The words are clumsy and cracked as I force them out of my dry mouth, a little tacky from healing and thirst. “I don't see the need for an armed guard watching over me while I’m barely able to lift my arms, let alone Prince Soren himself doing it. If the task could be entrusted to his cousins for so long, why make such a drastic change? Surely there’s a banquet or a ball he should be planning.”
It’s needlessly cutting, I’m well-aware Prince Soren has done more for the kingdom and the fae folk here than most royalshave ever bothered to, but whatever changes took place in him while I was sleeping haven’t happened within me. The cold and vicious vitriol he spewed before sending me back to the dungeons while Kharl Balzog’s armies advanced is still clear in my mind, and no matter his guilt-soaked pride, I won’t accept this pandering.
It’s not the first time I’ve been faced with the fickle and twisted moods of the high fae.
Airlie’s smile stretches wider as I continue in my cold assessment of her cousin. “I guess I’ve broken out of the dungeons twice now and rendered Tyton unconscious on both occasions—perhaps he thinks he’ll be more adept at stopping me… although such arrogance shouldn’t surprise me.”
Her head cocks a little, a tell that she’s listening to something outside of my own hearing, but she replies easily enough, “It’s a little bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid, though Soren most certainly deserves every drop of your anger for his pigheaded ways. No, my cousin has found himself in the very peculiar position of wholeheartedly believing that you’ve been speaking the truth this entire time. He now has to accept that he’s poisoned his entire household against you, putting your safety at risk no matter what new commands he’s given.”
I rub a hand over one of the healing patches of skin on my arm, tight and sore. I couldn’t hazard a guess at what these new commands might be, not with how fickle and volatile the prince has proved to be.
Airlie’s fingers rub absently at the worn leather of the book in her hand. “Soren’s last excuse for keeping you and your shared fates as far away from himself as he could possibly manage has just been quite spectacularly blown to pieces. He’s scrambling to figure out what he’s going to do to remedy this mess before the winter solstice.”
I don’t think that male is capable ofscrambling.
It’s certainly not something I can fathom, but Airlie seems particularly pleased about it, so there has to be some truth there. Even after two centuries amongst the Seelie Court, unraveling the high-fae way of thinking is still a confusing and fraught endeavor.
“There’s no remedy for our fates, only acceptance and obedience. I've already told Prince Soren that I’ll do as they command. He might as well leave me in the dungeons until the solstice so I can find some peace while I wait.”
Airlie clicks her tongue at me, shaking her head with a particularly gleeful shine in her eyes that should certainly worry Prince Soren for the plans she might be devising against him.
“Don't be so defeatist, Rooke! It's unbecoming and unlike the witch I call my friend.”
No matter the light tone of her voice, the truth of her words stings. I don’t want the reminder of just how much the Fates War has changed me or the damage I still bear no matter how whole I might look on the outside. I glance away from her as though I can hide my shame from myself, but it doesn’t lessen.
The farce of meekly enduring the dungeons and the mistreatment of the high fae was nothing more than a childish act of malicious compliance. A shameful sort of submission, the more I think on it, pretending that I’d accepted that my fate was unavoidable, and so I sat down there in the depths of the earth like a sullen creature, furious and resigned to the wickedly cruel web the Fates weave.
My brother would be horrified if ever he heard such a thing, and my chest throbs with the pain of leaving him behind
Silence settles around us once more, comfortable and contemplative. I stretch up one of my hands and rub it against the side of my face, the skin there still tender and new.
“Soren was covered in witcheswane, soaked in the vile weed, and when he carried you up here, it soaked through his clothinginto yours. Your face bore the worst of the effects, pressed up against his chest like you were, but there was also damage to your shoulders and down the left half of your body. We spoke to Whynn, but she said there was nothing we could do to help you.”
I nod my head, wincing at the taut form of my muscles as I pull at them with the movement. I stretch out my fingers before me, flexing them carefully before I reach down the length of my body until my back pops, a groan shuddering out of my chest despite my efforts to hold it in.
Airlie winces at the sound. “I’ve already sent Firna to bring up some of the healing brew. Whynn instructed the kitchens on how to make it, and it’s already fortified the villagers. There'll be some up here for you soon. Soren is just finishing up with Prince Roan, and then I expect you'll be fussed after until you want to scream. Male high-fae mates do love to make a nuisance of themselves.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her, and she smirks back at me. “I always thought it was a compulsion of the Fates that made them so, but Roan insists it's an Unseelie thing. He was so sure that Soren was going to shove me out of this room when he first brought you in, we’re both still shocked he held on to some restraint. It's the first time my husband ever stood between Soren and I during a disagreement. My cousin wasn't very open to my help until your nightmares began, and then he had no choice but to accept my presence here.”
Grimacing, I rub a hand over my face as scraps of memories piece together. The lowly murmured promises, the desperation in his tone, the prayers to the Fates on my behalf. All of it is nothing more than flashes strung together into a confusing mess, but one thing sharpens, and I’m overcome with a horrifying moment of clarity.
I swallow roughly, but it does nothing to shift the lump in my throat. “Tell me he didn't send word to the Northern Lands. Fates above, promise me he didn’t do that, Airlie, please.”
She pauses, and then curses under her breath. It’s the only warning I get before the bedroom door is almost ripped from its hinges by the force of Soren opening it.
The cold and beautifully refined prince I’ve observed since arriving to Yregar is gone and left in his place is someone else, someone who fits the title of savage far better than the other ever did. The scar running down his face is pulled in tight as a snarl sits on his lip, likely a permanent fixture now that the Fates have made their demands unavoidable for him. His hands are a bloodied mess from the sparring ring, a shirt streaked with red thrown over him, as though he was in a great rush to get back up here to torture me further.
His eyes are sharp as he takes in my condition, and it's a relief to see the cold edge still in his expression. Whatever frantic panic Airlie claims he had was clearly just wishful thinking, and I'm still on familiar, stony ground with him.
My relief is short lived when he speaks in a curt tone, not bothering to feign ignorance to our conversation. “I’m sending a messenger to the Northern Lands. I’ll find your brother.”
My gut churns at the very idea of him searching out Pemba, bile creeping up the back of my throat until I’m sure I’d be sick if it hadn’t been days since my last meal.
Airlie startles at the horror now etching its way across my face and hisses at Prince Soren, “This is why I wanted you to move her to my chambers! She’s been awake a handful of breaths, and you're already upsetting her. Leave us, cousin?—“
I interrupt her, “Don’t send word to my brother. Don’t send any messengers to the Northern Lands to speak my name. I might be tied to you and your people by the Fates, but my brother isn’t. You’ll find no allies in the Sol Army or the healersthere if they find out what you’ve done to me and I’ll be sure to tell them all if you dare try.”
I force myself to hold Prince Soren's gaze with my own no matter how desperately I wish to look away from the Celestial-blue depths of his eyes. The Fates sing insistently within me even as my gut churns at the very thought of word of my situation here reaching the Northern Lands. Frustration burns bright in Soren’s eyes, searing me to the bone, but I refuse to drop his gaze and cower before this male.
