As I reach him, another spray of arrows hurtles down on us, and I lift my shield just in time to cover my head and Roan's as the soldier holding him braces for impact. The moment he sees my protection, he reaches over to snap the arrows embedded in Roan, leaving the shafts in Roan’s chest for the ride home.
I don't know the soldier’s name, but he's efficient, moving his prince from his horse to mine and quickly wrapping a leather strap around his waist. He pauses only to kick at a rogue witch who makes it through the protective line of soldiers, putting the raving man to the ground and striking him with the base of his shield until blood pours from the wound.
I loop the leather strap around my own waist and tie it off once I’m sure Roan is secure.
There’s another loud curse behind us, and Tauron barks out new orders, “Find the archers and kill them, for Fates-fucking-sake!”
The Outland soldier looks up until he finds the row of witches standing at the peak of the hill above us, bunkers dug out of the snow where they've lain in wait. He drops his shield and pulls his own bow from the back of his horse, then begins to fire arrow after arrow.
Other soldiers surrounding us do the same, trusting the rest of the army to protect them from the ground cover as they begin to pick off the archers above. Roan's breathing is haggard, his blood flowing steadily. I feel its warmth on my back in the few exposed areas not covered by the iron plates.
I meet Tauron’s eyes, but he's already nodding, barking out more orders as he moves the soldiers around us. Kicking Nightspark forward, I spear through the mounds of the dead before us as I work toward the mountain and safety. The Outland soldier moves with me, putting down his bow and grabbing his shield as he follows.
When we break away from the melee, the soldier kicks his horse to take the lead. As he carves a new path through the snow, I glance over my shoulder and find the archers dead and the last real threat of the battle dealt with, nothing more to do but clean up the waves below.
I send a silent prayer to the Fates, and then I push Nightspark into a gallop, snow and ice be damned, as I trust the beast to keep his footing. The Outland soldier rides alongside me at the same speed, his own horse more practiced in the icy conditions. Even pushing the horses to their very limits, we're still hours away from Yregar, and the blood dripping down my back doesn't bode well.
As we ride closer to the edges of the Outlands, we find more signs of the witches, and the Outland soldier shoots a few strays running from the battle, picking them off even as his horse gallops beneath him with ease. Whoever this soldier is, I’d like to keep him amongst my own forces for such skill and loyalty to his prince.
I glance down and find the thigh of my riding leathers stained with blood, the silver of my chain mail now ruby red and, with a curse, I begin to pray to the Fates once more. I promise them endless submission if Roan survives this ride home, that I’ll marry the witch and become the King of the Southern Lands.
I’ll do it all if she's able to save Roan's life with no supplies, no tinctures, no herbs, nothing that the healers of old used, nothing but her bare hands. It’s an impossible task; even someone as uneducated in such things as I am knows it, but I promise the Fates I’ll follow through with their desires if they save Roan’s life even with her at my side.
If the witch can break a kingdom-wide curse, surely she can fix a few simple arrows to the chest.
The soldiers at the outer wall of Yregar see us coming and shout to open the gates so we aren't forced to slow down. Word carries down the walls faster than our horses race, and the inner gates open before we reach them as well, the entire castle at attention and waiting for us as we clatter into the stables.
I pull Nightspark to a halt, the crowd waiting for us staring on in shock at Roan’s slumped form as his blood drips to the cobblestones beneath us. The Outland soldier jumps down from his horse and loosens the strap securing Roan as he barks at the others to help.
“Where is the witch?” I yell as I flick the leather strap from around my chest and push myself up in my saddle to give them access to get a secure hold of Roan.
One of the soldiers on the stairs calls out to answer me. “The healer’s chambers, Your Highness. She's been guarded down there while she fixes the princess’s teas on Firna’s orders.”
The moment they lift Roan from my back, I look down to see the deathlike pallor of his skin, pale and lifeless as his lips begin to turn blue, his breath rattling in his chest. I take up his legs as I help the Outland soldier carry him, barking orders for doors to be opened and people to get out of the way as we move toward the healer’s chambers. A maid scurries ahead of us to warn the witch of our arrival, her shoes echoing on the marble floors.
At the last moment I turn back and snap, “No one tells the princess about this, not a word or it’s your death.”
If anyone is to tell my cousin of her husband's death, it’ll be me. Not a maid or soldier gossiping within her hearing—I’ll be the one to look her in the eyes and explain that I failed her.
I feel my command travel through the castle, the entire staff dropping their gazes from Roan’s prone form as we pass. When we arrive at the healer's chambers, the witch is waiting for us, tying an apron over her dress with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and supplies already waiting. Two soldiers take up guard at the door to watch over her and a maid stands at her side, her head bowed but ready to take direction as the witch's mouth firms into a line.
“What in the Fates—how much blood has he lost? How far did you ride with him in this condition?”
The Outland soldier startles at the sight of her, looking over at me as though he hadn't heard me demand the witch. Even as he grimaces, he steps back and watches as she begins to strip away Roan’s armor. Her fingers are practiced as the plates of leather-bound iron drop to the floor, and she pulls his shirt away from his chest and sucks in a breath at the sight of the snapped-off arrows still lodged in the flesh. Purpling veins extend from the skin surrounding the wounds, the area already inflamed and weeping.
“Poison,” I say, and she nods, her hand hovering over his chest for a moment as she takes in the injuries.
She glances at me for the briefest of moments before gesturing a hand at his legs. “Hold him down. This is going to hurt.”
Her eyes begin to glow, the silver coming alive with power, and every high fae in the room tenses as we ready for her attack. Her hand hovers by the arrows, and a purple-black liquid begins to bleed from around the punctures, the poison drawn out by the witch.
Her magic presses around his body as visible to me as the blood itself in its white glow, a sight that freezes the blood in my own veins as I fight my reaction to it. Though the tug of the Fates is still insistent in my chest at her presence, centuries of violence and war have primed my reflexes for my own survival and a cold drop of sweat rolls down my spine. Every muscle, nerve, and sinew is pulled taut to stop myself from shoving her away from Roan and drawing my sword, the pull between us both and my skepticism warring in my mind until my teeth groan under the immense pressure of my clenched jaw.
The witch moves back to the fire, unaware of the battle being fought within me, and picks out a small knife from the pot of boiled water. As she lays the blade on the cloths to cool, the magic around Roan never wavers as she holds his life in her competent care, his chest still rising and falling as his breath rattles out of his lungs.
The Outland soldier steps forward once more, murmuring to me low enough that she won’t hear, “Your Highness, are we sure this is safe? Can we trust one of them to help him?”
I meet his eye. “Tell me your name, soldier.”
