“Reed Snowheart. I’m one of the elder Prince Roan's captains and I was helping Prince Roan return to his wife after the messenger arrived with the news. We were supposed to see him safely to the edge of the Outlands but made it only as far as the gully when we were snowed in, stuck there for a day and night. The weather wasn’t normal, as if by magic the blizzard appeared and stopped us from traveling. As the skies cleared, the witches descended upon us.”
His eyes flick toward Roan, and his mouth tightens. “I thought the prince would go mad, unable to move and waiting for them to strike. We could hear them coming.”
I grimace, nodding at the haunted look in his eyes. Being trapped like that is something no one understands unless they’ve experienced it for themselves, the way your heart pounds and your skin crawls with anticipation, dread filling your body and slowly taking away your ability to find reason. It’s a torture all on its own.
“We’d already killed the witches who attacked us at the base of Fates Mark. Prince Roan positioned more soldiers to secure the castle, and we couldn’t call for help without risking the castle. When you arrived, we’d been there for two days, snowed in and then fighting through. The worst of the foot soldiers were dealt with already, hundreds of the disgusting things, but then they called in the archers and we got pinned down.”
Three days in the snow, battling witches and hacking their way slowly toward us—it's a wonder any of them survived.
Reed’s eyes widen, and he straightens as the witch lifts the blade over Roan's chest, tensing as though he’s about to dive at her and rip it from her hands. I hold up a hand to stop him before I take hold of Roan’s ankles once more.
I've seen healers remove witches' arrows before, and it's not as simple as pulling the specially carved wood from the flesh. The shafts are lined with rows of barbs, designed to do the most damage to the target, and the only way to remove them is to cut them out.
The work requires a steady hand, one that can't be distracted by the suspicions of those around her, and when the realization finally hits Reed, he cringes, his forehead breaking out in sweat.
“What pain herbs can we give him? Is there anything in the castle that can help?”
He doesn’t address the witch, but there’s no need—she’s the only one in the room who can answer.
She doesn’t look up at us as she murmurs, “I’ve already sent the maid to check the stores, but I doubt there’s anything of use there. When you send your list of supplies to import from the Western Fyres, I suggest adding some plants to it. I can grow them here in the garden, and then I’ll be able to heal without foraging around the Goblin Lands for scraps.”
Her tone is flat and calm, but her words rake at my ego, already in shreds from Roan’s ordeal. “You speak as though you're moving in.”
With a sure hand, she begins to cut away the damaged skin at the entry point of the broken arrows. Roan's legs jerk beneath me, and a sigh of relief tears out of my chest. The color of his lips made me think he was dead, but even now his hue is better, closer to health. The pallor must’ve been a reaction to the poison, not the blood loss or organs hit by the two arrow shafts still embedded.
“I’ll go insane if you lock me in this room without something to do, and I suppose you've had more than enough raving witches in your time. I'll play out in the garden, grow some herbs, brew some tinctures, and tend to the injured. What harm could it do?”
Her fingers are careful as she eases the wood from his chest—gentle but firm. She has experience with such things, and a determination to do it right.
“What’s different? Only days ago you were pretending to be helpless and contained in the dungeon, and now you're dreaming up a future of digging around in a garden and healing people who would rather cut your hand off than be touched by it. Tell me what's changed.”
She drops the arrow on to the countertop next to her with annoyance etched in her features as she moves to the second arrow, cutting and easing. The pain must be unbearable, and yet Roan hasn't reacted beyond the initial jerk.
Icy tendrils work their way down my spine as I check to be sure he's still breathing, but even as she works, his chest rises and falls steadily.
“I needed the time to adjust. I wasn’t prepared for how bad things had gotten here in my absence, and I left one war only to travel home to another. I just needed to collect myself.”
It doesn't feel like a real answer, but it's the only one she gives as she tends to Roan's wounds and slowly pieces him back together as competently as she'd walked into his wife's bedroom and broken a centuries-old curse.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Rooke
Digging the arrows out of Roan’s chest is the easier part of healing him, even with the iron spines that jut out from the oak shafts. Cutting the wood from his flesh is a time-consuming process, and I use my magic to stop the bleeding and hold his life in safety as I pry out the jagged pieces of metal.
The hard part comes from the poison.
Being locked inside the dungeons for those long weeks has had its benefits, and even after the drain on my magic from breaking the curse, I still have more than enough to heal Roan as I need to. I’m able to coax the poison from his bloodstream, the purple hue ghoulish as the magic oozes out of the wounds and runs down Roan’s chest. It sizzles as it hits the workbench, and I grab a handful of cloths to wipe it away, scrubbing until it’s completely absorbed into the linens. When I cast them into the fire, the flames dance higher, burning iridescent for a moment as I send such evil back to the Fates on the smoke.
Soren and Reed both watch me, murmuring to each other low enough that I can't hear them, but I'm too focused to care about their opinions. Pulling the poison out of his body so it can no longer do any harm is one thing, but some damage has already been done.
The hours it took Soren to ride back to Yregar with Roan strapped to his back gave the poison time to damage his body. Once it entered his bloodstream, his heart rate jumped as his body fought it off, moving it further through his veins and making the damage even worse.
I hold my hand over his chest again, my magic pouring out of me, and the horror emanating from all those around me is amusing, the telltale glow of my eyes clearly terrifying to those who have forgotten what power put to work looks like. High fae heal better than witches do, stronger and faster. I treated many injuries amongst the Seelie high fae in the Northern Lands that would’ve killed people of other races, but with enough rest and proper care hadn't left any lasting damage on them.
It's a coin toss, the gold still in the air as the Fates decide whether Roan will be left a shadow of the high-fae prince he once was or if I can get him through this in good enough condition to still wield his sword and hold his son. The life of a husband and father weighs heavy on me, especially after nights of caring for his family and hearing Airlie’s excited anticipation for her husband’s return.
I sigh and murmur to Prince Soren, “I need more supplies. Is there anywhere else you can go for healing herbs?”
