Page 51

Morgana

W hen we first left Gullert, I was mostly hoping to avoid outright bloodshed between the fae and the rebels on our journey.

Of course, I thought there might be some trouble, given the lingering hostility between them, but keeping everyone free of death and dismemberment seemed like an achievable goal.

I didn’t take into account how much I’d hate the sheer, impenetrable awkwardness.

We ride in silence, all eighteen of us. The hush is only punctuated by Dots’s snuffling noises as he bounds ahead, and the sound of the litter being dragged behind Hyllus’s horse, carrying a still-unconscious Alastor.

It’s partly Leon’s fault. He insisted on riding near the back where he could see everyone at all times—which is useful for staring daggers at the rebels but not for setting anyone at ease.

I don’t think any of the Hand have realized who he is yet, but the aura of danger he projects is enough to leave them unsettled.

I suppose that’s his prerogative. Though I pray to the gods that when we get to this base it will be clear the rebels had nothing to do with his parents’ deaths.

Maybe that’s shortsighted. Part of me hopes Leon gets a chance for some closure at last. But Tira’s right—we need allies, not more enemies.

It’s a relief to finally meet some people in Trova who are on my side.

I don’t want to lose that, even if I don’t know exactly what they want from me yet.

It’s possible they plan to make a pawn of me, just like Respen, but my gut tells me that their motivations are more noble than the fae king’s.

And Will trusts them. He told me as much when we said goodbye, standing on the porch of the little cottage.

He said he’d gotten in contact with the rebels when he retired because he started thinking about his legacy.

He believes their goal is a righteous one: dismantling the Temple and going back to the way things were before the war, when people could practice their religion however they wanted.

I know Will doesn’t really believe in the gods, so it didn’t surprise me that he has strong views about the Temple. What did surprise me was the fervor in his eyes when he talked about making a difference and leaving this world a better place. He even offered to come with us.

I had to talk him down from that idea. I hadn’t noticed it so much at the manor, but seeing him in Gullert brought it home to me: Will is getting old.

His once salt-and-pepper hair is now almost entirely gray, and the crow’s feet around his eyes are deep.

I hope we won’t be walking into danger by going with the rebels, but it’s still a possibility, and I can’t stand the thought of putting him in that danger with us.

I sigh, frustrated by all the unknowns stacking up around me. The dryad-looking man is riding beside me, and I notice him flick his eyes in my direction. Tired of us all being so reserved, I speak up.

“ Sene, quas leme fri Agaythrus ?” I ask him. What part of Agathyre are you from ?

He stares at me. “I’m not from Agathyre,” he replies in the common tongue.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed…” I trail off, worried I’ve offended him.

But he smiles wryly. “I wonder why. No, my mother was a dryad, but my father was Trovian.”

“I see.” It makes sense, but I’ve never met someone of mixed heritage before. The dryads usually keep to themselves, given how different our cultures are.

“Honestly, it sounds like your Agathyrian is better than mine,” he says. “My mother only taught me so much before she went back to the Miravow. I’m Mal, by the way.”

“Morgana,” I reply automatically.

“I know.” He raises an amused eyebrow.

“What I mean is, you can call me Morgana. You know, instead of princess or anything like that.”

His eyebrows rise a little higher. “Sounds good,” he says.

“You grew up here then?” I ask.

“Kestis. It’s a town near Xatus.”

I haven’t heard of it, but I nod. “And your power…it’s viatic?”

He grins, as if pleased that I asked. “Yep. No terrial magic here. Dad was disappointed, especially because he didn’t know the first thing about teaching me how to use my power, and Mom was already gone by then.” He shrugs. “But I picked things up on my own.”

I try not to look amazed. I’ve never considered the possibility of someone with viatic powers who wasn’t brought up in dryad culture.

It means he wasn’t raised to think of violence as the ultimate sin, and he didn’t take the vow swearing to never knowingly harm someone.

It also seems that he’s not harmed by separation from the Miravow like other dryads.

His attack on Alastor makes a lot more sense now, but I’m also vaguely disturbed. I’ve never seen viatic magic used to attack someone before. The idea of that magic being turned against the body…well, it’s a frightening prospect.

I examine Mal, as if somehow I’ll be able to determine if he would use his power for evil just by looking at him.

“I’m sorry about your friend. Really,” he says, making me wonder if he can read my thoughts.

“As long as he gets better like you promised, I’ll forgive you,” I say sternly.

He nods, like this is reasonable, then casts his eyes around the rest of the group.

“So, you guys are all fae, huh?” he says conversationally. Six pairs of eyes turn to stare at him.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“It’s a viatic thing—I get a sense for people when I’m around them. And fae, they just sort of feel different to humans. More pointy, you know?”

Tira snorts as some of the soldiers glare. “That makes total sense,” she says.

“ You’re human though,” he says to Tira.

“Yep.”

He squints ahead at Dots. “But your dog is weird.”

I laugh. “Don’t let Dots hear you say that.”

I notice that none of the rebels in earshot looked around during our conversation. Mal must have already warned them about the fae and their glamours, yet they haven’t called us out for trying to deceive them. I try to think of it as a good sign as we ride on toward their base.

The sun is low in the sky by the time we hit a wide road that signs say leads all the way to the Wirstones.

We’re not on that road for long when a settlement comes into view.

The buildings seem mismatched—mostly made of wood, but with the occasional stone structure or line of thick canvas tents.

A waystation, I guess, for weary travelers on their way to the big towns and cities further south.

As we get closer, the smell of hot food wafts from multiple inns, mingling with the earthy manure scent coming from nearby stables and livery yards. We pass a repair shop and hear the clink and bang of blacksmiths and carpenters working on broken wagons and fresh horseshoes.

“Where are we?” Damia asks as the rebels start to dismount.

“Tread,” Mal answers. “It’s the biggest waypoint town this side of the Wirstones.”

“You can stable your horses with ours,” says the redheaded rebel.

“Will they be safe?” Phaia asks.

“As safe as ours,” she replies. “We have an agreement with one of the livery yard owners, just up here.”

When we’ve handed over our horses, the rebels lead us behind a row of buildings toward a cluster of tents wedged between the back of an inn and a blacksmith’s workshop.

“ This is your base?” Eryx grunts skeptically.

The redhead gives him a cautious look. “One of them,” she says before ducking under the canvas.

The others follow, with Leon staying close behind me as I step through with the fae.

The tent is furnished with cushions and rugs to sit on and an unlit camping stove in the corner beside a pile of animal skins.

It seems like a gathering place for meetings, but while I expect to find everyone crowded together inside, I’m surprised to find an open hatch set into the earth with steps leading downward.

It’s clever. You could remove the tent and cover the door with dirt, and no one would have any idea it’s here.

Most of the Hand members are already down below. I look at Leon, and he nods, telling me he thinks it’s safe to proceed.

“What will we do with Alastor?” Stratton asks, gesturing to Alastor, still lying unconscious in Hyllus’s arms.

“I can stay with him,” the large fae says, moving over to the pile of animal skins and gently setting Alastor down. Dots snuffles over and curls up beside Alastor.

“Look after them, please,” I murmur to the korigos before descending.

Downstairs, there’s a tunnel, which then opens up into a large stone cellar I suspect is attached to the blacksmith’s shop we saw above. That’s not all though. Through the doorway of the far wall, there’s a whole maze of cellars connected by passageways.

The redheaded woman disappears for a moment into the next room, then returns.

“We’ll need you to remove your glamours,” she says.

“Why?” Leon growls.

“You’re hidden here, and everyone at the base knows you’re fae already, but we want to be able to recognize you in your true forms, just in case.”

“Just in case,” Eryx repeats grumpily, and we all know she means “just in case this gets nasty.”

“Do it,” Leon orders as he removes his own glamour token. I sense he’s eager to cut to the chase, but I worry what exactly it’ll mean when we do. I have unpleasant visions of Leon leaping toward the rebel leader, sword drawn, before I’ve managed to get a word in.

There’s a subtle reaction in the rebels at the sight of the fae’s true forms. A ripple of nervousness, perhaps, as they see exactly how tall and clearly powerful the fae soldiers they’ve been escorting are.

Even though I’ve grown used to the unit, I can see they’re an impressive bunch, especially all standing together.

“Through here,” the redhead says, gesturing to the door she just used.

The other Hand members stay in the first cellar as we step through, but I know there’s a reason they brought all ten of them down here.

They’re making sure they’re not so far away that they couldn’t come fight us if they needed to.