Farron squeezes his eyes shut. “How can I ever trust myself?—”
“Trust your scars,” I urge him. “When next you are faced with a decision, they will ache. They will remind you. And you will make the right decision. Because that’s who you are, Farron.”
When he finally looks at me, his face is drained of hope. “That’s the thing, Ez. Who even am I anymore?”
I place a hand on his cheek. “You are Farron, High Prince of Autumn. But above all else, you are a good person.”
He seems like he might argue, but Dayton’s voice interrupts us, ringing out from ahead: “Hey, we’ve got light!”
Farron staggers away from me and I follow behind him. The path widens, then opens to a glowing maw. I signal everyone to line the shadows against the walls, then creep forward.
The underfae camp lies before us. But it’s not empty. It’s bustling with people. Drums play, but in rhythm, not for battle. I catch sight of horned fae dancing, eating, attending to weapons. Food is being cooked over pits that glow not with flames but with crystals. They’re stacked like logs and must be emitting their own heat, if the steam wafting from the cooking pots is any indication. Tents dot the grounds. This is not a transient camp, and there seems to be no packing or movement.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “I thought they’d all be gathered in Cryptgarden with the rest of Sira’s army.”
“Can we sneak around it? There are tunnels over there. Southward usually leads deeper into the Below, closer to Cryptgarden,” Farron suggests, pointing to the back of the camp.
“Why waste such a glorious opportunity?” George asks. “We’re going to need information on Rosalina’s and Keldarion’s locations. Perhaps someone here knows about the rose itself.”
“What are you suggesting?” I ask hesitantly, because I know that O’Connell look. The one where they think they’ve just had a brilliant idea.
George straightens his horns. “I suggest we mingle.” Then with that, he steps out of the shadows and starts strutting down the hill into the camp like he lives here.
My heart lurches into my throat, and I’m about to dive out there and snatch him back when I notice something. Rather I notice the absence of something.
No one’s leaping up to arrest George. No one’s sounded a horn. No one’s paying him any mind. In a war camp, there must be dozens of scouting parties coming and going. He’s just another ranger, returning home.
“Well, I’m not about to let an ancient human show me up,” Dayton says. “See you down there.”
Before long, Dayton, Farron, and the twins have followed George, heads up and assured, and I’m left alone, hiding in the darkness.
I let loose a sigh. Stealth missions have never been my strength. I’ve got a perfectly good hammer. This would be so much easier if I could justhitthings.
“Here goes nothing,” I mumble and walk out.
Natural. Confident. Nothing to see here. Except I’m fairly certain one of my horns is drooping. My steps feel awkward, movements wooden, as I stride into the camp. Or rather I attempt to stride. I’m more shuffling in my effort to seem ordinary.
It’s as busy a camp as I’ve ever seen; I’d thought they’d unleashed their entire army on us at Voidseal. Where were all these soldiers stationed? Tall tents crafted of heavy canvas line the cavern, interspersed with cooking canopies filled with pots bubbling with stew and armories lined with spears, bows and arrows, and all manner of handheld weapons.
Yes, they’re preparing for war, but there’s life being lived here. A group of women are gathered around a crystal hearth, singing in an unfamiliar language. Away from the tents, two men toss a leather ball back and forth, heckling each other.There are no children, I notice.
The Eldraíth Ruvénir. That’s what Faustrius called his people. The Chosen Fallen. The fae who followed Sira down from the Above to the surface. She had taken their faeness and turned it rotten, as she does with all creations. And now they are alone in the world.
My son.That’s what he called Kairyn after Sira turned my brother into one of them. How lonely, to be the last of your kind. How beautiful a chance at a legacy must seem.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dayton’s stationed himself at an armory, blending in by busying himself with a rope. George is at a cook tent and somehow got himself on stirring duty. Stars know where the Autumn brothers have scurried off to, but I can only hope Farron keeps his curiosity in check. We can’t make ourselves conspicuous.
Which means I better find myself something to do, because standing like an idiot in the middle of the causeway is sure to bring about questions.
Ahead, I see an area populated by several firepits. Though, I suppose that’s not really the right word. There’s no smoke, no flame, only a soft glow from the heated crystals within. Cryptgarden uses gems for much of their architecture, but these are different than I’ve ever seen before. They must be some underfae discovery. In fact, when I look around the camp I spot more of the crystals: glowing in the place of torches, heating metal for smithing, and even powering a rope pulley system that moves supplies from one side of the camp to the other. Light. Heat.Energy.
My mind begins to whirr with the possibilities, and as much as I’d like to snag one to examine later, I have to keep focused on the mission.
Most of the crystal basins are surrounded by fae, but there’s an unoccupied one. It’s close to a pair of underfae sitting around another pit but?—
I know them. How could I forget the man who arranged for Sira to turn my brother into a monster?
Faustrius appears like any other soldier, huddled toward the crystals’ warmth. His red eyes are grim, the rough scratch of an untended beard across his jaw. His skin is blue-gray, the color of slate, and his large antlers are adorned with strips of colored fabric.
