by Layla Harper
I close my eyes. I had risen from my chair during her retelling of the girl’s ordeal. Unlike mages, who pull magic from a single element tied to their specific court, wizards can tap into all schools of magic. And with words comes the ability to funnel that magic into powerful incantations, spells, and enchantments with the potential to rival the power of the high queen. By ripping out her tongue, the wizard’s guardians muted that ability and then left her to die. Such is the legacy born to those of us tainted by Myrkur the Dark’s failed coup.
The norn pivots, her skirts flying behind her. She strides toward me until we are standing inches apart. “She is mine. She is mine in all but blood. I will guard and protect her until my dying breath. They will not take her from me.”
“Rest easy, Rowena. Your secret is safe.”
Her spine stiffens. She holds firm to my gaze. “The ingredients I need to complete the human’s charm were destroyed in the fire. You will have it. The spell will cloak the slave mark and her scent, and I will go a step further. I will give you the name of one who can permanently remove the branding from her skin.”
Favors come with a steep price. “There is no need for the name.”
“You will have it and more. My aid in your journey. Illusion magic will deceive your enemies until your mate is safely cloaked.” There is a thread of desperation to her tone. “If it is another oath you require, you will have it. All I ask is that you remain here until we’re free of winter’s assault.”
As much as I want to walk away, I am not a monster. I cannot turn my back on dozens of innocent fae whose only fault lies in the legacy they were born into. But I must put Kyra’s safety first.
“How much time do you require to brew the charm?”
“The spell is moderately simple.” Rowena’s words are careful and measured, raising my guard. “However, great effort lies in the procurement of the ingredients. They are… very rare.”
I know doublespeak when I hear it. “Out with it, norn.”
To her credit, she looks me in the eye. “I require Balor’s Heart.”
Balor’s Heart?
Shock steals my next breath. “By the ancestors, you jest?”
“Unfortunately, I do not.”
Balor’s Heart is indigenous to the Wastelands, a territory situated beyond the Sea of Storms, adjacent to both the summer and spring courts. The land of my ancestors. The ancient seat of the orc dynasty, now a desert of bones and ash.
My heart thuds in my ears. “There is no alternative?”
Looking straight at me, she shakes her head.
“And you propositioned me knowing the ingredients were not at your disposal. Knowing…” My fangs descend.
“I did.”
I bark out a laugh and clap my hands, punctuating my words. “Well played, norn. Well played.”
I move for the door, bellowing, “Release my shaman.”
“The mate bond will escalate,” she calls out.
I halt, inches from the door.
“Already you struggle to control your urges. You can attempt to ignore it, but that will only fuel the magic until it forces you to complete the bond.”
Snarling, I spin to face her, my anger barely contained.
She removes a potion bottle from her pocket and slides it across the table toward me. “You have every reason to doubt me. I used your mate to force your hand, and I am quite aware of how this move has hurt me. But if I may, can I offer you a piece of advice?
“Why stop now, witch?” My bones crack. I am on the verge of shifting into my warrior form. I have not lost control over my shift since adolescence. Since before…
She gives me a small smile. “Your hunger for your mate will grow. It is inevitable. And although I admire your self-restraint, your orc tendencies will work against you. The potion will help.”
I eye the small bottle suspiciously.
“It will dampen the bond’s pulse, but it will not curtail your need to consummate the bond. Another suggestion? Confide in no one.”
A laugh rips from my throat. “A bit late for that, do you not think? Will you silence your troll? Your norns? Yourself?” I push.
“We have much to lose, you and I, do we not? I will trust you to guard my secret, and I yours. Just remember one thing. If the human is aware of the bond, you cannot control who she tells, or the outcome if the information is taken from her. There are many who would leverage this bond against you.”
Perhaps Kyra was right in her assessment of Rowena, but I have spent the better part of my life second-guessing the motives of too many fae to let my guard down. My fangs recede. I turn and grip the doorknob.
Fabric rustles behind me.
“Have you asked yourself why?” Rowena asks softly. “Of all the humans to be captured and brought to Alfhemir, why this one?”
My hand crushes the knob.
I march into the hallway and let the door slam behind me.
Chapter Eight
Kyra
Once outside, Gauron steers me to a shady area along the left side of the castle-like building. Gray prowls from behind, massive paws clenching the grass as he moves to the edge of the structure and whips his giant head in the direction of the camp.
My eyes burn and water. I haven’t seen daylight since I crossed over into Alfhemir, so after a week of perpetual darkness in the Forest of Night and the prison cell’s dim lighting, it’s no surprise my vision refuses to cooperate.
Blinking through tears, I cup my hands over my brows to shield my face from the glare of two freaking suns dazzling above a curtain of hazy blue sky.
Incredible.
Not worth blinding myself, but still an amazing sight to behold.
“A winter elf, eh?” Gauron’s amber gaze sweeps over me critically, snuffing out my brief flash of wonder.
“I had no say in choosing this look. This is all Rowena’s doing.” I swipe at my eyes and glance over my shoulder to where Gerd keeps a respectable distance by the door, his shadow spread across the ground like an amorphous monster. “Besides, it’s better than being swaddled in orc pee with a shaman’s headdress shoved over my head.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Gauron retorts, his scrutiny of the huts and portable shelters scattered throughout the courtyard heightening.
It’s impossible not to gawk. Rowena’s makeshift settlement is teeming with activity. Fae of all shapes, sizes, and colors amble about, performing routine tasks. Three stocky males, their furry tails poking out of leather pants, pass us on hooved feet while hauling freshly cut logs of wood to the other end of the encampment, where several fae use axe-like hammers to drive nails into the frame of a rectangular structure.
“Keep to the manor,” Gauron tells me.
“Uh-huh.” A curtain wall, manned with armed guards atop two crumbling towers, circles the perimeter of the property. Children race from one end of the inner courtyard to the other, their lively shrieks spilling into the air. And except for the fact that I know they’re fae, they look identical to their eight- or nine-year-old human counterparts.
Hearing the flutter of wings, I turn in time to catch a tiny body disappearing inside a worn-looking tent.
“Kyra, are you listening to me?”
The flap to the hut beside the pixie’s is drawn to the side. A short wrinkled creature with brown hair, dressed in pants and a belted tunic, jolts, turns to peer at me, and, with an angry scowl, yanks the flap closed.
Well, okay, then. “Was that a brownie I just pissed off?”
Gauron’s ears flatten against his head. “Do not call attention to yourself, do you understand?”
I close my mouth. He has a point. A winter fae probably wouldn’t be gaping at a pixie, or ogling a brownie, but holy cow… pixies and brownies are real!
Still, attracting more attention than necessary is a serious no-no, and despite the herb pouch secured around my neck, I doubt the campfire smoke or the aroma of roasting meat will obscure my scent if an inquisitive fae gets too close.
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“We should have a backup plan in case they scent me.”
“They won’t know what you are.” Gauron tips his head to a glittery-skinned female with silver hair scolding a pair of long-haired teens who I swear are orcs by their height and coloring. “These fae were born after the Great War. They’ve heard tales, true, but your kind has not been seen for many, many centuries.”
I cross my fingers. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
“Trust me, human, no fae will touch you. Not on my watch.”
Says the guy with bandages wrapped around his torso. I’d feel a heck of a lot better with a bow in my hand. “These fae… look different.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“More magical, I guess.” I scan the field. “For instance, the guys carrying the wood have hooves and tails. That female over there,” I gesture to our right, where a thick-skinned female stirs a pot.
He looks in her general vicinity. “Which one?”
“The one with— Are those leaves growing out of her ears?”
“Ah, the wood fairy?”
Maybe? “Their fae-ness is more evident whereas, in the right light, you and Aelinor could almost pass for human. Except for the freaky eyes, of course.”
He balks, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “Freaky?”
“Yeah. Orange eyes aren’t normal where I’m from.” Or gray skin and pointy ears, for that matter.
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” he says, sounding exasperated. “Having a human appearance is no compliment to the disavowed, mortal. The elite, our ruling class, treat all who don’t look like them as lesser fae.” His upper lip curls around the last word. “Holding a lower rank in our society means you labor to gain menial jobs slaving for the royal courts. And that’s if you’re lucky. Lithyr is a free state. In the Wyldelands, fae live unencumbered. They aren’t forced to swear allegiance to a frivolous court of fools. We are not lesser.” He spits, as if saying the word leaves a foul taste in his mouth. “We are more.”
“Is Drengskador free?” I don’t know why the answer suddenly matters to me, but it does.
He strikes a flattened fist over his heart, the hollow thump startling me. “The horde abides by the code of old. We honor our roots. Our ancestors. We will never again bear chains.”
The emotion in his voice is heartrending. Aelinor had told me about their past involvement in the human slave trade and how the other courts unified against them, nearly annihilating the entire race. A massacre on this scale leaves scars. Scars with long-term aftereffects. Scars that shape a people, for better or for worse.
“For what it’s worth, we deal with the same elitist bullshit back home.” Maybe it’s a universal predisposition across worlds. Maybe, as much as we think we are, we’re not all that different, at least from a societal point of view. “So, is that why they’re staring at us? They think I’m a judgmental high fae?”
Ignoring the furtive glances, Gauron grunts what I think is a yes and steps to my right side, shielding me from the curious stares. He points ahead.
Silently, I follow his lead, the troll in pursuit, and amble along the side of the building closer to where Gray lies, muzzle resting over crossed paws. I’m surprised there’s grass beneath my feet. Actually, I’m shocked there’s grass at all. In two high traffic areas leading to and from the building, the turf is trampled, a footpath developing. Given the amount of activity, I’d expect dust or mud, but…
I crane my neck to check out the remainder of the building and catch sight of several patches of disintegrating mortar and damaged stone. This place looks like it sat abandoned for eons, and its people don’t exactly look like they’re thriving either. “They haven’t lived here very long, have they?”
“Lithyr was attacked several days before we arrived.”
Crud. “The Wild Hunt?”
“Goblins.”
Double crud. “You think it might be related to my kidnapping?”
Gauron’s face goes hard.
The gorgeous, white-haired norn from earlier emerges from one of the guard towers. She closes the door and sashays across the field, maneuvering around a crowd of laughing fae scrubbing laundry in a large tub, and heads straight for us.
Gauron spits, wipes the back of his mouth, and mutters, “Cursed luck.”
Upon hearing Gray’s low growl, she slows, the gauzy layers of her cream gown blowing in the wind. Crossing her arms, she acknowledges Gerd, then cocks her head at Gauron, giving him a sexy yet menacing stare that, by his deepening scowl, incinerates his normally easygoing demeanor.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen happy-go-lucky Gauron since our time in the forest.
“I see they’ve let you out,” she says.
At the taunt, Gauron’s jaw pops. He’s clenching his teeth so hard I swear I hear enamel chipping.
“And you, human?” Her eerie eyes, an abnormally pale green, zoom in on my face. “I’m told your kind perform a ritualistic exchange of words upon a first meeting. Is this true?”
A ritualistic exchange of words?
I glance over at Gauron for assistance, but the evil eye he’s throwing the norn is of no help to me. “Um, yeah. I suppose introducing ourselves could be considered ritualistic.”
“Then my apologies for not doing so earlier.” She does this elegant bow and hand sweep that leaves me feeling like the clumsy stepsister at the king’s ball. “I am called Sersha.”
Her fae accent wraps around the R of the first syllable of her name.
I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kyra.”
Sersha frowns and mimics my motion, her delicate arm outstretched beside mine. “How does this serve your ritual?”
I move over and clasp her hand in a firm handshake before releasing her grip. “I… really don’t know. Old custom, I guess.”
She stares at her palm, the porcelain skin above her snow white brows wrinkling. “No magic is passed? You have no telepathic abilities?”
I shake my head.
“Then why would you brush your skin against a stranger?” She looks truly perplexed, going so far as to seek justification from Gauron.
“In the fae realm, touch is dangerous,” Gauron says. “There are beings who would steal from you in this fashion.”
“You’re not serious,” I choke. “What kind of beings? What kind of things?”
“Memories. Magic. Life force. Enchantments.” Sersha’s eyes dart about the encampment before quickly settling on Gray, who follows our conversation with too discerning of an expression for a giant wolf. “Be wary. Do not repeat this gesture again.”
“Or hold a stranger’s gaze.” Gauron’s tone is contrite, like he just warned me to avoid the pile of dung beneath my boot—after the fact.
“Why?”
“Mesmerization.”
“You’re kidding.” Orc and norn regard me gravely. “Okay, not kidding.” And here I thought only rock pythons hypnotized hapless humans. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Your injuries fail to heal, orc,” Sersha says of the bruises on Gauron’s exposed skin.
“My injuries are fine, norn,” he repeats in the same condescending manner she’d employed.
“Why do you fight our aid when it is clear your body is deficient?”
“Deficient?”
They’re squabbling over Gauron’s healing rate when I feel a tug on my cloak. I turn around. A group of little kids, three boys and a violet-eyed girl, stares up at me, their faces a blend of curiosity and fear. I guess being a winter fae with a colossal wolf practically at my feet shifts the balance of those emotions to one more of fear than anything else.
Squatting so I’m at their level, the view of Gray’s immense head temporarily obstructed, I open my mouth to say hi and freeze. What’s a typical fae salutation?
Probably not hi, hello, or hey.
I opt for “Greetings, young Lithyrians” and cringe. I sound like a female Spock minus the Vulcan hand salut
e.
The little girl raises her nose in the air, sniffing.
We’re about to put Gauron’s hypothesis to the test. I give them what I hope is a warm smile, all the while wondering if little fae children can mesmerize nervous humans pretending to be high fae.
Almost in unison, the children bend down and set four small stones on the ground before me, then spin and race for the safety of camp. “What are they—”
“An offering,” Sersha says softly.
Gingerly, I gather the stones, cupping them in my hands like the treasure they are, and straighten. “Like a welcome gift?”
“No, not in welcome but appeasement.”
“So a peace offering.” I search for their little bodies moving among the fae. “They’re afraid of me.” I want to rip the amulet from my neck.
“Many of these children were abandoned because of their mixed-race heritage.”
“God, they’re orphans.” Like me. “Who would abandon them? Who would do this to them? Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Let me guess. High fae?” I’m really not liking Alfhemir right now.
“Breeding among high and lessers is…” Sersha seems to search for the right word but comes up short. “Births among the fae are rare, yet some courts take extreme measures to protect the purity of their bloodlines.”
“Pretentious swine,” Gauron growls, drawing a smile from Sersha.
“The courts do not welcome us. Our stay here”—she casts a look about the camp—“is temporary until we rebuild. Or find sanctuary. Elsewhere,” she stresses while giving Gauron a sharp look.
A look he avoids.
Interesting.
I wonder if providing sanctuary is part of the options Sersha mentioned earlier. I can’t imagine Rogar refusing to help these people, although I can’t blame him for holding a grudge against Rowena.
Gray rises on all fours.
A hush comes over the camp. I tear my attention from Gauron and Sersha, tracking the silent wave of awe to a location directly behind me.
My breath catches.
With his hands at his hips, thick legs spread wide, and the sea breeze blowing the black strands of his hair, Rogar assesses the camp like a conquering invader. Fierce. Powerful. Compelling. The orc king gives new meaning to the phrase “strike fear in the hearts of men.”
