Page 77 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

He looks at me sharply. I incline my head. I meant what I said to Dante last night. If I am to remain here, then I am to make things interesting—and fairer. For all the problems the human realm had, there were ways around them sometimes. And I had little power to change them anyway. Here? Here, I can do as I like, within reason. Oisin knows this place better than I do, so why not work to make his dreams a reality?

“We will?” He crosses his arms over his chest, hackles raised in suspicion.

“I need to know exactly what is happening here. All of it. We need to build a new court. And I want to know everything you think should be changed regarding the Seelie and how we can best implement that.”

Oisin stares at me. His arms drop to his sides, and he shakes his head. “You can’t… You’re not serious.”

“Of course I am.” I scoff and start walking. Best to keep him off-kilter too, at least until I am certain he will be an ally. Though the bond will help with that, too. “I had no plans to rule. Have no plans. One of us should know what he is doing.”

Oisin snorts as he catches up. The way to the castle gates is empty, but fae line the streets beyond, waiting for us. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he whispers.

I shrug one shoulder. “Then we will learn together. Now, come. You understand what is expected of you here, surely?”

His bemused expression twists into a haughty one; into the same expression he wore the night of the ball. He tosses his short hair back and squares his shoulders. “Of course I do.”

We walk in step down to the oak tree, and the fae are reverently silent as we pass. Most are high fae, though I see selkies and kelpies and gancanagh who have been drawn in from their own settlements nearby. There are Seelie fae at the back, and all I see are focused on Oisin, as though he carries their hopes for the future on his shoulders.

I suppose he does. That has never been my weight to bear. There have been Unseelie fae on the thrones… I frown. My parents were Unseelie. I cannot remember who came before.

Veles waits next to the oak. Zomo stands on the other side of it. She holds one crown, he the other. I take note of that. He wants her on the court, and I am inclined to agree. I glance at Oisin. Considering how he greeted her at the ball, he might be amenable to that. Besides, there are no other fae I can think of who I would insist upon.

Perhaps Veles himself, but then I cannot trust that his loyalty will remain to us forever. He is willing to see me crowned. That means nothing in the long run.

I approach Veles and Oisin approaches Zomo. The oak stands tall and sturdy between them. If I reach out—even a little—I can feel the thick network of its roots, delving as they do deep into the earth. The power comes from us, via the crowns, but most importantly, it comes from here. Without this tree, there would be no Otherworld at all. Our realm would collapse in an instant, with no escape.

The crowns have some of its essence inside of them. The original crowns, my mother once told me, were made of branches fallen from the tree, worn by those fae who existed back then, back when humans were a mere imagining. They have been changed since, wrapped in gold and gems by fae who have eyes like magpies, but I know they would sit heavy even without the adornments.

I lower myself to one knee and duck my head.

No words pass Veles’ lips. The crowd is silent, the only sound the stirring of a breeze through the leaves of the oak tree. He sets the crown upon my head and I see, out of the corner of my eye, as Zomo does the same to Oisin. My magic roils inside me. There is power in this crown and I am painfully grateful that Veles took them when my mother passed. There will have been fae who have asked to be crowned, who have demanded the right to try one and see if they would survive it—already I feel the drag on my power, so recently returned to me.

Veles steps back. I stand. Oisin and I move together, both drawn to the oak tree.

It slumbers. I do not know if that is its usual state or if it is because the crowns have not been worn for months; I never approached it in all the time I lived in the Otherworld, and I do not know a fae who would. Oisin glances at me as he reaches out his hand to press against the bark. I nod. We are the ones to do this.

The bark is rough and cool under my touch, despite the relative warmth of the day. Oh. This is more than a slumber. The oak is dying, shrivelling from the inside out, because my mother should not have been trying to sustain this realm on her own for fifteen years. I frown and push my questing magic deeper. No, it is not that. Before that. The oak has been starving for centuries, and I cannot understand why.

Oisin takes my free hand in his own. If he senses what I do, then I see no sign of it in his face. Bile rises in my throat because something is wrong, and I know it is about to get worse, but stopping this feels like the wrong choice. I squeeze his hand tightly. His power brushes up against mine, tendrils reaching out to mesh together, and I feel the moment the quietly growing bond between me and Dante is brushed aside, leaving only—

Pain.

I clench my teeth so hard that one cracks. Pain crashes through me in a wave, sparking every nerve ending, and my limbs go rigid, my grip on Oisin tightening because I cannot let go.

The oak stirs under our combined touch. Our power, enhanced by the crowns, by their connection to this ancient tree, sweeps through the rot and decay, sparking it back to life again. The oak groans, branches shaking out, leaves scattering to the ground.

Around us, the fae cannot contain their excitement. The bond snaps taut between Oisin and me, and his grip on me tightens, too, as he realises the pain I am experiencing. As far as I can tell, he is fine.

I keep my head bowed, my hand pressed against the tree trunk. What is happening? Why is this happening to me?

I do not expect the oak to reply. But bark shifts beneath my hand and I feel a tentative brush of a power so great my knees buckle. It is more than simply a tree, of course. It is a manifestation of the power required to build such a realm and to contain creatures as powerful as even the weakest of fae.

The oak rattles its branches again. Fae exclaim, excited and relieved, and celebrations will begin soon in earnest, I am sure. All I feel is… disappointment. Not my own. It is deeper than that, but from some place outside of me.

I have not failed in staying here. It is what I swore I would do, and a fae can no more break a deal than we can tell a lie.

The witch would not have trapped me if she believed it was not the right thing to do, surely? She wants the realm to survive just like any other fae.

“The celebrations will begin soon,” Zomo says, and I let go of the tree, noting that Oisin has done the same. His hand is still around mine, our new bond sparking between us. It will be a while before it truly settles.