I busy myself with the first harvest of healing crops from my garden as I consider the news of the messengers. No longer furious, Prince Soren dismissed me as easily as he dismissed the haggard looking men in front of him, but I’m not surprised by his change in attitude. There was much for him to consider, much for us all to think about for the coming days.
The regent is a very clever man.
The Unseelie Court might be split firmly down the middle, as Airlie has explained to me, even going as far as intricacies of each family's history and loyalties, but if the regent were to gain the backing of the Sol King, the Southern Lands wouldn't stand a chance against his campaign for the throne. If the regent chooses to continue to ignore the plight of the lower fae and part-bloods, there's nothing anyone could do to stop him.
Although every other kingdom and court once turned their back on the Northern Lands after the Sol King broke his fate, there's no denying the power he now wields.
When I left five years after the siege that destroyed the last of the Ureen and half the Golden Palace, Sol City was still being repaired, but the Seelie Court was thriving once more. There was more unity within the kingdom, and the fae folk there were thriving. Cities were being rebuilt, villages returned to, and the old ways tended to as the Fates commanded. The Sol King has repaired the Fates, his heart is now whole, and the survivors of the war are happy under his rule. The Seelie high fae never forgot their magic, and if the Sol King were to come to this land and choose a side, it would surely win.
The mere idea of Prince Soren interacting with the Seelie Court makes me shudder. The only worse thought is the regent's honeyed tones leaching into my mind unwanted. He’s a vile male I’d be happy to never interact with again. I'd met dozens like him, with the ability to placate and draw people in, to spin tales of majesty and wonder until they have everyone eating out of the palm of their hand.
Airlie assured me that most of the sitting members of the Unseelie Court were smart enough to figure that out for themselves, but that only raises a different concern. If they're smart enough to see through the regent, then they're willing accomplices in the downfall of the kingdom.
The workbench in my healer’s quarters is overflowing with my harvest when the soldiers open the door once more and bow deeply as they admit Prince Soren, tension filling me at his sudden appearance. The way my heart thumps a little harder in my chest in his presence galls me, the ache that settles there with every interaction like a curse I can’t escape, and I take a deep breath to stop myself from sinking back into my ire and frustration.
Glancing down at myself with a grimace, I move to the sink to scrub the dirt from my hands even as I’m forced to accept there’s nothing I can do about the streaks that cover my robes. If I'mgoing to face this male and fight whatever battle he has decided to wage with me this morning, then I need to find myself on equal footing and with a clear mind.
I shouldn't care about something as shallow as some dirt, but the high fae are fussy about appearances, and the hostile stalemate in which Prince Soren and I have found ourselves means I don’t want to give the male any grounds to find fault with my conduct. The entire situation is a mess, and I really should be holding my temper in check, finding peace and some sort of resolution between us both, but even as winter draws closer, I find I can’t let go of my anger.
It’s not a good sign for the kingdom.
Our fates are going to be difficult enough without adding further animosity. Kharl Balzog isn't going to simply surrender to his death at my hands—right now that task seems insurmountable. And yet, Soren and I will have to work together as the closest of confidants.
Drying my hands, I turn and bow to the prince with a carefully blank face. He watches my movements with eyes that are far too sharp, and I know that any twitch of my lip or quirk of my eyebrow is going to be used against me. He’s always watched me closely, his gaze lined with searing suspicion and dripping with contempt, but now there’s something else there. Something predatory, something furious, and one wrong move may drive this prince to leave a blood-soaked legacy in his wake.
"In your time in the Sol Army, did you ever speak to the Sol King?"
No greeting or other breath wasted on formalities. He jumps straight into his interrogation. I'm not sure why it surprises me; perhaps it's the careful way he's choosing his words and meeting my eyes, unflinching as ever but without the animosity I'm accustomed to receiving from him.
Shrugging easily, I feign a casual air that’s foreign between us. "Of course. All soldiers who serve in the Sol Army have spoken to the Sol King, in the same way that I'm sure you've spoken to all within your own ranks. He leads from the front lines and is a great warrior in his own right."
He nods and glances out the open doorway, as if called by my garden, growing steadily outside. Every member of this household does the same when they walk in, and it's as though none of them realize how much they've missed nature. Being penned within the stone walls of these castles and the villages surrounding them is unnatural. The forests may belong to the witches, but the trees call to all fae folk.
As the furrow between his brows grows deeper, I move back to the harvest in front of me, cringing a little at the state of the area. His gaze stays fixed on me as I get to the busy work of cutting the roots and placing them into the small sink to wash and prepare.
No parts of these plants will be wasted, even the paltriest of uses must be respected, because tinctures and remedies other healers might deem unimportant could be vital to us in the coming days. I've saved a soldier's life with a single crushed fae flower petal, a silk handkerchief found discarded in the melee, and a leather tie pulled from my own hair. I'm more than adept at unconventional healing practices.
The sound of my knife hitting the chopping board and the swish of the leaves as I separate each part of the plant fills the room and I leave Prince Soren to his brooding.
"Does the Seelie Court function the same way that our court does? Are there ranks within the sitting members, and does the Sol King owe some more loyalties than others?"
My mouth firms into a line but I keep my eyes on my work, listening as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat. It's particularly arrogant of this prince to just continue to come here anddemand information from me. I suppose this is the reality of my fate, to be stuck at the mercy of his whims and commands.
"The Seelie Court is similar, and the royal families within it. They all hold the respects of the Sol King, but they don't have the sway over the throne that the Unseelie Court has. The functions of their court are rooted in loyalties and traditions, not upholding laws. If the Sol King were to hold a council as the messenger said, his court would be in attendance. Each would no doubt have their own strategies and intentions, but the Sol King's word is law. If he makes a decision, it's for all of the Northern Lands. They bow to him, and him alone."
I watch Prince Soren from the corner of my eye as my words are met with silence. He’s still scowling but he doesn't attempt to interrupt my work as I move around. The tap switches on and off as I rinse the bunches, the mounds of greenery slowly disappearing from the workbench and piling up over the sink area.
After setting a large pot to boil on the stove, I add the roots and wait for the bubbles to roil over the surface. Then I shift it away from the hottest plates to bring it back down to a simmer at the perfect time. It took me a week to figure out all the hot and cold spots of this stove and adjust to my brewing accordingly, several cups of tea sacrificed in this process. It was frustrating but necessary to protect the more delicate processes. Waste is terrible even in a time of abundance, but when our resources are so finite, it cuts even deeper to the bone.
A scowl of my own begins to deepen on my face as I consider the perilous paths laid out before us by the Fates’ design, losing myself so thoroughly in my thoughts that I startle when Soren speaks again, his words barely more than a growl. “Whatever questions you have, now is the time to ask.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “And why would I expect an answer from you? How could I possibly guess that you’re willing to tell me anything, Prince Soren?”
The Celestial-blue depths of his eyes are no longer the icy plunge into a winter’s lake they once were. Now they’re a searing heat, a raging inferno that wouldn’t leave behind ashes for the Fates’ journey, but I hold his gaze easily. I’m not afraid of this male or his anger. I’m not afraid of any of them.
He answers me in the old language. “You can cover us with your magic again, can’t you? Do it and speak. There aren’t many options to get us out of this Fates’ cursed mess, so if you have any, tell me.”
Whether he means our fated union or the situation his uncle is so carelessly piecing together, I don’t know, but my magic eases out of me regardless, encasing us both. Prince Soren's eyebrows draw in further as he no doubt feels it spread through the room. I see the same look in his eye as the one he gave me after I woke up in his chambers—concern for any strain it might have on me. There's no need for it, creating a shield like this is less taxing than the effort it takes me to draw breath.
