by Sage, May
“Elemental mages are known for having a greater tolerance for extreme weather, in general. Though I can’t say I liked the northern climate when we passed through Corantius. I suppose we get accustomed to our environment as much as any beast.”
Jiya was silent for a time. Then her voice was soft. “How could you not suspect anything, after passing through Corantius and gaining soldiers you didn’t recognize? Didn’t the situation strike you as odd?”
Devin would have preferred to avoid spelling the answer to that question out. No matter how he spun it, it didn’t paint him in a favorable light at all. “It was arrogance, I suppose? I didn’t think it possible for my advisors, lords who’d served my father for a generation, to betray me. Besides, I can’t say I spared much thought for foot soldiers.”
"So, what you're saying is that we're in this mess because you're a dismissive, elitist prick?"
He had no answer to offer. She wasn't wrong.
Devin had thought of servants, low-ranking soldiers, common and lesser fae as minor. Folk unworthy of his time and notice. A ruler had greater concerns: politics, matters of state, taxes, preventing catastrophes and wars. Servants were tools designed to facilitate his office.
Observing Shea had considerably shifted his views. She commanded her force with an iron fist. Her orders were law, promptly executed, never questioned. Conversely, she knew each of her soldiers' names, and the names of their children. She ate among them, talked to lesser fae as if they were high-ranking officers. Even now, she walked among them beside her horse.
Little wonder the unseelie queen was the most respected monarch in the Isle, now that the overking had passed away.
"My noticing the oddity of the soldiers' presence wouldn't have changed the fate of Asra," Devin said after a time. "Your enemy had a plan. I doubt it relied solely on my oblivious character."
If he'd questioned the Corantians, would he have been killed? Whatever way he ran the events of the last few weeks in his mind, there was only one conclusion he could reach.
He wasn't meant to survive his trip to the unseelie realm. The question was, who'd plotted his demise, and that of the rest of the Isle?
"You're probably right." Jiya sighed. "Shame. It would have been nice to have someone to blame for this whole mess."
Someone was to blame. They only had to figure out who, and why. And when they did, Devin would gladly step aside and witness all the reasons why the dark fae of the west were called unseelie.
They’d proceeded on the long march—or ride, for the more fortunate among them—out of the Graywoods for half a day when a spec of gold and red shot through the sky. Jiya—along with most of the unseelie—gasped as they lifted their gaze to the flock of gryffins flying overhead.
"Don't you see them in Asra?" To Devin, they were as common as rabbits and deer in the woods.
"Never. Gryffins don't fly anywhere near the City of Night. I think I read that back in the day, during the War of the Realms, they attacked the city. The Battle of Wings and Blood, they call it. Our soldiers were posted along our borders, leaving the city defenseless. Then, you seelie arrived on the back of those beasts. Our soldiers shot you by the thousands with fyriron arrows, but still, many passed and managed to raid the city. There were mostly children and vulnerable common and lesser fae left. I suppose your side thought they'd be easy pickings. They underestimated our children. There were many losses on both sides."
That explained it. Gryffins had a long memory. They lived a thousand years or more. Some among the flock might have seen the war.
"They're on the sigil of my house," Devin told her. "For as long as I can remember, they've landed in the grounds of the keep. Some even played with me as a child. My father could order them around as well as any hounds."
He grew quiet, realizing what it meant. During the War of the Realm, the seelie, unseelie, and elves had all fought one another, until the king of Corantius intervened, making them bend the knee and crown him overking, ruler of the rulers in the Isle, to ensure that a world war wouldn't break out again.
If the gryffins had attacked Asra, it was because his realm had ordered it.
Why was he feeling guilty? It had all happened six hundred years before he'd even opened his eyes. And his family had come to power after the war. Back then, their monarch had been the Ashes, often married to the Rivers and Windfords.
Nonetheless, he felt guilty, knowing that no Ash, Rivers, or Windford could have commanded a race as wild as the gryffins. They were bound to one line only: the Farels.
Devin had been taught that his great grandmother had been crowned after the monarch was killed in battle in the War of the Realms. It hadn't occurred to him to question how a family such as his ended up on the throne, rather than the descendants of the seven founding lines. If they'd proved powerful and cruel enough to pass through the unseelie blockage at the borders, of course the other families would have bent the knee.
He felt dirty.
"We learn our side of the battle, you learn yours, I suppose. Still, it was a great achievement for your side—I'm surprised you didn't know that."
There were many things Devin didn't know.
Eleven
Whispers in the North
The female tightened her grasp around her little boy's hand and urged him to run faster. She dared to look behind her shoulder, panic widening her eyes and gripping her heart. Moments ago, they'd seemed so far away; now the army of elves and fae drew nearer. They were armed with bows, arrows, swords. Mounted on horseback they rode with a devilish agility. There would be no hope for her, or her child, unless they reached the gates of Deretus, the city nearest their village.
Mallea had grabbed her boy and nothing else, not even food or shoes, before running as soon as she'd heard the army. They were getting close. They only had to cross the bridge and then the gates of the city would come into view.
"Faster, Ren, please." She didn't think she'd ever begged before, but to all the gods, she prayed that they made it on time.
Mallea had a simple life outside of the city. She wove and sewed dresses she sold at a weekly market, though she'd opted to live in Hers because everything from rent to food was too costly in the city. If she'd lived in Deretus, she would have been poor, and struggled to feed her boy. She knew of women who sold themselves just for loaves of bread. In Hers, they could barter, fish in nearby rivers, and Ren had even learned to hunt, despite his tender years. Mallea had showed him how to use a bow, and well…seven or not, the boy was a fae. She wished she could accompany him in the woods, but she didn't have time. Her dresses paid for their rent and his education.
Now, Mallea was questioning why she hadn't chosen the poverty, the smell of sewers, the leery scion guards. All the woes of living in a Corantian city would have been worth it, for her safety and that of her boy.
Finally, they crossed the bridge. She breathed out in relief.
"Mama?" Ren stopped running.
Mallea turned to him. His gaze was directed forward, to the city. She followed it, and her mouth fell open, horror striking as she watched.
Hundreds of fae just like her, village dwellers from around the city, were gathered at the fortified walls, banging on the doors so hard their hands were bloody, trying to climb up the hundred feet of white stone.
All they found was that the lords of Deretus had closed their doors to them, forsaking them, leaving them out to die, killed by the fae.
The forest was a mile away, but Mallea couldn't bring herself to move, her knees giving out. She buried her head against her boy's shoulder. "Close your eyes," she whispered, though hers stayed fixed on the approaching soldiers. "It will be over soon."
Dying while running for their lives, terrified, desperate, wasn't a fate she wished on her child. Her heart beat a thousand miles a minute, and she winced in anticipation of a blade or an arrow when the elves reached her.
Instead, the horses passed. One after the next, they passed by her, ignoring her as if she were i
nvisible. They kept going for a timeless lap, tens of thousands, riding fast till they reached the gates.
Mallea returned to her feet, completely shocked.
A fae turned his horse back, and yelled, "You!"
She froze, horrified at being addressed by one of them. What did they want now? Were they going to hurt her?
"Tell your people to return to their homes, a siege is no place for civilians. If they're stranded, food'll be served at sundown. We can't spare tents, but there'll be cots for those who need them."
And then, without another word, the rider kept going until he'd reached the gates.
"You're lying."
"I kid you not!" Borr protested. "My own kin is from Deretus. She wrote and said they don't touch us fae, or common folk. They just opened the gates, killed the soldiers, captured the lords, and asked the rest to elect a mayor. Elect, Frej!"
Frej knew better than to believe tales. War was bloody, especially for the people.
"I wish they'd come here," his daughter said with a sigh.
"Genna, don't you let anyone hear you say things like that! We're not traitors."
Traitors were hanged publicly as entertainment for the scions, so they were definitely not that.
His teenager pouted.
For all his words, Frej did wish something would change here in Tress. For his people, for his daughter, and her daughter after.
The fae had always been treated like scum in Corantius. If you didn't have divine blood, you were less than nothing. Servants, if you were lucky—slaves and whores, most of the time. He worked in a kitchen. He'd been there for two hundred years, and he still got paid two coppers per week; not nearly enough to take care of himself, let alone a family. So Frej, his wife, and daughter lived with four other families in one little house. The daughters shared a room, so did the sons, and the four couples took turns sleeping in the barn, sitting room, garden, and the one bedroom left.
They were better off than most.
He sighed. Sometimes, he thought of going south, moving his family to the seelie or unseelie realm, even knowing the cost of a move was something he couldn't afford. Beyond the cost, he'd no doubt be stopped at the border and told to turn right back unless he could prove he had cause to move south. And so they remained.
There was no hope for people like them in this world.
Frej enjoyed his one night in the bedroom, sleeping like a log next to Vanna, the love of his life. It was no wonder that they'd had only one child in one hundred and fifty years. They slept every night, too exhausted to touch each other often.
The next day, he showered in the backyard and dressed to go to work bright and early.
The streets were unusually quiet. He kept his head down, watching the pavement as he usually did. A good thing too—he could barely see ten feet ahead. There was mist in the air.
Frej wrinkled his nose.
No, not mist.
Smoke.
He lifted his head, and first noticed the red sun rising in the distance. There was something ominous about it.
He looked around, hurrying through the street to get to the inn where he worked, when he stopped.
There was a rider ahead, in green and gold, holding a flag with a raven on it.
Frej wasn't versed in grandiose flags, but he was sure he'd never seen that one before. He frowned.
"Are you lost, sir?" He regretted his impulse to speak the moment he formulated the words.
From his pretty, expensive armor, the man was clearly a noble scion. What if he considered his being addressed by a lowly fae insolence, and he dragged him to some dark dungeon?
"It would appear so," the rider said politely. "I was told to gather the people of Tress, yet I don't seem to see anyone at all."
Hair rose at the nape of his neck. He lifted his eyes to the windows and doors, and saw shadows hiding from the stranger.
"For what purpose would you have us gather, sir?" he asked, his tone laced with a courage he hadn't known he possessed until now.
"For the vote up at the lord's keep," he said. "You're to elect a leader before we go on our way. Tell your people, would you, man?"
Frej shook his head. "I've a job to do. I can't be late."
He couldn't afford to be fired. His family would starve within a month if he was.
"No one has a job today, sir," the rider replied. "By order of Valerius, heir to the throne."
Frej blinked and watched in awe as the rider turned back, leaving him to choose his path.
He could go to the inn—it was just half an hour on foot. Or he could call the low town folks and take them to the lord's keep.
It could be a trap. It probably was a trap. It had to be.
Then he remembered Borr's claim that his own kin had voted after her city had been taken by fae and elves.
Nonsense. It had to be nonsense.
That, or hope.
Twelve
Promises
A few weeks ago, Devi remembered dreading the thought of riding a horse for an extended amount of time. Now, she would have killed for Alarik. Walking sucked.
"I can't believe we left the dyrmounts in Staren."
It wasn't the first time she'd brought up the horses. Devi had instructed her father, who was supposed to attack the Court of Crystal sometime over the next week, to retrieve them from Vera’s Roof. And to kill the owner if that old harpy had mistreated them in any way.
"You. Technically, you left them," Vale reminded her. "I had no say in the matter, being unconscious, and—you know. Dying."
Devi glared at him.
"Too soon, Valerius," Telenar told him. "I believe that particular jab may be a little too soon for our lady."
The ancient scientist had joined their expedition north, along with Gallal. Telenar was well versed in Enlightened sciences, but he also could enchant blood tracker stones for Vale when it would be time to find his siblings. Many elves were well versed in the art of healing. Of them all, Devi had picked the charming southern warrior, because Gallal had been friendly, courageous, and eager to help when they'd met on their way to the portal of Daryn.
Valerius hadn't seemed fond of the guy at first, but as it turned out, he was quite a skilled cook. Their first dinner out in the wild had considerably endeared Gallal to everyone. Only the truly gifted could turn a couple of squirrels and some herbs into a delicious stew.
The last member of their party was Rula, a silent scout. She was the only one on horseback. Rula rode ahead to scout their path every day. A single rider brought little attention. When they woke up from a safe hiding spot—woods, a deserted village, fields—they sent Valerius's raven to her, and she found them to discuss their itinerary.
They'd only been on the road for five days so Devi couldn't say she knew the elf well. She was beautiful and dark of skin, with silver strands tattooed around her limbs. Her head was shaved, highlighting her annoyingly perfect bone structure. Devi didn't think she'd ever seen a female as beautiful as she. Which only made the way Vale focused on Devi, as though he couldn't even see Rula, more exhilarating.
They were marching northeast, following the edge of woods so that they might have shelter when needed. However, the further north they went, the less coverage they had.
Fae loved nature and never settled far from woodlands, but the topography of the northern part of Corantius was wide-open plains, covered in a soft dusting of snow, although it was already spring.
Devi charmed three of the ten blackfire stones in their supply. Three, they used to cool, one was always with Rula on her ride north, and the others were scattered in their luggage, so that they always had at least one in case they lost a bag along the way.
She handed one each to Gallal and Telenar, who took them gratefully.
Vale hesitated. "Is this taxing your energy?"
"Not even a little bit," she assured him. "I just have to ignite the spell inside. The hexer who created it did the hard work."
Her mate nodded, taking the sto
ne. "I get what you meant, finally."
She lifted a brow.
"Back when I wanted to buy you a coat? You said while the cold didn't hurt you, you prefer to be warm all the same." He smiled. "I guess we have that in common now."
They had a lot of things in common. How much, Devi couldn't tell. She felt his mind, and that of everyone else around her. His felt different. It was part of hers. She barely had to stretch, reach out to access it. The others? Their minds felt like a book she could choose to pick up, or to ignore.
Devi didn't dare touch that part of his power. Her power. After hundreds of years, Vale was still known as the dark prince because of what he could do. Learning how to control his gift had taken centuries. It was still a work in progress. She didn't want to imagine how much she'd screw up. When her ice magic got out of hand, she froze everything in her surroundings. Breaking the minds of those around her was a lot scarier.
Styx's bequest might eventually help. The goddess had shown Devi how to control her own mind—she was completely ignorant of how Vale's power was supposed to work. It was best left alone for now.
Devi pulled another blackfire stone out of the supplies to heat for herself.
"May I?" Vale reached out for it.
She smiled as she handed it to him. He didn't share her feeling about the dangers of using magic he wasn't familiar with. Vale had taken to elemental magic like a duck to water. He was even comfortable with water and ice.
He placed the blackfire stone in his hands and closed his eyes, concentrating.
Devi felt a cold wave rise from Vale and put her hand on his arm to stop him. "Fire," she said. "You're accessing ice. It's the easiest element to get to because that's what's in my actual blood. Everything else is buried a little deeper. Fire feels like…" She thought it out for a second. "Rage. And love, and lust, too, but rage most of all. Remember something that makes you furious, it'll rush to the surface."
