by Layla Harper
“No.”
There’s so much those eyes aren’t disclosing. “Rogar, I know about the law. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He grimaces and shakes his head in a “there’s nothing to discuss” manner.
“The law is the reason Gauron and Aelinor tried to convince you to let them accompany me to Lithyr instead of you. And these people—”
“That is not your fault. You cannot assume blame for the actions of another. Rowena, and Rowena alone, must live with the consequences.”
I’m too tired to argue. “I know.”
“My original plan was to meet her, unaccompanied, at the outskirts of the village. I did not foresee the ambush in the forest, nor would I intentionally endanger the disavowed if I had.”
The poor Lithyrians. “What else aren’t you telling me? Because I know there’s more.” I reach up and cup the side of his face. “The guilt darkens your eyes every time you look at me.”
He goes to turn, but I hold on to his arm. “Don’t leave me in the dark. If I’m going to feel guilty about exposing people to treason, then at least keep me up to speed. Let me have a say in the decisions we make. In the consequences. Don’t make me not trust you, Rogar.”
His face goes tight, but his hand covers mine. “Later.” There’s no need to expand on what he’s about to do. I wish things were different. “I must confer with Princess Daenestra. After, we talk.” He reaches for my face again, his touch whisper soft. “Stay here. The injured are—”
“Hurt badly. I know.” Wounds so gruesome I’m not sure I have the stomach to help. “Don’t ask me to hide up here alone. If we’re doomed, I’m going to do everything in my power to aid the Lithyrians in any way I can. It’s the least I can do. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
He smiles, the gesture brimming with so much pride and sadness that I swear I feel my heart crack.
Chapter Eleven
Rogar
I emerge from the pond, the grime and gore of battle free from my skin but not my heart.
My heart…
It grieves at the memory of my mate’s strangled voice, the sheen of tears in her bright eyes, the way she offered a soothing touch and a warm smile to the wounded, regardless of race or station. Disavowed or high fae, to Kyra, it makes no difference.
As it should be.
I dry off quickly and don the fresh clothes left for me on the banks. Once dressed, I traverse the woods outside the old castle to the courtyard, my goal the warded chamber temporarily assembled into a war room.
There is no sign of Kyra in the courtyard, or the first floor of the tower as I pass the opened door. My gaze darts to the windows above, noting the one free of glass. Her arrows had been true, and because she had killed the wild boar maiming my warg, Gray is alive today.
Pride and longing battle for space in my chest, tempting me to suck down the norn’s potion. My physical need bears on pain, but I cannot consummate the bond. That would bind Kyra to a future—and a world—she does not want. She would grow to hate me.
Yet with each day that passes, I hunger for more than the physical. I hunger for her voice. Her laugh. The tenderness she bestows with her eyes. The quick wit she showers with a sassy flip of her brow.
I hunger for it all.
“They’re ready to begin,” Gauron says, joining me stride for stride as we near the manor’s entrance.
I nod. “Kyra?”
“She’s in the tower with the children, helping set up the bedding.”
“See to it a bath is prepared for her, a proper bed, and make sure she eats.”
Gauron halts. “Are you refusing me attendance at the briefing?”
I sigh, my chest aching, but not from the violence I endured. “No, not at all. I will wait for your return, but ensure she is taken care of first.”
“We need to talk about what this means.”
I know exactly what he’s referring to.
Mykur’s curse.
“Not now,” I growl. “Do as I have requested without delay.” Changing the subject, I ask, “Has Aelinor resurfaced?” My cousin had exhausted her magic digging burrows for the dead. She is not alone. Any fae with an ounce of magic in his or her blood was called on to assist.
“She’s inside.” He tips his head to the stone structure. “Probably starting a war with our ally.” The hatred between the two courts runs deep, and the outcome of the Great War only intensified the ancient bitterness.
With that, Gauron leaves me.
I push through the heavy wooden doors, taking a breath to settle the dread in my lungs. Briefings and the political balderdash that come with dealing with other courts grate on my nerves.
There are other things I would rather be doing. Things like scenting my mate’s arousal when she teases me with breasts I hunger to taste. She will be the death of me, my mate, but I will die a happy male.
I suck in another breath, my cock harder than these stone walls, and reach for the door. They are already squabbling when I step into the war room, the same room Rowena and I used to discuss the oath and Kyra’s charm.
The voices come to an abrupt stop.
Present are my cousin, Princess Daenestra; Lorien, her most trusted captain; Rowena; a pale Gerd who suffers from grievous injuries I am not sure he will overcome; and Sersha.
I take my seat. “Gauron will join us shortly.” Around the table, expressions are heavy with weariness. “We will dispense with the normal formalities given the nature of our circumstances. We have suffered much this day, and for some, that suffering is only beginning.” I turn to Rowena. “How fare your subjects?”
Her mouth is pursed, deep lines carved at the corners of her lips. “We are resilient, but our spirits mourn those we have lost.” Of the fifteen who stayed behind to battle the Furious Army, only two remain, and by the looks of Gerd, he may not last the hour.
The door opens. Gauron enters and quickly takes his place at my side. “My lords and ladies.” He bows his head. “My apologies for the tardiness.” He turns to me. “I ran a quick perimeter check. All is well, my king.”
“Let us begin,” Princess Daenestra says, interrupting my acknowledgment of Gauron’s unspoken message. “We offer Forvarra’s assistance in evacuating the Lithyrians. With your approval, of course.” She gives me a slight nod.
Rowena laughs, knowing full well she has no say in the matter given winter’s involvement. “Assistance but no place to lay our heads, is that it?”
“You will have asylum,” I interject. “Drengskador will come to your aid as previously discussed.”
Shock snaps Rowena’s eyes to mine.
Before I can reassure her I mean well on my promise, Princess Daenestra adds, “As will Forvarra. The winter court will assist the orc king’s asylum efforts. We will coordinate our resources at the conclusion of this briefing.”
Why would the winter court freely offer aid without striking a bargain beforehand? What is Tyerim up to?
I do not miss the loaded looks Gauron and Aelinor send. Struggling to keep suspicion from marring my expression, I ask, “Rowena? Is this agreeable to the Lithyrians?”
Rowena’s black eyes scroll from Sersha to Gerd before swinging back, her wariness clear. “It is.”
“Good,” Princess Daenestra says brightly. “My mages have warded the castle’s perimeter. Of course, they are not at full capacity, but once rested, the mages will return to fortify the remaining barriers.”
Her captain unrolls a map of Alfhemir and sets a weight on each corner of the yellowed parchment. Lorien points north, to a location within Wyldelands at Drengskador’s northeastern border.
I know the area well. There are caves at the foot of the red mountains that lead directly into winter.
“We believe setting camp here will provide the Lithyrians the greatest security while we discuss the logistics of aiding them in the rebuilding of their city.”
“It’s an arduous journey for an adult fae to make,” Aelinor interjects. “This settleme
nt consists mainly of children and adolescents. You prescribe a course that will take them directly through the Forest of Night. On foot. For days.”
“Yes we are,” Princess Daenestra says. “But I have no mounts to provide until we reach Forvarra. Have you another suggestion?”
Aelinor shrugs. “Perhaps if by the grace of the ancestors we had access to a portal charm or two, we could diminish the dangers of the journey,” she says, her tone whimsical, her words a blade of fire thrust into the heart of her intended victim.
My cousin, the instigator.
I lean back in my chair and say nothing.
Rowena sighs. “I have one charm remaining that is capable of transporting numerous beings”—her eyes drop to the map—“but the magic will only carry us through half the distance you are suggesting.”
“You have a portal charm in your possession?” Princess Daenestra asks.
“I do.” Rowena sits taller. “Most of my wares were obtained well before the Great War, which, as you know, grandfathers me in from penalty of punishment. Unfortunately, the bulk of my reserves were lost in the attack on Lithyr.”
Gauron considers the map in front of him but offers no opinion.
“Well then,” Princess Daenestra begins with a smile, “with the use of court-sanctioned charms and the journey halved, my army will escort you the rest of the way until King Rogar’s warriors join us. Are we agreed?”
“And what of those who cannot make the expedition?” I purposely keep my focus on Princess Daenestra and not Gerd. “We cannot subject the wounded to the rigors of portal travel.”
“Yes, of course.” The princess’s eyes soften. “I have twenty soldiers remaining in our ranks, King Rogar. You may choose from among them the best warriors to remain here, guarding your injured, until such time as they are able to rejoin their brethren.”
“Thank you,” Rowena says, her voice thick. “Lithyr humbly accepts Forvarra and Drengskador’s aid with much gratitude.”
“Are there any other pressing matters?” the princess asks me.
Her eagerness to end the meeting is not lost on Gauron.
“No. We are done.” I look to my second and Aelinor. “Assist Rowena and Captain Lorien while I coordinate the mission with the princess.”
I can tell by the abrupt stiffening of Gauron’s back that he is not pleased with my command, but he only nods and moves forward to provide the norn and Sersha aid in exiting the room with the injured troll.
Lorien bends and whispers into the princess’s ear. She nods, her gaze following the captain’s back to the door. “The room is warded?” she asks once he is gone.
“It is.”
“Good. We’ve much to discuss, beginning with what in the name of our shared ancestors were you thinking?”
“That all depends on the question.”
Hands sliding on the smooth wood surface, Princess Daenestra leans forward. “The message your regent delivered to my father. I will have you know you perplexed the king, which is a feat in and of itself. Fool? Or mastermind? I have yet to determine.” She eases away from the table, settling into her seat. “It was a risk confessing your purpose here. We could have charged into Silver Hill, killed your regent, taken your fortress, and then marched onward to take your head.”
“But you did not.”
“We have been hostile to your peace effort since the day you were crowned. We gave you no reason to trust our actions. Your plan had a higher probability of backfiring than succeeding.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?” She folds one leather-clad leg over the other and clasps her hands over a knee. “Maybe you are. Maybe you are indeed.” She smothers a smile. “In any case, the king has ordered me to support your efforts in any way possible.”
I am grateful, yes, for all she claims is true, yet… “When I sent the message, my hope was to avoid war. My warriors were prepared to defend the throne at all costs. They would have defeated your soldiers and prevented any attempts to unseat me.”
“So sure of yourself, are you?”
“No, but I am confident in the abilities of my warriors. Why are you here, Daenestra?”
All trace of humor leaves her face. She reaches into her pocket, removes an object, and gently lays an oblong-shaped stone on the table. “This is why.”
The flattened stone is the size of my hand, heel to nail. A small rectangular shape with two concentric circles abutting each end is engraved in the center of the slab’s surface.
The circle is a near match to the one tattooed on my mate’s hand.
I school my features. “You have brought me a rock?”
Daenestra laughs. “No one told me the orc king had such a wicked sense of humor. My sister will be pleased to hear.”
I ignore the second mention of the king’s scion, the heir apparent and the female I refused to marry, and wait for Forvarra’s war master and third-in-command to continue her story. Luckily, she does not make me wait long.
“This is a portal stone. Long ago, these were linked to the ancient temples used to facilitate travel between our realm and the earthly plane. According to our scholars, the stones were destroyed along with the temples as decreed by the High Council after the Reckoning.”
A cold sweat dusts my skin.
“Now, we cannot know for certain, but it was believed Myrkur built great beacons emulating the magic of the temples. We also believe these beacons were used in creating his shadow armies during the war. And although the temples have been destroyed, magic lives in the soil and in the air. For century upon century, fae worshiped upon temple grounds. Ancient magics are not easily destroyed. For this reason, the temples continue to be heavily warded to both thwart and discourage the misuse of magic.”
I recall Kyra’s mention of the ring of Doras, a holy symbol Myrkur perverted to represent his tyranny, and quickly piece together the facts. “The beacon opens the portal on the human side, but it is the stone that grounds the exit location in ours.”
“Yes, yes, that is what we conclude.”
“And how did you acquire a relic that was ordered destroyed centuries ago?”
She lowers her knee and adjusts her position in the chair. “Would you believe by chance? We were en route to perform routine ward maintenance at the temple when the breach occurred. We caught a band of goblins exiting and confiscated the stone. Unfortunately, the lone survivor said little of use to us.”
I am beginning to see a trend here. “How long ago?”
“Three moons past.”
“Three moons?” Before Kyra, yet… “The breach did not trigger the Hunt. How is that possible?”
“The human male did not survive the crossing. We believe he died before landing. Again, this is speculation on our part, but”—her eyes stray to the door—“what I am about to share with you borders on treason.”
“I orchestrated the slaughter of an entire reconnaissance unit. I think we are beyond treason, Princess.”
“This stays between you and me. No others. Am I clear?”
“You have my word.”
Although she nods, she looks hesitant to continue. “We are convinced we have been misled about specific aspects of the Reckoning, namely inter-realm travel to the human plane.”
I let her words sink in. Granted, with our race’s near annihilation, what I know of the dark times comes from sources who revile orc-kind, but there is no misconstruing the law. It is explicit. “Travel is not allowed between our realms. Only the high queen has the power to open a portal between our worlds.”
“Yes, I know, but we have been told for centuries that the ward prevents journeying from this plane to the human one. Repeatedly advised of the dire consequences associated with triggering both the breach and the call of the Hunt. But this is not the case. The call was not instigated until your human survived.”
“What are you implying? That travel between our worlds can occur without triggering the ward as long as a human is not involved?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, that is exactly what I am implying.” She leans forward again. “Time has dampened our memories, but the Reckoning did not forbid travel to the other realms. Discouraged, perhaps, but clearly movement between the outer realms is sanctioned, as evidenced by the night court hunters we encountered earlier. Of course, with the weakened state of our magics, they are fools to give up power to remain here, but that is irrelevant to the matter at hand. The Earth plane is forbidden to all fae. Yet”—she raises her hands off the table—“we find a very dead human on Forvarra soil. How do you explain this?”
“If you are right, that means any fae can cross into Alfhemir and the human realm unseen by the courts.” But would he or she be undetected by the high queen?
And if not, why would the high queen, our highest governing authority, turn a blind eye to the law?
“I have no concrete evidence.” Daenestra pinches her forehead. “This is a hypothesis at best. But yes, this is what we fear. A return to the dark times. King Rogar, our border wards were tampered with. Forvarra was meant to shoulder the blame for this crime. The human’s death averted our involvement, but it clearly did not deter our perpetrator. I am told the human you rescued is female?”
When I do not respond, she says, “She is a pawn. There is no esteem lost between the winter and autumn courts, and after Nagir, our diplomacy efforts have deteriorated.”
As had mine, a loss that still pains me. “You blame autumn?”
“Up until a few days ago, that blame also extended to you.”
“Me?”
She shrugs and arches a brow. “Autumn’s only princess is one of your three most trusted advisors. And given the fact that the high queen holds you in high regard, you would benefit most. If we were found guilty, and if our holdings were confiscated, would it be a stretch to believe the high queen would bestow more of our land to you? Hmm?”
“I seek no more than what all fae deserve.”
“We have a mutual enemy, King Rogar. One that seeks to destroy us.”
I reach for the portal stone. The weight sinks into my palm. The edges of the gray stone are smooth and worn from age.
“You should know that we have been unable to communicate with Queen Lyra directly. She has locked down her borders.”
