by Layla Harper
I work the gunk into my skin. The salve’s oily scent wrinkles my nose. “Why were humans banished from this place?”
“Hmm, that isn’t a question easily answered.”
It never is. Narrowing down a war’s underlying cause is complicated. “So give me the short version.”
“Many fae look upon you as inferior beings and view your race with scorn.”
Do you? I want to ask. Instead, I rise and massage the ointment into my sore butt cheeks. Despite its oily texture, the salve absorbs quickly.
“Mankind didn’t fare well in Alfhemir. Your race—”
“Was enslaved. That much I know.” I get it, we’re on everyone’s shit list, but she’s stonewalling. “I won’t be offended if you blame humanity for causing your civil war. I’m ashamed to admit that we have a history of disenfranchising our own, and we haven’t exactly learned from our past mistakes either.”
Brow quirked, Aelinor glances over her shoulder. I can’t tell if she’s intrigued by my admission or put out.
I wipe my fingers against the top of my legs to clean off the remaining ointment, put the top on the jar, and then hand the salve over to her.
She places it inside one of the satchels on the ground. “You’re half right. The human slave trade was controlled and operated by orc merchants for eons. A small contingent of free humans lived on an island protected by magic, which ensured their freedom. These freemen colluded with the autumn court to defeat the orc nation. War raged, and eventually the other courts unified against orc-kind.”
“The humans allied with the autumn court?”
“Yes.”
What did Rogar say about his upbringing? “I was taken from my home to be raised by my aunt, an elven princess of the autumn court.” An orc child raised in hostile territory. That takes the new-kid-on-the-block experience to a whole new level. And here I thought I had it bad bouncing around from one home to the next.
“What happened to the orcs?”
“The orc dominion was vast, spanning most of the western continent. Magical fire destroyed their territory, and all surviving orcs were executed.”
I gape. Mass extermination? Rogar wasn’t taken, he was smuggled. Or maybe he was born after the treaty, under different circumstances. Still…
“Dress,” Aelinor commands, my pants in her hands.
I nod, still reeling from what I’ve just learned.
“After the war, the peace treaty was drawn by the fae with an unexpected consequence.”
I fastened the ties at my waist tightly. “Unexpected for who? The freemen?” Because clearly the orcs were dead.
“Every human man, woman, and child was banished from Alfhemir, and portal travel between our worlds was outlawed.”
“Bet they didn’t see that coming.” Instead of attaining the freedom they desired, the freemen in Alfhemir got the boot and the door slammed in their faces. So much for gratitude. “The fae lied and took advantage of a race dependent on their benevolence, and yet we’re the outlaws?”
Unbelievable.
“The fae can’t lie, but they can evade. Never let your guard down.”
Goose bumps skate up my arms. Why do I feel like she’s issuing a warning before stabbing the knife in my back?
The scent of roasted meat wafts in the air. My stomach growls.
“When you’re finished dressing, return to the encampment.” Aelinor hands me my boots.
Balancing precariously on one foot, I push the other into a boot. “You’re not coming?”
“Soon.” She sits on the ground and sinks her hands into the sandy soil. Closing her eyes, she says, “I must commune with the spirits, ask the ancestors for their guidance and wisdom.”
“Are you sure?” This place isn’t exactly safe.
She doesn’t answer. Her fingers dig into the soil, and I half expect to hear her chant, “Om.”
I backtrack to camp. The political scientist in me rehashes the morsels of the brutal history Aelinor shared. The whys of war are varied and complex. Internal rifts. Religious conflict. The need for more land or economic gain. Nationalism.
Hatred, or most likely fear of the orcs, served to unify the fae kingdoms around a central enemy, and then later the freemen became scapegoats. I get why the fae banished people from Alfhemir. If attitudes about slavery here were anything like pre–Civil War America, then deporting humans may have prevented the realm from rushing headfirst into civil war too soon after their victory against the orcs.
What I don’t get is why they prohibited portal travel. Why ward borders with magic to detect a breach by an inferior race? Why implement the Wild Hunt and whatever else it entails? I can’t squash the feeling that there’s more to this story than Aelinor lets on.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I spin around and trudge back along the path leading to the pool and the communing shaman. When I reach the rock, she’s gone.
“Aelinor?” Her satchel is on the ground where she left it.
My heart kicks over. Did something snatch her? Hunters? Drow? She was alone for two minutes, three tops.
Calm down, I scold myself. Freaking out isn’t going to help her. Or me. Besides, she’s an orc. She can handle herself. Although, with her super pale skin and silver hair, I wonder if she might be half fae like Rogar. Maybe orc and something else? But that’s neither here nor there with her missing.
Where the hell are you?
I weave between the trees, hoping the thick leaves conceal me in case there are hunters close by. The light from the silvery veined branches guides me to an area that’s darker than the rest.
A flash illuminates up ahead.
I hold my breath, moving painstakingly slow, easing closer to see around the circumference of the tree blocking my view. Aelinor is naked, chanting in a language I don’t understand and can barely hear. Magic sparks between her hands, forming a shimmering orb the size of a basketball.
Oh. My. Fucking. Word.
Her back is to me, her long silver-blond hair hanging suspended around her shoulders. She’s completely absorbed in the spinning whorls of magic bound by her palms. The chanting ceases, and she begins speaking into the orb in that strange tongue.
I shake my head. Is this what she meant by “communing with the spirits?”
This world is mind-boggling.
One of these days, I’m going to crack under the weight of its staggering weirdness. But not today. Today, I am surviving. And I’ll start by getting my butt back to camp before some freaky enchanted forest creature eats me.
Or I’m snatched by drows.
Yeah, neither scenario is conducive to staying alive.
A few minutes later, I’m at the edge of the encampment. Rogar is sitting near the roast, sword over his thigh, rubbing something along the length of the blade.
He’s going to be pissed when he sees me alone. Before we returned to the pool, he’d harangued the shaman, ordering her to keep me within her sights at all times. A part of me feels bad for the scolding Aelinor will receive, but hey, not my fault she decided to commune with the spirits instead of escorting me back to camp as her king had instructed.
Her very sexy king.
Rogar’s thick braids mix with loose hair falling to one side of his brooding face, the black strands swaying with the force of his movements. Lips pressed tight, he concentrates on the back-and-forth slide of his hand against the sword, seemingly lost in thought. He’s a fierce warrior—a king—so why does it bother me to see him sitting there alone with the weight of the world on his shoulders?
“I can smell you, female,” he says without turning his head.
Ugh. Busted. Again.
I roll my eyes. No fair. Where’s my bionic nose?
I squeeze between two trees, then startle when Aelinor glides by me.
“The tea will take time to stew,” she says so nonchalantly that I gape. “Be still until then. Go on.” Three minutes ago, she was naked, talking to a magical ball caught between her hands, and now sh
e’s completely dressed, fussing around me, guiding me to the blankets like an honored guest. She points to the bedroll like I’m slow on the uptake.
Maybe I am.
I lower my body onto the blanket as directed. I guess I’ve gotten soft living at school these past three years. A roof over my head. A meal plan. Security. Funny the things you take for granted.
But nothing about college prepared me for the intricacies of Alfhemir. I hate to think back to my life before school, to the person I was. Fearful. Leery. Starved in both mind and body. I hate to recall the three tenets that kept me relatively safe for most of my life: trust no one, watch and listen, and always be ready to run.
And I really, really hate that I have to return to those fucking rules once again.
Chapter Thirteen
Rogar
Aelinor patrols the perimeter.
The air has chilled significantly from the warmer temperatures we experienced earlier. For Kyra’s sake, I was tempted to leave the fire, but the flame is a luxury we cannot afford. We have covered our tracks well enough until now; we can leave no trace when we continue onward to Lithyr. Gauron kicks dirt into the pit, extinguishing the fire, while I bury the remains of our meal. Between the four of us, we devoured the meat to the bone and feasted on the wild berries Aelinor gathered.
My gaze tracks to where Kyra sits, blowing steam from the top of the cup she holds between two hands. The furs bundled on her body trap my scent against her bewitching form like a brand. The sight infuses me with a rush of satisfaction. Unwarranted, since I cannot claim her, yet it pleases me all the same.
“We’ve lost ground.” Gauron spits. He is agitated. Magic brings out the worst in an orc, and this place is brimming with power. “If we don’t pick up the pace, we’ll squander more time in this blasted forest than either of us is comfortable with. The hunt could be upon us, and we’re none the wiser because of the nature of these woods. Are you sure this is the best approach?”
“The strategy is sound.” Is it? Since our encounter with the goblins, my thoughts wheel around one point: protecting the mortal woman unabashedly sipping hot brew while monitoring my exchange with Gauron with an inquisitive brow.
“You risk much seeking the witch yourself.” Gauron shakes his head as he rubs one palm against the other. “I do not understand why this task was not entrusted to me.”
I can give him no answer. Kyra’s situation is delicate, yes, but delivering a human to the high queen under adverse conditions does not merit my involvement. Gauron is more than capable of protecting Kyra. He has earned his position. He has emerged as the victor time and again when the rite of Mak’gora, the duel of honor, has been evoked for the duty of ruling as my second-in-command. Never once has he failed me.
But Kyra is no ordinary human.
Perhaps he is right. Perhaps I can no longer see this mission objectively.
Gauron looks pained. “If your decision is not clouded by what occurred in Nagir, then why, Rogar? Have I given you cause to doubt my loyalty?”
“No.” I clap a hand over his shoulder. “This has nothing to do with you, my friend. There is no one I trust more in all the realms. We may not share blood between us, but you are my brother in every way.”
So why have I not told him about Kyra?
My words fail to ease his worry, but he nods. “I’ll begin my patrol. Use this interruption for a night’s repose. The earlier we ride out, the better.” Gauron’s nostrils flare. He takes a calculated step back, warily eyeing the camp’s perimeter.
I do the same. An orc’s sense of smell is more discriminating than most creatures, a throwback to the days when we were more beast than fae. As pups, we fine-tune the skill, filtering through the steady stream of everyday scents found in our environment, which then prompts a specific response: ignore, investigate, or react. And although my blood is tainted by my elven ancestry, my olfactory skills are beyond reproach.
I smell nothing.
No twang of moss. No tinge of sulfur from the mountain range beyond. No breath of perspiration from Gauron’s skin.
Or mine.
Nothing.
A strange hum fills the air.
I reach for the war hammer sheathed at my back. “We are not alone.”
Sword in hand, Gauron spreads out to one side of the encampment. I make my way to the other side to guard Kyra. She drops the cup in her hands and rushes to her feet, pivoting on a heel, gaze darting about.
The air grows heavy and charged.
“What’s going on?” she asks, breathless.
“Stay behind me,” I whisper. I do not like this. “Show yourself,” I demand of the intruder.
At the perimeter, black mist materializes and moves toward us like a rolling wave. I dodge for Kyra and hit an invisible force. Helpless, I watch the mist rise and form a curtain around my mate.
“Kyra!” I swing the war hammer at the invisible barricade separating me from my female.
“No.” Kyra waves her hands at me. “Rogar, stop. Don’t hurt it.”
I halt my swing. Tongues of dark mist rise from the ground, circling between Gauron and me like a serpent. I throw my hand out to stop Gauron from thrusting his sword. I cannot risk retaliation, not when my mate is cocooned in this cursed gloom.
Aelinor races into the clearing. “What in Alfh—”
The mist encircling Kyra builds, the column growing taller as the color changes from black to gray to white.
“Kyra, talk to me.” I can see her through the haze. “Tell me—”
“It’s okay,” she responds. I am not sure if she speaks to me or my invisible enemy. She twirls around, marveling at the mist, running her hands through the spray. “It’s curious.”
I swallow. “Curious?”
“About me. About what I am.”
Gauron stands speechless beside me, weapon still firmly gripped in his hand. “What in the ancestors is it?”
My heartbeat echoes in my ears. “I do not know.”
“I sense both good and evil,” Aelinor adds. I feel movement to my right, but I do not take my eyes off my mate. “The capacity for mercy or great malevolence.”
The vapor coagulates and reforms into beads. Thousands of iridescent globules of light shower upon my mate, coating her skin and illuminating every inch of her body.
Kyra wiggles, then barks out a laugh. “Hey, that tickles.” She brings the back of her hand to the front of her face.
We watch in amazement as the beads transform into tiny white-winged creatures.
“Are you guys seeing this?” Laughing, she twirls around again, the column of flapping vermin moving with her. “I feel like the girl who fell down the rabbit hole.”
Gauron and I exchange worried glances. I am at a total loss of what I must do to extract her from this danger.
As suddenly as the mist appeared, it dissipates, leaving no trace of its existence except for the grinning mortal standing before me.
I rush to her and grip her shoulders. I want to crush her against my chest. “Are you hurt?”
“No. What the hell was that?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Gauron says.
Aelinor steps forward. “How did you know its intentions?”
Shaking her head, Kyra shrugs. “I have no idea. It didn’t feel malicious. I can’t explain how I know. I just… It was curious about me. I can’t be making this up.” She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head again. “This place is so—”
She wobbles, and I catch her.
Kyra raises a hand to her forehead. “I think Aelinor’s tea is getting to me. That could explain my hallucination, right?”
I steady her.
“Come on, Rogar, tell me I just hallucinated that whole thing.” She searches my face. “Oh my fucking word.” Covering her mouth, she regards the encampment as if seeing it for the first time. “Holy shit. I should be scared out of my mind, but it was amazing. Like… I can’t begin to explain the sensations.”
He
r mood is infectious, which is worrisome given our circumstances.
“It is possible that the tea is affecting her mental state,” Aelinor tells me with a bob of her head. “There’s no precedent for the effect our herbs could have on a mortal’s constitution.”
“I’m not drunk.” Kyra steps away from me. “I’m okay. I feel a bit dizzy and super relaxed, which, yes, shouldn’t be the case after that experience. But oh my freaking word. That had to be what an out-of-body experience feels like. Floating. Your body suspended by thousands of white butterflies.” She shakes her head. “I sound insane. This place is insane.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “You did not float. Come. You need to sit.” I guide her to the bedroll and wait until she lowers herself onto the bedding.
“I didn’t float?”
“No,” I answer more tersely than I had intended.
“The danger appears to have passed,” Gauron notes. “Do we stay the course, my king?”
Kyra needs rest. I cannot force her upon a steed. Not now. Not after this development.
“We stay the course.” He is not happy with my answer. I am not happy with my answer. “Be vigilant. Both of you. I do not know what came to pass here, but we have been made aware of a sentient presence, and for the time being, we have been given permission to remain.”
The question Gauron and Aelinor do not ask is for how long?
How long will our luck hold out before our shimmering host has a change of heart?
Chapter Fourteen
Kyra
“Sit, female.”
A moment ago, I was Kyra. Now we’re back to “female.”
I pause. A minute ago he was freaked out to the max, calling my name, terror flashing across those dreamy crimson eyes.
I sit down and tilt my head to stare at my seven-foot guardian.
Huh.
Maybe there’s something here? He is wound awfully tight. Who wouldn’t be after what we all just experienced?
Maybe I am drunk. I’m ruminating in my head about the sexy fae I should not be extremely attracted to. Smart Kyra would be eyeing this campsite, mapping an escape route to God knows where. She’d be contemplating calling on her metaphysical, butterfly-loving, supernatural fairy godmother—or father?—to fly her back home.
