Page 31

Thirty

Drystan

R ose’s weariness filters through the bond, and I glower at the Fomorians.

Coming here under a guise of truce while smuggling iron? I’ll incinerate them for the insult.

A ring of flames surrounds them with little more than a thought, pressing in.

“Wait!” the male at the front—Arvid—protests. “We swore we’d leave all of our iron behind. This is a misunderstanding.”

“It was me!” a child’s voice cries, “I did it.”

My insides wither as the young Fomorian female is shoved forward by her elders to face Rose’s judgement. She can’t be more than ten summers old. That’s not unusual. They’ve sent children against us in raids before, though that stopped once Caed took over the invasion.

It grates on me to approve of anything he’s done, but he was a more honourable adversary than his predecessors.

My eyes slide sideways, checking his curse mark in hope, only for my jaw to clench when I see no change. Damnit. Desperation has begun to claw softly at my insides over the last week, since the night I caught him kissing Rose like a dying man, and this is just the latest in a long line of failures on my part to break that stupid curse.

What more does the Goddess demand of me? What more must I do?

Returning my focus to the child, I frown as I note the rich green of her eyes and the single points of her ears.

Caed sees it too, grimacing as the child draws out a rough and rusted metal collar from the front of her tunic, laying it on the ground with a fearful look at the six of us.

“It was my da’s,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave it.”

Goddess-damnit. Rose droops like her limbs are too heavy for her, her nausea and sadness streaking down the bond.

All that this child—this half-fae child—has of their father is a fucking collar.

Rage burns at my insides even as Lore blinks forward and snatches the thing up, throwing it as far as he can from our group. I can feel Rose burning with disapproval, so I cut her off before she can do something that will harm her, like tell him to retrieve it.

“There are better ways to remember your father. Ways that won’t harm his people or his queen.”

The kid’s jaw wobbles, but Fomorians don’t cry, and she’s apparently no exception. Her head jerks down in agreement, silenced by the intimidating glares of her peers.

Keeping a mental eye on Rose—whose energy is returning now that the collar is away from her—I tamp down the flames.

“The Nicnevin gave you a gracious offer,” I say, my voice still dark with threat. “Take it, or crawl back to your mountain and take your chances with your king.”

“We’ll camp by the wall,” Arvid agrees, cutting off his female’s protests before they can form. “And await word in the morning.”

Rose nods, then gives Lore a meaningful look that results in her quickly being blinked away.

Urgh. We won’t see either of them for a few hours.

“I’ll coordinate with the watch on the wall,” Bree mutters, and we all hear the unsaid ‘so you’re not shot on sight.’

“Do you have enough provisions?” It grates on me to ask, but Rose will want them taken care of.

“Enough that we don’t have to risk bargaining with your people,” the female grunts.

Arvid frowns. “Asta, enough. The prince is alive and well.”

“And what about the princess? She’s probably been eaten by trolls.”

I can’t help but snort. “We don’t eat Fomorians. The meat is probably too bitter from all the lying you do.”

“Prae’s fine,” Caed says, dismissively. “Busy fucking her new mates.”

“Fomorians don’t have mates,” Asta retorts.

Caed opens his hand in answer, displaying the deceptively delicate sunburst across his palm. “Tell that to the fae goddess.”

Some of the Fomorians crane their necks, but of course, only those with fae blood can see what he’s trying to show them. The eyes of the child at the front go wide, and she whispers under her breath.

“It’s true.”

“The Ancestors—” Arvid begins but is cut off when Caed rolls his eyes.

“Would’ve stabbed you in the back for deciding to abandon your king, so who gives a fuck what they think?”

A dark cloud seems to fall over the Fomorians at that proclamation, and Jaro’s wolf shifts uncomfortably.

“Set up your camp,” I say, pushing as much finality as I can into my tone. “You have much to discuss.”

They look exhausted, and I grimace at the thought. Goddess, I’m pitying Fomorians. Whatever next?

My next stop is the inner wall, where a certain knight commander has apparently ordered that he’s not to be disturbed. I know why, and for that reason I hover a few feet away, watching as he stands with the families of his fallen knights as their ashes are interred beneath the stones.

The weeping of those left behind has become wearisome after all my years as Lord of the Wild Hunt, but it seems strangely poignant today as they filter past me, their grief fresh.

Florian lingers by the carved stones on the parapet, tracing the freshly made lines of text with his fingers.

Ah. Ascal, Kendel, and Merith. The knights he lost.

He notices me, of course, but refuses to face me.

“If you plan on speaking, get on with it.” The big male’s voice is rough as his hand falls away from the grave marker.

I raise one brow. “I’m not one of your knights to be bossed around. Where’s your mate?”

Silence.

Ah, so he came up here to be alone.

“Well, your sister has just granted sanctuary to a bunch of Fomorian refugees, so?—”

Florian whips around so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over. There’s a certain grim satisfaction in watching his expression fly through incredulity, fury, and finally suspicion.

Admiration, and more than a little envy, shoots through me as the bigger male freezes, shutting his eyes to take a deep breath, then another.

The knight commander has a temper. Everyone knows it. But what most people don’t see is just how long it truly takes for him to erupt. Recognising rage and neutralising it before it can manifest through violence or cruelty is noble.

That level of self-mastery is especially admirable when one’s nature is to do the opposite.

Of course, he’s had thousands of years to reach this point. By my best guess, he’s only a hundred years younger than Lore, although I doubt the redcap will ever attain Florian’s level of maturity, even should he live another three millennia.

Once again, I’m struck with gratitude that it didn’t take me that long to meet my mate. A mere five centuries is nothing by comparison.

“What. Fomorian. Refugees?” Florian finally grinds out.

My own tone sinks lower as I answer. “The ones fleeing Elatha’s desperate attempts to unearth some ancient evil beneath his stinking mountain.”

The sobering thought—that perhaps Caed wasn’t talking out of his arse about these bàsron—hits both of us at the same time. No part of me wants to believe that the monsters are anything other than some tale told to scare Fomorian children.

Caed believes they’re real. More importantly, Rose does too.

Her instincts are guided by Danu, which means there’s a good chance that Elatha is about to unleash something terrible on the world.

Even if she’s wrong, her soft heart wouldn’t let the Fomorians suffer. Especially not now that she’s seen that half-blood child.

So it’s now my job to ensure this works.

“He’s throwing them at the Deep Caves,” I continue. “And I doubt these are the only ones who will end up on our doorstep.”

“Those same Fomorians are responsible for this .” Florian gestures at the groups of mourners dotted along the wall, his icy eyes falling to his knights’ names briefly. “They can’t stay here.”

With that proclamation, he starts to stride back along the parapet.

“You say that like you don’t wear a Fomorian’s mark on your skin.” I fall into step beside him.

He shrugs, but his brow softens incrementally as he looks down at his arm. He’s very lucky that mating a Fomorian grants him a mark. Matings with mortals and some other races are one-sided, with the mortal gaining a mark, and the fae untouched.

Perhaps that’s yet another sign of the Goddess’s favour.

“Praedra and I have history. She’s committed to making this right, and she works night and day on improving our defences. These Fomorians have come here, seeking our aid, and what do they offer in return? They don’t know how to work the land. They can’t use magic. They have very few healers.”

“They can fight.”

“Would you fight side by side with one of them, knowing they might’ve been responsible for the death of your loved one?”

I offer him an unimpressed look. “I’ve accepted one into my mate’s bed, knowing full well that he’s killed dozens of fae. More than likely one or two members of my own Host.” I cut myself off there before I can reveal too much.

There are thirteen days until Beltaine. Thirteen. Less than two weeks. The fae in the inner city are already enthusiastically planning the celebrations, working with what they’ve got even though what they have is pitiful.

“You don’t trust him, though.”

The frustrated breath I draw in through my nose must clue him in to how little I want to discuss Caed’s Goddess-damned curse, because he quickly moves on.

“I don’t think the people will forgive so easily, either.”

Therein lies the problem. Rose still doesn’t even have the support of all four minor royals. Now she’s courting disaster by adding these refugees into the mix. Eero has been claiming all along that Rose has been corrupted by Fomorians. Having Caed in her Guard was bad enough. Now she’s welcoming the enemy into the Nicnevin’s own city…

“Her whole court is meeting to discuss the issue,” I finally say. “I hope Kitarni might have some insight.”

But when we get to the war room, it’s chaos.

Rose sits at the head of the table, her court opposite her, with Wraith’s white furry head in her lap. The others pore over the huge map of the city spread out on the surface.

“We just drove the Fomorians out, and now you want to open the doors and let them back in?” Caed shakes his head. “You can’t trust them.”

“It’s too much change, too fast,” Jaro agrees, and though his tone is softer, there’s still a touch of the wolf in his eyes. “Rosie, there’s been too much death, too recently, for anyone to even consider trying to make this work.”

“The Goddess demands it,” Kitarni places both rough brown hands on the map, leaning over it with her spine straight and her brows pinched in challenge. “Everyone saw Danu’s proclamation in the Temple. She claimed the Fomorians as her own.”

“Danu’s orders are one thing,” Gryffin says. “But very few people actually heard them. Short of her hand-delivering instructions to welcome the Fomorians with open arms to every fae in Faerie, it isn’t going to happen. People will die.”

Rose drops her head into one hand, hiding her dull violet eyes from my view, and I grimace as Caed opens his mouth to drop yet another speech about how his own kind can’t be trusted.

She looks exhausted, like resignation is written into her very bones. Earlier, she had hope and resolve. Now she’s just tired.

“Enough.” I don’t mean it to come out as snappily as it does, but the sight of my mate sitting there with her needs so obviously unmet has rage skittering up and down my spine. “Rhoswyn. Go to bed. Lorcan?—”

He hops up from where he was lying with his legs against the wall, catching the dagger that topples from his bare feet without missing a beat.

“I’m cuddling Rose, right? Pleeasseee.”

I huff out a breath as I pray, once more, for patience. “You’re guarding Rose. She’s exhausted and needs actual sleep.”

Lore takes his hat and pops it over Rose’s hair, where it turns into a droopy nightcap. “The púca wore you out, anyway, didn’t he, pet?” He pauses. “Wait. Don’t forget to come and get me if it looks like I’ll miss out on any maiming, massacring, or mutilation .” He plays with the last word like it amuses him.

My eyebrows rise, but I make no comment beyond jerking my chin at the door.

“The rest of us”—I look around the table, pinning Jaro, Caed, Bree, Prae, Gryffin, Florian, and even Kitarni with my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ look—“are going to work out how to make the will of the Nicnevin a reality.”

Rose stops beside me as she leaves, Wraith nudging her with his black nose. “Drystan…” she murmurs, a pulse of gratitude radiating towards me.

I like it; more than I care to admit. I like that she trusts me enough to do as I ask.

“Sleep well, huntress,” I whisper, gripping her chin between my forefinger and thumb and claiming one of her kisses for myself.

For some reason, she finds the order amusing, so I nip lightly at her lower lip in reprimand as I pull away.

“Yes, master,” she mumbles, the words quiet and meant for me alone.

Great. Now I’m supposed to sort this mess out while ignoring my own rock-hard dick, when I’d much rather take Lorcan’s place and fuck her until she falls apart beneath me.

Tomorrow , I promise myself. I owe her a spanking for scaring the shit out of me this morning, anyway.

The second the door shuts behind her, I nod to the high priestess.

“Kitarni is right. As much as I personally hate the idea, the Goddess has made her plans clear, and arguing about it is pointless. Rose has sworn that she will offer them a solution in the morning. It’s up to us to ensure that the wording of any agreement is sound and that her people will accept it.”

Caed’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. Jaro, however, isn’t trying to kiss my ass to stay alive.

“And when things go badly?” he challenges. “That will wreck her.”

He’s not wrong. Rose is undoubtedly being too optimistic about all of this. She’s a Nicnevin built for war who craves peace.

“We can make them work,” Bree suggests, his ears unusually still as he studies the map, not meeting any of our eyes. “Visibly repair the damage they did. If this goes well, and they manage to fit in, then there’s hope for after.”

“You’re all forgetting something,” Prae says, as Florian finally crosses to stand beside her, drawing her close. “The bàsron.”

All of them are staring at me, and I sigh. “You have a suggestion?”

“Yes,” Caed answers before she can. “Stop my father before he sets them loose.”

“We can’t cross the Endless Sea.” I wave away the suggestion. “Even if you were a half decent navigator and knew how to sail, we have no ships. The Summer Court is the only one with sea-faring vessels.”

“They need to be dealt with, too,” Kitarni muses. “And soon. Eero cannot be allowed to continue his blasphemy if Rose is to offer the Fomorians shelter.”

“We can’t make a plan to deal with Eero without consulting Rose,” Florian says. “And without those ships, there’s nothing we can do about the bàsron. Stick to wording this bloody bargain, and let’s pray to the Goddess that it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”