Raising a single eyebrow, I speak without looking up at him. "I'd advise you to start your campaign to change their thinking now, because if I were to place my bets on which households will aid us in defeating Kharl and destroying his armies, the Goblin King is the only one who has shown promise so far. He hasn’t forgotten magic… he still speaks to the trees.”
The silence my words are met with is heated, writhing with frustration and misplaced fury, and I keep my gaze away firmly on my work until finally I hear Soren leave, the door shutting firmly behind him. My hands are steady despite the roil of my stomach and the wrenching ache in my chest, and the Fates keening beneath my scar only take another heartbeat or two to subside before I can focus my thoughts on far more pressing concerns than my Fates-blessed mate’s ire.
Regardless of his contention, the answers he gave me have left me with much to consider. Regardless of whether the high fae deserve my help, the heart of a Favored Child could never leave the kingdom to suffer without aid. The regent may relish in the twisted games of rumor and intrigue, but he’s not the only fae who wields such power and the very beginnings of a plan weaves together within my mind.
After our fraught confrontation,I'm not expecting to be called to Prince Soren's chambers any time soon. The Fates have different plans for me, though, and in the early hours of the next morning my chores in the garden are interrupted by one of the maids, a frantic look on her face as she mutters apologies and instructions to follow her with haste.
When I arrive, the soldiers knock on the door for me before allowing me in. There’s no sign of conflict or danger, and I pass through Tyton's magic barrier the moment I step into the reception room. As the magic folds me into its grasp, the room sharpens around me once more and I find Soren's closest family already in attendance.
Airlie sits in one of the more comfortable armchairs by the wall, her eyes meeting mine and gesturing at the chair next to her in invitation to sit. Her mouth is tight with worry, no easy smile for me, and my shoulders tighten as I take the seat.
Roan stands at Soren's side, the two of them pouring over the map embossed on the desk and ignoring my arrival as they murmur together as though alone. When I shoot Airlie a questioning look, unsure why my presence was demanded with such urgency, she grimaces.
"More news from Yrell. Prince Mercer will lose the castle if we don't offer them aid. A call for aid could be sent to Yris—the Royal Guard and Unseelie Court soldiers are plentiful there—but the regent would only deny the request. Prince Mercer didn't even try. He knew what the answer would be, because he sided with Prince Soren in the split of the court and this is the consequence he’s facing."
The room falls into a heavy silence once more, more than a few looks sent my way until Tyton finally turns to address me. "The trees told me to call on you for aid. They say it's the way of the Ravenswyrd to help when no one else will, and they speak of you as though you'll hold back Kharl's army with nothing more than your will. Is the shield you cast here the way of your people, or a defense you brought home from the Northern Lands?"
My stomach drops.
There's a fine line between wanting to pass on the history of my coven to ensure they don’t fall into oblivion, and excruciating pain at their loss, still as gut-wrenching today as it was when Ifound the coven murdered. There's a part of me that crouches over every scrap of memory I have left to guard it malevolently, jealously, and to lash out to any who might attempt to share it with me. As though such an act could harm the souls of those who’ve already traveled on the ashes to Elysium, untouchable now and perfectly safe, no matter my own sore heart.
The careful silence in the room around me says there's clearly far too much of this honesty in my gaze.
I answer him, pushing myself despite my reservations. "All Ravenswyrd witches are taught such magic, but some are more adept than others. I've always had an affinity for shields. My brother, too."
Tyton frowns at me and cocks his head. "Your brother... the older one named after an owl?"
It's not a mocking tone, just inquisitive, and I think the voices of my dead must still ring in his ears from our journey into the Ravenswyrd Forest. I wonder if he sees the fae flowers growing there every time he closes his eyes, or if that affliction is mine alone.
I murmur, "Yes, that one."
Airlie hums under her breath, and she strokes her son's cheek, shifting him a little bit. When she sees he's fallen asleep, she fixes her dress once more. "I can't imagine you as a younger sister. Why do females take positions of power within covens but never men? And how then did Kharl become the leader of a witch army? It makes no sense to me."
Roan and Soren both finally look up from the map, clearly interested in my answer, but in one corner, Tauron scowls as though he's still fuming at my existence, oblivious to the somber air of the room.
"Witches believe that males are more likely to be overtaken by power than women. We’ve always been matriarchal. Crone, Mother, Maiden. The seat of power always rests within theline of the womb. Kharl is a testament to that belief but, unfortunately, anyone can be turned from the true path by a charismatic and impassioned leader. Unrest was sowing within the covens for some time due to the treatment of the forests."
It's not an accusation, but a simple statement of fact, yet Roan leans forward and presses his hands against the Stellar Forest in the Outlands. "The witches left our forest centuries before the war. They weren't run out, there was no conflict, they simply got up and left one day. Whose fault was that?"
There's no accusation in his tone either, but I defend all the same. "I can't know the specifics of their reasoning—I know only of the witches I’ve spoken to, and I can give you a hundred different reasons, each as gut-wrenching as the last."
Prince Soren stares at me and gestures a hand for me to continue. I stand slowly, approach the desk, and press my hand against the Loche Mountains, where the temple once stood.
"For millennia, a Seer lived within this temple and guided the fae folk of the Southern Lands through the many paths that they should walk. All Seers were born of the Loche Coven, their magic tied to the truths of the Fates and seeing far more clearly than any others. This Seer was brutally tortured and murdered by Kharl, for giving him his fate—death at the hands of a Ravenswyrd witch."
The high fae sit captivated by my words, all bar Tauron who stares at his own hands with rigid shoulders and a deeply cut scowl over his brow. "The Loche Coven petitioned for centuries to reinstate the rites, holding the high fae accountable for not honoring their own traditions and abusing the land. Mother Loche traveled to Yris dozens of times to speak with the king, only to be turned away. When Kharl came for the covens, she denied him, but there were other witches who chose to abandon the forests and follow him."
An old story but a difficult one, complicated and barbed so that it lashes out to harm me as I tell it. This is one of a dozen wrongs I returned to the Southern Lands to make right, a path I strayed from as I wallowed in the dungeons in my own misery. The high faes’ poor treatment of me made it easy to hide down there, and shame creeps under my skin for my own callous inactions.
I'll do better now, whether Prince Soren truly believes my innocence or not.
I clear my throat and continue. "It's easy to believe a lie when it's crafted against the injustices you face, and though I may not look upon the witch armies with empathy, I'm also not oblivious to their reasoning. The madness that overtakes Tyton at the edges of
the forest I once called home is but a whisper compared to the maelstrom of agony witches have had an ear to for centuries. The imbalance, the raping of the land, the constant cycle of taking but never returning... Kharl may be nothing more than a power-hungry agent of war, but he found a source of pain and exploited it for his own gains. He has destroyed the witches with his efforts to claim power and gain sovereignty over the high fae."
The room is quiet and respectful enough as I press my fingers against the map’s etchings of the mountains once more, a prayer sent to the Fates for the safety of the Seer's soul in Elysium. Her story is one I know as well as my own, murmured to me a dozen times over the course of the Fates War like a prayer and a promise in one.
Her death won’t go unanswered.
