by Layla Harper
Rogar laughs. “Safe? With a wizard running loose releasing magic in her vicinity? Safe is the last thing she is.”
“It was a test,” the Rowena replied innocently. “I meant no harm.”
A test? What on Earth is she talking about?
I glance at Gauron. He gives me the “not now” shake of his head.
Despite the pressure on her neck, Rowena smiles. “Let us discuss this civilly. I think you owe me as much.”
“I owe you?” Snarl back in full force, Rogar tilts his head and leans into her face. “It is I who is owed a life debt, witch. Have you forgotten?”
“Technically, half a life debt now,” she retorts.
Rogar’s snarl explodes into a full-bore growl that makes my teeth clench.
Rowena waits until he sucks in a breath of air before continuing. “I supplied her with a charm to camouflage her appearance which…” She scrunches her eyebrows, then attempts to look in my direction. “Why are you not wearing the amulet? Silly human. Go. Put it on immediately. I can sense it in your pocket.”
I’m not sure if I should laugh or calmly point out to her that she’s in no position to admonish me when there’s an angry seven-foot tall orc about to blow his godforsaken mind.
I reach into my pocket, scoop out the amulet, and fit the chain over my head, shuddering as the goose bumps sensation rushes over my entire body.
Rogar drags his focus from me back to the norn. “You swore to mask her scent. I. Can. Still. Smell. Her.”
“You will until she is properly cloaked. And you are correct. I did swear an oath, one I have every intention of fulfilling.” She taps his hand. “This would be so much more pleasant if we were seated across a table inside a room warded for sound.” Her words are strung together between breaths and hoarse whispers.
Rogar shows no sign of backing down. In another minute or two, the troll will attack, and not even Rowena will be able to stop him.
This deadlock is going nowhere.
“Look,” I say, about to step forward, but then Rogar’s sharp inhale forces me to rethink the idea. “Is it okay to add my two cents here?”
From behind, Gauron makes a sound, something like a cross between a snicker and a snort. “Didn’t know humans were so reckless,” he whispers loud enough for my ears alone.
I keep my eyes from rolling in their sockets. I should forge ahead. What have I got to lose? Ninety-nine percent of this realm wants me dead anyway.
But doing so might undermine Rogar’s authority, and I don’t want to do that.
I angle my chin over my shoulder to Gauron. “We can’t just stand here. Do something.”
“There’s nothing to do but follow my king’s lead. Your king,” he says, mouth at my ear. “And if you know what’s good for you, keep your mouth shut and show no reaction. Trust not what you see, feel, or hear. Do you understand?”
Yeah, and if Rowena and her troll have bionic hearing, they do as well.
“You know,” I answer back, whispering in kind, “if she wanted me dead, she had plenty of time to do it before Our Lordship arrived.”
Gauron sighs. His breath hits the back of my neck, and I imagine the defeated shake of his flaming head accompanying the exhalation.
Rogar’s expression freezes. The air around us seems to compress until a heartbreaking howl echoes from outside, piercing the ice-cold sheet of tension silencing the hall. A second howl follows on the heels of the first.
Gray.
“Bring me my warg,” Rogar growls.
Rowena clasps her hands around Rogar’s wrists, shoving back against his grip. At the doorway, the troll tenses.
“Promise he shall not harm my subjects,” she says. When Rogar doesn’t agree, she shakes her head. “Then blood will flow.”
Rogar’s heavy breaths land like slaps against the stone. His body size increases, wider, taller, the change insignificant yet enough to make me question my eyesight until his lips swell over his teeth like he’s got a massive jawbreaker in his mouth.
“Very well. I will concede,” he says in a voice I barely recognize. “You bring him here. I do not trust you, witch. Not with my next breath and certainly not with the lives of my court. Gray will guard what is mine. No harm will come to your citizens unless they strike first. And Ulda help them when they do.”
Rowena’s eyes narrow, the first sign of any emotion I’ve seen throughout this whole exchange. “You are very quick to judge, eh? I expected better of you. I had such high hopes for our encounter. Pity.” Her attention shifts to the troll. “Gerd, bring forth the warg.”
As commanded, the troll exits the building, a brief flash of light invading the hall as he moves outside.
Rogar releases the norn but doesn’t step back, his body a formidable blockade confining her movements to the wall. He turns to me. “Stay with Gauron.” I’m about to argue we should stick together when he growls, “Female.”
“Fine. I’ll stay with Gauron.” This time my eyes do roll.
“Remember all I have told you,” he adds, his voice—and body—back to normal.
Why do those words feel like goodbye?
I stand tall. “I want you to know that I’m obeying you not because I’ve been commanded but because I know it’s what you need me to do. There’s a difference.”
The muscle on the side of his face tics. He clenches his jaw, then nods, opens his mouth as if to speak, but says nothing. He looks at me, and all I see is an inferno of emotion.
A swarm of hornets floods my chest. My throat goes tight, like the inside walls fell to their knees. My gaze sweeps from the norn, to the vestibule, to the outside door leading into a courtyard filled with dangerous fae, before locking onto crimson eyes filled with… sorrow? Remorse? Regret?
The look zaps panic into the mix of emotions I’m feeling. Whatever is going on inside that gorgeous orc brain of his needs to stop. “I’m not the only one in danger here. I want you to remember where you are. I want you to take care of you. Do you hear me? I’ll be pretty pissed if anything happens to our king, Your Lordship.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Then I will endeavor to grant you your request, female.”
I roll my lips to keep from smiling like a loon. This guy. I swear. The things he does to my insides. “You be sure to do that, good sir.”
Before he can respond to my cheesy reply, the door to the vestibule opens. Barely fitting through the door, Gray pads into the room, a low, forewarning growl rumbling through the space. When he reaches Rogar, he throws himself against his master, rubbing his ginormous head and lips around Rogar’s thick waist like a two-month-old Lab puppy excited his person has returned home after a long day at the office.
The door drifts closed, but before it does, I catch the crowd of fae peering into the hall, each wearing near-identical expressions of naked curiosity.
And mistrust.
Rogar lowers himself to one knee. Placing a gentle hand on each side of Gray’s muzzle, he leans forward until they’re head to head. They remain in that position for a moment, the only movement in the room the slow back-and-forth drag of the warg’s giant tail against the stone floor.
Despite the animosity waiting for us outside, I’m moved by Rogar’s connection to the warg. It goes beyond their telepathic communication. It’s affection and loyalty and trust.
It’s family.
That feeling—that connection—is a sentiment I’ve never experienced and probably never will, least of all here. I’d be a fool to think otherwise.
Rogar rises, gives Gray another pat on the head, and then faces Rowena. “Shall we begin our civilized discussion?”
Gray makes his way to where I’m standing with Gauron and scrutinizes both the norn and the troll with a wrinkled snout and an aggressive lift of his ears.
“You may take the human outside while the king and I discuss our respective fates,” Rowena tells Gauron. “I have given you my assurances that none here will harm you. You may hold little trust in my troth, but amongst my su
bjects, my word is honored. Just the same, Gerd will remain at your disposal, which should give King Rogar some semblance of satisfaction. And human”—she flashes her eerie black stare my way—“do not remove the amulet. Should you do so, I will not be held accountable for your actions or those of the fae outside.”
Glamour on or die.
Easy choice with no brain cells sacrificed in the process.
A silent exchange passes between Rogar and his second. At the end, Gauron scrunches his face, then makes a sound that’s more reluctant acquiescence than an outright groan. He steps forward, curls his right hand into a tight fist, smacks it over his heart, and bows. Rogar touches Gauron’s right shoulder, but his eyes are locked on mine.
Goose bumps prickle over my skin. Why do I get the sense he’s trying to tell me something? Why does this feel like goodbye again?
And what if it is?
Isn’t that what I suggested? Isn’t it what I want? For Rogar to take his people and go back to the safety of Drengskador so I can get back home?
I’m frowning when Gray leads Gauron and me outside into the blinding sunlight of dual Alfhemir suns.
Chapter Seven
Rogar
“I should have let you drown.” Anger ripples through each word as I lower my body into the chair.
Joining me at the table, Rowena laughs and sweeps her long skirt aside. “You say that now, but we both know the truth, my handsome king. Were you returned to that miserable pit, the outcome would be the same.”
Were I returned to that miserable pit, I would surely strangle her finely boned neck—a mistake I can still remedy. Alas, she holds my mate’s well-being in the balance, and until she turns over the charm, I am at her mercy. A fact that makes my claws itch to rip this room to shreds.
I settle into my chair and somehow manage not to growl my displeasure. “You presume too much, witch.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps that is exactly what you would have me believe.” Leaning forward, she interlaces slender fingers beneath her elfin chin, her long hair spilling into fiery waves over her left shoulder. Graceful and elegant, the visage beguiles the unsuspecting fae—male or female—into a false sense of security.
An allure as treacherous as the illusions she weaves.
“I will admit,” she begins, “your past actions were quite unexpected. A savage warrior freeing dozens of dark fae held illegally inside an autumn prison? Unheard of. And then to learn it was not just any orc who had freed me but the half-breed offspring of autumn’s beloved princess, who by fae law should have worn Regnir’s crown. Well, such acts make one ponder the bearer’s motives, do you not agree?”
This is not the first time the norn has referred to my mother or her premature death. My guard goes up. “What do you want, Rowena?”
“Ah, finally.” She throws her hands in the air before they drop into her lap with a soft plop. “He adopts my name in a sentence. How refreshing to hear ‘Rowena’ instead of ‘norn’ or ‘witch.’” Her pink lips curve enticingly. “I do admire your no-nonsense approach to a negotiation, King Rogar. Another admirable quality that precedes you.”
She taps her chin and leans back in her chair, folding her free arm across her torso. “What do I want? I want sanctuary for Lithyr’s citizens, but you already know that.”
“This again?” I am not opposed to aiding the Lithyrians in their quest to find temporary shelter, but I will not do so at Drengskador’s expense.
“I take it you have not reconsidered?”
“You swore an oath.”
“Which leaves us with my apology.”
An apology? Now what game is she playing?
“Don’t look so surprised. It is not an inconceivable notion. Rare, yes, especially amongst fae, but not unprecedented. Stranger things have been known to happen. For example, an orc king freeing a norn from his aunt’s prison.” She shrugs. “Perhaps, Rogar, king of the orcs, we are more alike than different.”
That, I truly doubt.
And best I mind the words leaving her silver-tipped tongue. No fae compliments another unless it is to their advantage. I shift my position, bearing my weight on my right elbow in a casual pose that belies the tension gnawing at every limb.
“You are not even the slightest bit curious?” Raising her hand, she presses her forefinger and thumb together. “Not even the tiniest bit?”
“No, but I am curious about something else.”
She stills, her dark eyes watching me intently.
“You bargained yourself out of a life debt owed for another you have yet to fulfill. Why?”
The smile falls from her face. She remains seated, her body rigid like the wooden frame supporting her weight. “I have every intention of carrying out my oath.”
She would have to. The alternative is death. The Great War destroyed a millennia’s worth of orc history, including our magical archives, but it is common knowledge among fae that intention forms the basis of the magic used to bind an oath taker. As long as Rowena intends to deliver the charm, the oath stands. However, the millisecond that intention changes, be it by thought or action, the oath taker’s life is forfeit.
Rowena rises from her seat. “I want your word you will help defend against winter.”
“What do you know of Tyerim’s impending invasion?”
She seems to wrestle with the question, or more likely, what to tell me. “They advance upon us, but as for the why, I can only presume it is related to you.”
The Hunt.
The betrayal claws at my nape. “You are certain?”
“I have my spies.”
I let my shock show. “You have infiltrated winter’s court?”
She answers with a one-shoulder shrug. “Among others.”
Which means her spies could also be in Drengskador.
Jatta.
Rowena leans into the table, fists pressing against the wood surface separating us. “Princess Daenestra marches with a contingent of fifty fae soldiers on her father’s orders. We are weakened from our defense against the goblins. My subjects are tired and hungry. I cannot secure this camp from another assault alone. We need time for our magic to recharge. As it stands, we can barely shield the perimeter with illusion, never mind penetrate fifty minds.”
“Lithyr was warded with illusion?” Is that how she avoided war all these years?
“Very perceptive, King Rogar. Our borders have been closed to travelers since my arrival,” she concedes. “We use illusion magic to thwart unwanted guests while wards installed around the perimeter keep the more persistent pests out.”
“Like the goblins?”
She shakes her head. “No. Oh no, no. The goblins knew exactly where to find me.”
“Of course they knew. A triad of norns living together in an idyllic village? That is the kind of information that travels to every mouth and ear in Alfhemir. I am surprised a stronger regiment did not overtake you years before.”
“You think luck saved us from peril?” Her hands move from the table to her hips. “Exactly how did you learn of my whereabouts, King Rogar? Who whispered such interesting tidings into your ear?”
I open my mouth to speak. No name slides forward in memory. No conversation. Just a deep-seated awareness that Rowena was—is—in Lithyr.
“Care to retract your statement?” she asks in a haughty tone. “The life debt forges a bond between us. Until satisfied, you will always know where I am, and I you. No one else in Alfhemir is aware of my existence since I am protected from spell casting.”
I cannot refute her words. They resonate with authenticity.
She moves away from the table and wraps her slender arms around her torso. Her brows slant forward, weariness tugging her ethereal features. “Our illusions worked until the goblins attacked. Someone in your inner circle revealed our location. They came for you.”
Impossible.
I refuse to believe one of my own betrayed me, but Aelinor’s words come back to haunt me. “Only the four of us knew
of the last-minute change to our itinerary to Lithyr.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “How long?”
“What?”
“For how long did you shield Lithyr?”
“Ten years,” Rowena says with a lift of her chin.
Ten years?
I had freed her three centuries ago. Rowena is many things, but she is no fool. After all this time, she would not subject herself to an oath on a whim, so why would a powerful norn endanger her life for a charm she cannot yet produce?
I can smell the truth, hovering somewhere outside my periphery. I just have to lead her to it.
I flatten my back against the chair. “You sensed me in the woods? Through the life debt?”
“I did.”
“Hmm. Those were powerful illusions you employed.”
Her eyes flit to the window.
I follow her line of sight to a shadow darkening the pane. “Who are you running from, Rowena?”
Her gaze snaps to mine, her voice indignant. “I run from no fae.”
“If not run, then what are you hiding?”
Expression masked, she remains standing, neither disputing nor acknowledging my claim.
The air in the room thickens, and the answer clicks into place.
Not a what… but a who.
The truth has been under my nose this whole time.
“The wizard.” Like humans, they are outlawed.
“See,” she says quietly, flicking a hand in the air, “we are not so different after all.”
Rowena rounds the table and goes to face the window overlooking the encampment. “Every fae out there was abandoned at some point in their lives. Half-breeds like you and I, all deemed unworthy by our elite elders because of their heritage. All shamed and discarded like yesterday’s trash once their Unseelie abilities manifest.”
Light and dark.
Seelie and Unseelie.
Old hurts burn my throat.
“Like the others, Ilearis was abandoned. They couldn’t have known, it was too soon, yet”—her expression twists into a sneer—“her progenitor removed her tongue. I found her drowning in her own blood. She was three years old.”
As in all things fae, we kill that which we fear.
