get out of the chill.
I’d taken to opening the Grand Hall and letting them sleep in there, warm and safe for the night with the soldiers looking over them all. With the birth of the baby, I instructed Tyton to keep the castle doors closed for now and to open the temple instead. We try to keep the sacred space free for worship and for giving out the rations, but it’s the only other building large enough to house the displaced fae folk who’ve found their way to Yregar.
“When I'm king, I’ll have control of the entire Unseelie high-fae army, and I’ll lead the attack to end the war, to kill Kharl, his generals, and every last witch who fights for them. Without their magic decaying the kingdom, it will recover, and the fields will prosper once more. We’ll be able to fix the original trading route and leave the goblins to their own devices once more. When I'm king, I’ll restore the lands to the glory of my father's reign.”
Even in the darkness of the village I can see the flash of silver as her eyes pick me over, unblinking as she weighs up my words. I see the internal battle warring within her, the way she fights with her own best intentions over her answer.
Ultimately losing, she says, “The lands aren't dying because the witches are poisoning them. The lands are dying because no one is caring for them anymore.”
An easy fix. “When the witches are dead and gone, I’ll move the villagers back to the plains. The farmers will feel safe tending to the land once more and everything will be right again.”
She lets out a long breath and shakes her head, as though dealing with an unruly child, ignoring the warning growl that Tauron lets out at her disrespectful attitude toward me.
“Farmers don't care for the land, they cultivate it. Theytakefrom it. What do the high fae do at the equinoxes and solstices? I didn't see any celebrations or offerings for the summer when I arrived here. When do the high fae ever give back?”
I scowl at her, leading the group through to the stables and dismounting the moment we get there. I hand my reins off to Ingor and then take Northern Star’s reins from the witch, watching as she carefully dismounts and retrieves the leather satchel.
She opens it and carefully looks over her bounty, her eyes shrewd as she checks its quality, nodding to herself when she finds it suitable.
Tauron moves to take it, intent on leading her back through the castle, but I shake my head and wave him off. “I’ll take her. Go check in with Tyton and Airlie, make sure nothing happened while we were gone.”
He frowns, his eyes flicking down to the witch before he bows and leaves, taking two steps at a time in his haste. I dismiss the two soldiers as well, sending them to the barracks to clean up and prepare for their scheduled watch, before I lead the witch back through the castle.
When I veer away from Airlie’s rooms, she doesn't say a word, simply follows me down the long hallways and down a set of stairs until we reach a small workshop. The door is stiff as I pry at it, the hinges needing a good oiling, but once it swings open I gesture inside with a dismissive hand.
“This is the healer's quarters. You'll stay here from now on.”
Her eyebrows rise a little, but she steps into the room confidently.
There's a small bunk carved into the plain stone wall, the mattress old and dusty from many long centuries of disuse. The entire area needs a good scrubbing, but there are shelves and shelves of vials and jars, an old mortar and pestle sitting on a work table, as well as a washbasin and a small fireplace.
Cupboards line one of the walls, and as she steps into the room and places the leather satchel on the workbench, the witch stares at them. Wasting no time, she begins digging through the cupboards, humming under her breath in concentration until she pulls out a large bowl, a sharpened knife, and a brewing pot. There’s a determined set to her face, a stern expression that leaves no room for arguing.
Whatever her life was before her return, she’s not accustomed to being told no.
She glances at me, her tone firm and her instructions clear. “I need cleaning supplies. I can't brew the tincture with dirty tools, and I need ingredients to mask the bitter flavor, otherwise the princess will struggle to ingest it.”
I step out of the room and motion to one of the soldiers, ordering him to bring down a maid with cleaning supplies. Then I think better of it and call for Firna herself. There’s no one else I trust with this task.
When I step back into the room, the witch already has her sleeves rolled up and the washbasin filling with water, steam rising from it as she ducks back into the cupboards to rummage for more supplies. The hot springs under the castle heat the water naturally, and I often send my thanks to the First Fae for their foresight. Without magic, heating water for an entire castle and the village surrounding it would be a challenge, to say the least.
“Firna will bring you whatever you require for Airlie and the baby. She will also bring your food to you here, and you will instruct her on every part of the process for making the tincture so that she can give it to Airlie in your stead.”
She casts me a look and shakes her head slightly. “I’m going to watch over that baby for the next few weeks myself, just until we're sure he's growing as he should. That isn't for my own nefarious plans, or whatever other fantasies you have dreamed up in that mind of yours. I’m doing it so he lives. The curse might have brought him here early, but I won’t let it stop him from thriving.”
I nod and step out of the way as Firna arrives, arms full of cloth and soaps that she sets out on the large workbench without ceremony.
The keeper grimaces as she looks around the bleak room. “I’ll call the maids down to get this cleaned up.”
The witch shakes her head. “There's no need. I’ll do it myself. I need you to bring me some honey and any plain teas if you have them. Does Princess Airlie have any preferred tastes? A sweet tooth, perhaps?”
Firna nods. “She drinks a chamomile brew in the morning with her breakfast. I can bring it to you with the honey and some supper—it’s been days since you last ate, and you can’t waste away while we’re caring for them both.”
The witch places a hand over her stomach and looks down at the stones beneath us as though looking for the green earth we just passed on our journey. She’s a peculiar fae, unlike anyone I’ve ever met, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“Thank you, Firna,” she says, and the keeper nods, turning back to bow to me as she leaves the room with her busy work.
