Even Roan is side-eyeing me, though he’s probably more concerned with getting Rooke out of my path and then fighting at my side if Mercer calls his soldiers to arms. Mercer doesn’t though, instead moping at his brow and murmuring, meekly, “My apologies, my prince. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
The ripples of gossip and harried looks that fan throughout the hall around us take on a careful nature, the tone becoming respectful and more than a little afraid as the household finally realizes the danger they were in all along. My blood lights, but not with anger or even vindication at their submission. No, it’s magic that floods my veins now as I look around the room at the cowering high fae. Power I’ve barely recognized before, it now flows through me as though eager to take back my kingdom, if only I can learn to wield it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rooke
It becomes painfully clear to me that no matter what new freedoms the Battle of Yregar and my defense of Yrell might award me, privacy is not one of them.
After the shameful display of Yrell’s so-called soldier in the sparring ring, I endured an hour by Prince Soren’s side, observing the spectacle playing out in the hall, before he sent me back to my room with a contentious look in Mercer’s direction, as though baiting the prince to question him. No one in that hall would dare, I’m sure, after what already played out, and as Reed escorted me away from the revelry, I heard more than a few high fae let out a sigh of relief, as though it was my presence at fault and not their prince’s behavior.
Exhausted, I had no energy to argue with Reed when he took up watch by the door. I collapsed on the bed in a heap, boots kicked off but my cloak still wrapped around my shoulders. When I woke to find myself under a soft, cloud-like blanket, tucked neatly under my chin despite the immense volume, Reed was still standing guard. Worse still, Soren stood at the glassdoors looking out over the city, dressed to ride out while I was languishing in bed.
No words were spoken as I rose and cleaned myself up, nor when I returned from the bathroom ready to leave. Soren scowled at my hands until I flipped my palms up for his inspection, the skin now pink and new. The sensations from them are no longer pain but discomfort, a tingling fire of rawness that's almost worse than the agony. The only treatment for it is distraction, and luckily I have plenty of that around me.
I raise an eyebrow at Soren, not willing to break the stalemate, and he turns on his heel with a jerk of his head at Reed to get moving. The silence feels loaded, dangerous, but I’m corralled between the two males down the stairs and out of the castle without contention, the servants all skittering away from us as though repelled.
Roan, Tyton, and the rest of the Yregar’s soldiers wait for us in the courtyard, already in their saddles, faces stony as they watch Mercer’s household with sharp gazes and weapons ready to be drawn. Soren shares a look with Roan and walks me to Northern Star, then helps me into my saddle and waits until he’s sure I’m able to hold the reins comfortably before he climbs into his own saddle. Yregar’s soldiers move seamlessly to envelop us in formation, becoming a wall of smoldering fury, just waiting to ignite, that has Yrell’s soldiers shifting on their feet.
My temper shortens dramatically as Mercer makes his way down the stone steps with a smile pasted on his face and dozens of the nobles of his household spilling out after him. His faked joy would be more believable if his movements weren’t so rigid or if he could hide the tremor in his voice a little better.
“I look forward to joining you at the winter solstice, Your Highness. I'm sure the wedding will be the talk of generations to come, a party like no other. I wouldn’t miss it for the Fates themselves.”
If the Sol King were here with his ability to smell a lie, I'm sure he would find every word Prince Mercer is saying true, though the intention behind them is impossible to miss. He sees no good coming of our marriage—none except satisfying the Fates’ demands. There's a sick joy emanating from him, his own arrogance spilling forth at the prospect of his future king’s humbling fate.
Taking a deep breath to calm my temper, I work through each of my muscles to release the tension in them until I have control of myself once more. When I finally roll my neck, I catch Reed giving me an inquisitive look, but he turns sharply away.
Soren doesn’t glance in Mercer’s direction as he clicks his tongue at Nightspark, directing his horse out of the courtyard with that haughty expression he wears so well. “Perhaps you should focus on training your soldiers so you survive the journey to Yregar instead of concerning yourself with parties. Yrell was always a jewel in the Celestial crown, it’s a shame to see it fall to such disgrace under your command.”
There’s a sputtering, indignant noise behind us, but I follow Soren’s lead and keep my gaze on the city before us as we ride out, the gates of the inner wall closing behind us with a deafening crunch. The city is lifeless before us despite the early morning hour, unusual even as the icy promise of winter’s grasp grows more prominent. Autumn is in its last days though the landscape before us has barely changed, the trees dormant from long before I stepped back on dry land at Port Asmyr, and still now they sleep.
Thoughts of the winter solstice distract me from the impossibly quiet streets. With barely two moons left until the high-fae marriage ceremony, my gut clenches at the prospect, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions bubbling there. It feels too far away, the threats of Kharl Balzog’s armies and the tenuous holdthat Soren has on the Unseelie Court filling me with an urgency that writhes beneath my skin until I feel as though I might burst.
Though something has clearly shifted with Soren, two months is not enough time to find peace with the prince, and our union is doomed to be filled with bloodshed and grief. A vise-like grip squeezes my heart at the mere thought of binding myself to this high-fae male, with his savage beauty and vitriolic hate for my people. The chivalry he’s begrudgingly—and sometimes spitefully—given me since my hatred for Balzog was proven has only given the pain of my sorrow more precision.
When the gates of the outer wall close firmly behind us, Soren lifts a hand to move the soldiers single file to ride through Elms Walk. The trees are quiet, peaceful, and despite the concerns that eat at me, the corners of my mouth lift into a soft smile at their song. My eyes slip shut, and with every deep breath I feel the life and vitality that’s returned here, the sacrifices made and traditions honored after so long. The blood of the raving witches is a rotting poison to the land, but the spirits of old who live amongst the tall oaks have still found something within them. Perhaps it was their death alone that the trees consumed.
My eyes stay closed for the rest of the journey through the forest, trusting Northern Star to follow Nightspark as I slip into meditation, but when we step back out of the trees and I glance around once more, it’s clear I’m the only one who enjoyed the ride. Deep lines are cut around Alwyn’s mouth and his lips are pressed tightly together, a haunted look in his eyes as he shakes himself off, and Reed shares the look with him. Tyton scowls at the open land before us, his lips moving, but if he’s speaking it’s too low for me to hear. He spoke to the trees on our journey here but there’s none of the peace I feel written in the furrow on his brow.
Despite my assumptions that the rest of the ride back to Yregar would be as harrowing as our journey to Yrell, theurgency that drove our horses to their limits is gone, and we ride at a far more measured pace.
Soren stays close to my left and Reed flanks me on the right, half a stride behind as though guarding me should anything attack. The Outland soldier’s eyes have continued to stay carefully away from me, and as daylight burns around our path through the barren kingdom to our home, an itch creeps along my neck and shoulders that I have to force myself not to fuss over.
When he first arrived at Yregar, Reed effectively brought me out of my stupor, the solidarity in his unwavering gaze easing some of the pressure in my chest, yet now he avoids me so resolutely that shame trickles into the cracked foundations of my mind. I can't seem to let go of it, the gut-curdling writhing mess within me at the high fae standing witness to my mind breaking open, and I abhor the exposure of the horrors left carved into my soul by the Ureen.
It’s made worse by Soren’s close proximity, silent and unreadable as he is. The shift from his loathing to the insistent way he’s shadowing my every move only deepens my discomfort until my skin is crawling with the need to retreat, hide, find my center once more. I find myself longing for the dungeons and the connection to the earth, the steady flow of my blood and the song calling me home.
When we stop for water at the lake just south of Lancon Village, Reed takes Northern Star’s reins from me with a bow before he scurries away under the guise of tending to her. Struggling to keep the irritation from my face, I stalk away from all the high fae to find some peace at the water’s edge, though it’s barely ten steps from them all. I know better than to separate myself entirely, frustration not blinding me to the dangers of the kingdom. It’s a fruitless attempt anyway, no solitude awarded to me despite my efforts.
Soren’s gaze is a searing brand on my back as he follows me to the water, his presence unavoidable, but I refuse to acknowledge him as I take in the scenery. The lake is a stinking swamp, the mud reeking of rot and the water murky at best. When we first rode through, the high fae all stared at the expanse of water mournfully as a deep longing rippled out of each of them. That alone would’ve told me of the great decline here, but the land keens beneath our feet, a sorrowful song of all that’s been destroyed.
Giving magic to the land here isn’t a wise choice, but a little blood spilled with a promise to return is unquestionable, especially for a Ravenswyrd witch. My heart aches to give a true offering, one that would repair, but the devastation is too far-reaching and I’m no help to the kingdom or the fae folk within if I burn myself out at every opportunity.
The nick is small and at the side of my hand, the only undamaged flesh easily accessible to me, and I wait for the few drops of vibrant red to land on the mud before I seal the small wound back up. In the old language I promise that the Favored Child has returned for them all, and I won’t allow this torture to continue.
It's not until my murmured prayers to the land have finished that Soren speaks up, sticking to the old language. “It would have to be a miracle of the Fates to see the lakes return to the glory they once held. I’d reassure the land that I’ll restore them soon as well, though I don’t think it would take my promises as kindly as it does yours.”
Pushing back to my feet, I turn in his direction but keep my gaze from him. “The kingdom isn’t going to be ‘restored.’ There's no such thing as erasing the damage done, but it can be healed and a new sort of glory nurtured in its place. The trees haven’t forgotten what once was, and they’re angry at the state of thekingdom, but they’ll always accept a true sacrifice, no matter who gives it.”
