Gideon’s eyebrow quirks upwards, turning to Reed with an assessing look. “It appears the goblin lands aren’t the only area your messenger’s neglect to bring you news. Are there any tales of the Fates War youhaveheard?”
Roan bristles, as does Tauron, but Reed shrugs. “We heard how many lives were lost, how close the kingdom came to ruin. We heard of the battles won, the Sol King’s efforts to seal the tear in the Fates, and how the Ureen were unmade. I also heard quite a lot about the exiled dragon riders, and the prince who leads them.”
Rooke looks at Reed and he grimaces, blanching a little as he scrambles to save himself from her frustration. “The only tales that were brought back from the Fates War were those of the high fae soldiers. I heard all about Prince Stonefyre’s triumph in N’Tyri and the turning of the tides. He was one of the soldiers of the last stand, he walked out of the Sol City and defeated the last of the Ureen. He was the first Dragul high fae prince to complete the Trials in generations!”
“Prince Stonefyre, I’m dying right now. The Fates are calling me to the gates, Æfanya, I’ll meet you there,” Cerson says as she shakes with laughter, wiping her eyes on her napkin.
The goblin princes both murmur to each other in their own amusement at this but the rest of the table is as confused as I am, listening intently to figure out where Reed has misstepped.
Rooke finally sighs at the Outland soldier, disappointment seeping from her pores as she shakes her head. “Of course you’re obsessed with the dragon rider prince. Of coursehistale is the only one you found merit in.”
Cerson, still shaking with the aftereffects of her amusement looks between the two of them. “If it’s the Trials you’re interested in, you should know that Pemba Eveningstaralsoholds the rank of Exalted.”
Silence falls over the table.
Roan recovers first, his own fascination for the dragon riders as strong as his soldier’s. “A witch completed the Trials? But— how?Why?”
Cerson smiles at him, sharp as a knife. “By accident, mostly. The way of the Ravenswyrd Coven is as fearless and heroic as any Dragul, and though Rooke was quick to point out Hanede’s treason, be warned that the turning of the tides first started because a gutless, ashes-cursed commander gave orders to leave N’Tyri and all those within behind. Rooke was healing soldiers, pinned down in one of the old districts, but Pemba refused to abandon her. He led the defection of the nine-eighty-one… the battalion that won the first battle against the Ureen in the centuries of the Fates War.”
My suspicions are proving true with every word, Roan’s eyes flaring as his gaze flicks to Rooke but she listens to Cerson with an expressionless face. “How many of your escort were in the nine-eighty-one?”
Rooke’s mind is hollowed out until the aching void draws me to press at the wall, but her voice betrays none of that pain. “Three but when the battalions were redrawn, all five served in the ten-twenty-one.”
We all know that number well, even Aura and Airlie share a look. The Fates War waged with such ferocity for so many centuries that the Sol Army was forced to number their battalions and the soldiers alike, moving them around and replacing their forces as the death toll climbed horrifically each year. Entire battalions were wiped out with such regularity in the early years that the Sol King was forced to send out his calls foraid, the offer of sanctuary that the witches of the Southern Lands were forced to take.
The ten-twenty-one was the battalion of the High Commander and the soldiers of the last stand.
Roan’s gaze flick to Cerson, his head bowing a fraction in respect. “You fought in the last stand?”
She smiles warmly, with no sign of the scars such a feat would surely have left behind. “I did. The ten-twenty-one is a family of bloodshed and honorable sacrifices, so ensure you’re all mindful of my warnings.”
When the only response to her words is a subdued, stunned silence, Cerson turns back to me with a chuckle. “Are you regretting your invitation to us yet? You probably should be.”
My hand drops to clasp Rooke’s under the table, her fingers cold against mine and her mind carefully blank as she avoids the open wounds still weeping within her heart. “No. I don’t care if you all loathe me and make my life difficult at every turn; you’re my Fates-blessed mate’s family and the entire kingdom will know it. No high fae are above you, by law you’ll answer to Rooke and I alone, though I’ve already given her my word to leave your command to her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Rooke
It's difficult to ignore the interested looks around the table but Soren's hand stays tucked in mine firmly, his fingers warm against my own. Cerson's leg nudges mine under the table gently but her warning before dinner, stern as it was, did little to prepare me for this conversation.
"You told me you were coming back to complete your fate, that you've accepted it, but how can that be true if you're still desperately hiding from the truth of that war; the role you played in it and what it cost you?”
There's no one else who can call me quite like Cerson can, perception and a sharp mind covered with a smile and beauty that even the high fae can't deny. Though there were a few slips of his magic Soren kept his temper well and I'm surprised at his ease as he left his household to question us both. Even as his protective rage grew at Cerson for resurfacing old wounds, he never once looked at her with the same ire he gives everyone else freely, a fact that the rest of his household hasn't missed.
Airlie beams at her cousin every chance, chatting happily with both the goblin princes and Cerson at every opportunity. Her body leans into her husband, his attitude far less joyful, and her gaze firmly away from her mother. Aura desperately tries to gain her daughter's attention and when she's rejected at every advance, she turns her focus onto Cerson and I. Roan finds this more suspicious than anything else said but I'm just as dumbfounded as the rest of the table.
When she gushes at Cerson's descriptions of the impending rites I finally lose my restraint. "How exactly are you going to aid Cerson with her sacrifices if you can barely contain your derision and witches and magic?"
I watched this female go head-to-head with her daughter and her nephew dozens of times, never one to back down from her position, but the book she gives me could only be described as humbled. "As Soren has commanded all of his household to change their opinions and return to the traditions of the First Fae, I am eager to follow his command."
Soren looks at her from the corner of his eye, his scar pulling viciously at his lip as he frowns at her. "I didn't expect you to be so ardent in your attempts."
She sips at her wine goblet her gaze shifting slowly around the table and landing on her daughter, still ignoring this entire conversation with a cold shoulder, before she turns back to Cerson. "I left the Unseelie Court and Yris behind when my grandson was born, but little did I know that my escape came moments before it was too late. Your efforts to bring the rest of the high fae loyal to my nephew saw many whom I have a great affection for to safety."
Cerson picks up her own goblet drinking far deeper than Aura does before she answers. "Hopefully your husband can find himself as submissive to his king as you are, and you won't end up losing him still."
Aura hesitates for a moment, her fingers tracing against the tablecloth, in her words are soft enough that they are barely audible to those without high fae blood. "The Fates were not kind enough to give all Celestials a Fates-blessed mate they could find happiness with. The one I care for is in no danger from a treasonous death."
