“I understand that Fates-blessed mates are something to honor and treasure, to be held above all else, and that Tauron's word in this situation holds far more weight than my own but we must tread carefully. The mention of their fate to her right now is risking a descent into a madness she may not recover from. I’ve only been able to speak with her briefly, but she’s eager to prove her use to me and to embed herself within my good graces. She seems to think that if she doesn't, I'll send her back to Yris."
My eyes lift back toward the early morning sun, which slowly creeps up in the sky. There’s no guessing what Tauron is thinking right now, only that the sight of his mate and her condition has sickened him. There's every chance Tauron is going to rail against this fate just as steadfastly as I have my own, a futile endeavor that will surely only cause more heartache.
"Do you know Tauron’s fate? The exact wording of it? Sometimes the Fates leave room for… interpretation. I won’t cause her more pain if it can be avoided,” Rooke murmurs in theold language, her eyes flicking back up to mine, and I'm struck again by the silver hue of them.
"He never told us his fate, not a single word of it. We knew it must involve a mate, because all high-fae royals are told of whom they must wed. The Fates have always woven our bloodlines together as they see fit, but Tauron never told us who, or what other tasks were required."
Her eyes narrow. "And your fate is to marry me, take your throne, and end the war?"
With my unflinching gaze fixed on her, I nod slowly. "And yours is to marry me and then kill Kharl Balzog."
She cocks her head and shakes it a fraction, "Almost. My fate is to marry you in your tradition and mine, and then to hold Kharl the Betrayer accountable for his actions. All the death and suffering he's wrought will bring about his demise by my hand. I suppose we should be relieved to find that the Fates aren't asking something truly impossible to complete."
A first attempt at a joke between us, but the reminder of her role in the war is unpleasant, my reply harsher than I intend. "He turned and fled at the mere sight of you—I don't think it's as impossible as you're making it out to be. The Fates were right in their choice of champion, no matter how much I might wish to be holding the sword he dies on instead."
After a tense moment of silence, Rooke turns from me and makes her way back to the door, calling out over her shoulder in the old language, “Tell Tauron I'll guard her with my life.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rooke
Trembling with every step, the female keeps her eyes cast downwards and her feet steadily moving forward despite the tremors that ripple through her body in waves of terror-soaked panic.
Despite her submissive position and calm appearing demeanor, her mind is working overtime, without a question of a doubt. She holds herself in readiness, preparing for a blow, and as we make it farther into the healer’s quarters, she sees the stove burning brightly. A ripple of horror works through her slight frame but disappears in an instant, as though she didn’t mean to react in the first place. A deep fury sinks into my gut at why such a routine household tool would fill the girl with terror.
I get her as far as one of the roughly hewn chairs before I seat her carefully, easing her body down and wishing I still had the far more comfortable lounge seat that was brought down for Airlie to sit in while she breastfed. One of the maids removed it for cleaning after a particularly blood-soaked healing session forone of the kitchen staff who'd slipped with a blade, and it has yet to be returned.
As I ease away from her body to sign, the female doesn't wrap her hands around her arms as I'm expecting her to. Instead, she sits rigidly and as still as a statue, staring before her, clearly focusing her attention and respect on me. She never dares to meet my gaze, as if doing so would be a great insult to me.
I move my hands slowly at first, but even as I sign faster, her comprehension stays secure.“These are my healer’s quarters. I alone reside here. You’re safe and under my protection. Are you injured in any way?”
Her eyes stay fixed on that point before me as her hands move to answer me,“No, Mistress, I’m whole and able to work. I’ll do anything you ask.”
I regard her. The long tresses of her hair are similar in color to the white blond of Airlie’s, but that’s the only similarity between the females. The hacked edges of the locks look as though someone took to it roughly with a pair of shears, the ends uneven and unkempt. Despite that, there’s a natural shine to the length, and soft curls that would be the envy of many. No matter her treatment, it’s impossible to deny her high-fae bloodline and the magnificence that comes with it.
Signing carefully to her, I say, “I'm going to make a pot of tea as I am thirsty, and I find the brew calming to my mind. I have much to think on now, but would you like a cup as well?”
She doesn’t glance at the stove, the solitary reaction she had to it clearly the only one she’s going to let slip. “I don’t need much food or water, and I’m well accustomed to sleeping on the floor. I have no plans of causing you, or anyone else within the castle, any trouble or harm. I can live on the scraps for the compost, and even then just a few, so that the cycle of the garden is not interrupted. I swear, Mistress, I’ll be no trouble to you.”
I move away from her slowly, each step measured as I keep my gaze on her, but not because I don't trust the girl or think she’s going to harm me. If she speaks, I don’t want to miss it, and my only real concern for violence is what she might do to herself.
The healer’s quarters aren’t properly prepared for such a fragile guest, and there are many ways this young female could hurt herself if she so chose. If she suspects the stove is going to become an implement of her torture, if she has endured such horrors before, I’ve no doubt that ending such pains before they begin is an appealing prospect.
In my two hundred years of service in the Sol Army, I never once considered taking my life to end the horrors that filled me, and yet there’s not an inch of judgment within me as I factor such a possibility into my care. Her story is not mine and, while I am intent on ensuring her safety, I won’t judge her for any action she might take.
The world is a cruel place, and I won’t add to such tortures to her.
With water bubbling on the stove top, I pull out one of the simplest teapots that I have. The brown clay it’s formed from was pressed together by hand before it was fired, and fingerprints of the fae who crafted it are still visible in the work. It’s my favorite in its uncomplicated design, the sort of useful object that reminds me of home.
I‘d never use it with Airlie or any of the high fae. Their sensibilities are different to mine and though it may seem like a harsh judgment or some sense of superiority on my part, it’s not. Long ago, I learned that the differences in customs between all fae folk require a thoughtful approach, but that doesn’t mean that one way is right or wrong, simply different.
The high fae covet beautiful things, and to be offered them is a mark of respect. They value the time and care that goes into great artisanship, but while I can appreciate such things, I don’tcovet them in the same way. There’s no superiority in me for that either, no moral high ground I stake myself upon. There are far too many pressing concerns to worry about, like seeing to the healing of this wounded female.
Carefully, I pour the healer’s brew into the two mugs and test their heat, adding a little water to cool them. My fingers run over the rough clay of the mugs with a small smile, their makeshift design oddly soothing to me, and I fuss with the tinctures until I’m satisfied they’re perfect.
There's a small table to one side of the chairs, and I carefully place one mug down next to the trembling female before I sign,“If the tea isn’t to your tastes there are others I can brew, but I’d like you to try that one first and see what remarks you might give me. I suspect I’ll be entertaining another high fae soon enough, and I’d like to know whether the brew is of good quality for her tastes as well.”
The longer my hands move and the more explanation I give, the clearer it becomes just how important being useful is to the girl and perhaps how vital it has been to her survival so far. At the mention of a potential visit of another, one who might judge such things, her head nods emphatically. The determination that lights in her eyes is almost manic, as though she’d drink a bowl filled with dusk-adder poison and selkie salts should I put it in front of her and claim it for the good of another.
