I pause but eventually, the words form easily on my lips. “My father wasn't born a Ravenswyrd witch. He was given his fate as a gift by the Seer for a great sacrifice he gave in a time of dire need. It cost him dearly, and yet he gave it to her with no hesitation and an open heart. Her gift was to lead him to the forest and to my mother.”
Soren doesn't immediately reply to me, silence falling around us once more, but not an uncomfortable one, not as it could have been. The horses’ hoofbeats crunch against the deadened ground, the debris of harvests that never came to fruition still lying where the farmers abandoned them, as though the land paused the natural processes of decay to highlight the death that has overtaken the kingdom.
“Your father must’ve known of the war if he traveled through the kingdom to be with your mother.”
It strikes me that he didn’t ask about the coven my father was born into but, instead of scorn, I’m filled with pity. The high fae forgot about the greetings and customs we once shared, how to show respect but also how to learn who you’re conversing with before you misstep grievously. Soren has no idea he’s bumbling around and crushing his kingdom underfoot. I’ve seen him interact with the fae folk of Yregar; I know this is ignorance and not contempt.
What a sorrowful state to be in.
My reply is simple. “It’s customary for most able witches to have children from the moment they’re wed, a blessing of the Fates to bind themselves together. When a Maiden of a coven is wed, however, she usually waits until the mantle of the Motheris passed on to her. My parents were married for many centuries before Pemba was born.”
Maybe it's the softening of my heart toward his gentle treatment of Nightspark, or the ghost of his fingers, rough with calluses but gentle against the skin of my wrist as he bandaged up my damaged hands, but the stories of my family come easily enough.
“Pemba and I always guessed that's why they had so many kids in such quick succession—both of them were eager after waiting for so long to start a family. My mother always unfalteringly did what was expected of her as the Maiden and then the Mother. She wore the mantle well.”
I can't think of a single selfish thing she ever did. No matter how many years she longed to bring children into the world, she stood by our traditions and waited.
His face is easy to read, the careful workings of his mind displayed in the line of his lips pressed together and the furrow of his brow, but it's only when he asks his question that I realize how delicately he's dancing around my fervent warnings. The threats I gave him should he ever speak of my bloodline are clearly still ringing in his ears.
“Is it customary for witches to have such large families?”
My heart throbs in my chest as I shrug. “Not any more customary than any other fae folk. My mother was an only child, but my father had a litter of siblings and dozens of cousins on call, a thousand stories of the mischief they all got up to in their growing years that he would tell us all. Family was important to him; the chaotic, joyful, protective love that’s shared between blood. I think my mother envied that a little, her own childhood far more orderly and subdued, and so they spent their centuries together dreaming of a big brood of mischievous children of their own.”
In the silence that follows I realize he’s hesitating to ask more questions and I send him a tight smile. “I was one of eight. Pemba was the oldest, then me, and then six more after, all the way down to my newborn brother. He died in my mother's arms in our home, the same one he was born in.”
My throat closes a little at the admission slipping out of me, swallowing back my tears roughly. Soren’s jaw tightens for a moment as he grinds his teeth together and it strikes me that his anger is a reaction to my pain, fury at the senseless murder of my family and a drive for vengeance. I know the expression well after two hundred years of seeing it on Pem’s face.
“In the kitchen,” Soren finally murmurs, and I nod.
It was their bloodstain that I pressed my palm against as I prayed to the Fates under his watchful eye, my mother slain there as she held my baby brother. He’d barely entered the world before he was sent on the ashes to Elysium with the rest of our family and coven.
Soren’s eyes are cutting as they take in the barren lands that surround us, the sharp line of his mouth pulling in further as we pass the derelict farms. His attention catches on the structures that once housed the fae folk who farmed the lands and lived here for generations. Whether they were forced out by the witches or the land’s destruction, it's impossible to tell, but the result is the same. A lifeless expanse of land that would break even the most hardened of hearts.
“How much do you know of the goblin lands?”
Glancing up, there’s no accusation on his face and I’d wager that Reed hasn’t disclosed Prince Gage’s real identity. I try to push aside the unease that fills me, despite my own guiltlessness. It's no fault of mine that none of the royal high fae have taken the time to learn the goblin tongue or anything about the family that rules over those lands. Even the military insignia for each of the ranks and the crest of the royal bloodline wereforeign to Soren and his household, but purposefully omitting the identity of the Briarfrost heir feels deceitful, a ripple of discomfort working its way down my spine.
“I knew a lot about King Galen and the land he rules before I ever left the forest and served alongside many of his exiled people in the Sol Army. I’m surprised you don’t. Even with the accords signed, you still hold sovereignty over those lands, and it's baffling to me that you’ve chosen not to learn their language, their customs, or anything about the fae that King Galen rules over.”
Soren’s mouth pulls in tight, the scar making him look bloodthirsty. The air around us doesn’t change or thicken with rage though, and I see his mood for what it truly is and not just what it first looked like to me. He’s seething with frustration, a roiling and impotent sort of fury that remains unspent within him no matter how large it’s grown over the centuries. He’s been bequeathed the Celestial name and the supposed right to rule over the kingdom but given very resources or knowledge to actually do so. This isn’t just his uncle’s doing, or even due to the early demise of his parents.
I was taught the foundations of being the Ravenswyrd Mother long before my coven were murdered. I knew how to deliver a baby safely into this world before I menstruated for the first time. I could speak fistfuls of languages, cast a shield, reset a bone, dance under the solstice moons as my magic flowed into the earth as a great sacrifice and honoring to the land that sustained me, all of it before my body had begun the natural cycles that wax and wane with the earth.
I knew the names of all the covens within the Southern Lands, and the magic they wielded. Countless lessons of their practices and beliefs, how to act with dignity and respect, how to listen to conflicts and find resolution, how to provide care in all aspects to those within my care. I knew about the plentiful richesof the Stellarwyrd and their gardens, the unwieldy danger of the Mistwyrd’s curses, and the Elmswyrd’s unbreakable connection to the ley lines. I knew of the Brindlewyrd’s ability to speak with the Fates and the honor of bearing Seer’s that they hold. The curse of Banshee’s Call was drummed into me long before I ever saw a banshee, and the dangers of walking amongst those trees unprotected is a lesson I could never forget.
I knew the power and design of blood magic, the history of the Blood Valley, and the inconceivable acts of sacrifice that the kingdom has received in its history, all of such magnitude that only the Bloodwyrd coven could answer such a demand.
Every thread of knowledge given to me weaves together to form the witch I am now; the Ravenswyrd Mother, a Favored Child who rode to war and longs to return to the forest.
Why was he never taught any of this? Why did the high fae of the Southern Lands forget their magic in the first place? No wonder frustration is eating him alive; my blood is writhing in my veins at all the questions that lay before me unanswered.
Soren clicks his tongue at Nightspark as the surly beast snaps at Tyton’s horse, a warning not to get too close, and he waits until they walk peacefully once more before he answers. “My father harbored many contentious beliefs against the Goblin King and all fae under his dominion. After the war with the goblins and the loss my grandfather endured, the Celestial royals scorned the Briarfrost bloodline and any loyal to it. I learned that hatred from my father and believed the evils he claimed of them to be true… all the high fae did. No Unseelie fae has ever dared to show sympathy or kindness to goblins for fear of the consequences.”
It’s an arduous admission, the words slow to come and his face as fierce as it has ever been, and my own reply is carefully pieced together. “It's difficult to admit that people we love andadmire are flawed, just as we are… especially when their loss feels like the greatest injustice of all.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, the fury on his face diminishing, and he shrugs with an insolent air about him, looking every inch a Celestial prince, though it doesn't fill me with disgust like it once did. “I doubt the Ravenswyrd Mother or your father who journeyed so far to find the love promised to him by the Seer made such grievous errors as the arrogant high fae have.”
Shock ripples through me.
