The moment the gate closes behind us Cerson reaches out and, with a pop of light, her scepter appears in her hand. Roan stares at it for a moment before he gives her a curt nod, Gideon and Gage both doing the same. When Soren gives her a firm nod, she lifts her scepter easily and transports us all at once. As the magic of the Elmswyrd Coven flows over me, magnified by the currents of power running deep within the earth, it pushes my mind to the very brink of what I can tolerate before I find myself at the edge of the Mistwyrd Forest, the scent of death lingering in the air.
Journeying backto the Ravenswyrd the first time on my return to the Southern Lands has been my greatest heartache but riding through the trees of the Mistwyrd and feeling the desolate agony within them is an unbearably close second. Though there are still Mistwyrd witches alive today, their Mother is gone and with no Maiden left behind, the line of the womb has ended.
The time of the Mistwyrd has ended.
Five years have passed since Qhin Falorn journeyed on the ashes to Elysium and yet the pain of the trees mourning her loss pains me as much now as it did when she first died. My aunt’s Fates-blessed mate and the holder of a relic, she was amongst the witches who looked out for Pemba and I when we were finding our feet in the Northern Lands. She had a particular gift for guiding witches to find their own paths without impressing her own beliefs on them, despite how strong her convictions. When I saw my own short-comings as a Mother and a voice for the witches within the Seelie Court, I sought her out and she welcomed me into her coven’s practices as an honored guest. I didn’t just admire her wisdom or feel gratitude for her aid, I loved her as I did any other member of my extended family.
The mourning of the trees here isn’t the violent call for vengeance we were greeted by the Brindlewyrd with, yet its solemn tune is an ache that sinks so deeply into my bones there no hope that I’ll ever be able to dig it out. The Mistwyrd Coven was torn apart, first by those who chose to abandon the Betrayer and then by the Fates war and the Ureen’sconsuming. There’s no vengeance here for the trees to seek out, no BaylorFray walking the kingdom with blood still dripping from his vile hands, only the devastating result of the Fates weaving,
Wiping my eyes, I find Soren’s softened gaze far too dangerous to linger on and instead look over to find tears streaming down Cerson's face irreverently. When our gazes meet, a sob bursts out of us both and draws the eyes of many soldiers around us as all.
"Qhin would hate this. She would be so mad at me for sitting here and sobbing.”
I lift my shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “’Mourning is not for those who have passed, but an act of honor, a mercy for those left behind to find solace’, she told me that once, and when I asked her where she learned such thing ,she told me that war teaches far too many lessons, whether we’re prepared for them or not."
Silence falls around us once more and though the song of the trees is painful I let my eyes slip shut as we work our way through the heavy snow along the border. It slows us down, enough that I begin to worry we won't arrive in time, and when the soldiers ahead call out to announce we’ve come across to the first village, the sombre air still clinging over the battalion in a wave sends dread curling in my gut.
Even with the blanket of snow there are still signs to warn us of the carnage ahead but with Qhin’s forest so loud in my blood, I struggle to steel my heart against the devastation of war. We arrive to the small wall running along the outside of the village and find the large wooden gate hacked to pieces, a thick layer of snow covering the wreckage. Corpses litter the streets and alleyways, frozen solid and the blanket of white hiding some of the horror of the death they endured but nothing can truly soften the blow of bodies torn open and ripped apart by the raving madness of Kharl Balzog's soldiers.
Generations ago this village surely prospered but now it’s nothing but ruin. Gideon gives Soren a curt nod as he sends a band of his soldiers around the village to look for any survivors but I already know it's a futile task. They'd surely be able to hear the heartbeats of any fae folk hiding within but there's no delay in being sure as another group begins to pile up the dead to see them on the ashes safely. Cerson and I both murmur prayers to the Fates, the only kindness we can offer these fae in their passing, but it's Soren himself who lifts a hand to burn the bodies with his magic alone.
Somehow he's casting through intuition alone and it's only my respect for the dead that stops me from questioning him. The vicious edge on his stern face can only speak of the bloodshed he's planning for all those who came here and wrought this carnage, with the wealth of power in his veins he may prove unstoppable if he can command it.
The goblin soldiers are as stoic as ever as we get back to our path to Banshee’s Call but the somber air holds over them all. We reach the next village only an hour later to find the same carnage waiting for us there; violent, senseless deaths. The goblin soldiers work without hesitation to look for survivors and see the fae safely on the ashes, but the pressure building inside of me has my fingertips itching to reach for my scepter. Kharl Balzog is nowhere to be seen, any use of my magic is unwise, yet the urge is impossible to ignore entirely.
We ride on, pushing our horses hard through the snow, but we still have hours left before we reach Banshee’s Call when the soldiers ahead call out to bring us to a halt once more. The Fates writhe beneath my scars in warning, icy dread digging deep into my gut. Glancing around, there’s no signs of danger but when I lean into Soren’s side subconsciously, he’s sitting like a slab of marble in his saddle.
What is it? What can you hear?
Instead of answering me, he widens our connection as though inviting me into his own mind, just as he had while the regent taunted him back in Yris. Sliding carefully through to his mind, no matter how welcome I am here, there’s no way to describe the feeling that washes over me exceptfractured.Before I can lose myself in the implications of the ease he’s wielding his power with now, the murmurs of Gage and his soldiers distract me, as clear to me as they are to my Fates-blessed mate.
"I've never seen marks like this before. Even if they’re wielding curses, it shouldn’t look like this."
I translate the goblin tongue to Soren, and then tack on the end,whatever it is, Cerson and I should see it. Between the two of us, we can recognize most magic sources or at least where to search for answers.
Soren nods curtly to me, the surly change in his demeanor abrupt but reassuring. He’s not taking anything for granted, not even the smallest possibility left to chance, and even when he motions to Gideon to lead us through he orders Reed to stay close to Cerson’s side as we make our way through the mounds of snow to Gage.
There's a roughly trodden path cut through but my field of vision is mostly white, the beginnings of a snowstorm quickly building around us, and it only makes the scene before us more startling when we come over a small crest and find the wide patch of charred earth Gage stands on. A dozen horses wait obediently at the edge as the goblin soldiers all circle the land, staring down at the damage. Murmuring amongst themselves, none of them have any answers for what magic has caused this. I share look with Cerson, but neither of us hesitate to slide from our saddles to join them, the princes all following closely behind us.
The moment my feet cross the blackened line, I feel it.
The same aching hollow unsettling feeling that Yris filled me with, the marker of Kharl Balzog’s ruinous casting, only a thousand times worse with theravenousdestruction it craves. Like a disease, it settles over my body in a rush as it looks for points of entry to consume me and my mind almost shatters at the sensation, thrown back into the jaws of the monsters who hunt me.
I vomit before I can choke back the bile.
Turning on my heel at the last possible moment, I manage to save Soren from bearing the brunt of it but my own boots don’t fare so well as my stomach spasms uncontrollably. The rush of blood in my ears is deafening, second only to the screeching of Ureen where it’s carved so deeply within my soul that there’s no cutting it out. I feel nothing but the fear, know nothing but my pain, and it’s only when Soren’s mind floods into mine to shove the terrors away from me that the world sharpens around me once more. Crushed in his arms, my face is buried in his chest and an awful gasp wrenches out of my lips as I finally take a breath.
Gideon rushes over to us, his words clipped but disjointed to me in my panicked state. “Move her back over the line, Soren, away from this vile magic. It’s abhorrent, bad enough for us but witches’ connection to the land ensure they feel its’ pain keenly.”
Soren can see the shadows in my mind and knows the true reason this magic is tearing me apart, my terror spilling through our connection and poisoning his mind as surely as it does mine. His hands stay clutching at me, his own heart thumping under my ear, but he moves at the Briarfrost heir’s direction and when the magic no longer touches me some of the panic lifts from me.
Cerson’s hands are clutching at Reed’s arms as though they have a mind of their own, a tremble running through her even as he leads her further away from the magic.
With a shaking voice, she chokes out, “What in the Fates has he done? Æfanya, what has that male done now? It was— it felt like?—”
Soren cuts her off before she can say it, one of his hands lifting to cup the back of my head like he’s afraid the sound of their name could break me open again. “We’ll ride around it. Get the soldiers moving, there’s still a long journey ahead and we don’t have time to waste.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
