Page 24 of The Arrow and the Alder

A lder gazed out of his window, if one could call it a window. It was a narrow slit in the rock. Just enough to give him a partial glimpse of a natural stone bridge, where two kith wearing the moonlight robes of Light walked in close communion.

Dragging his hand over his face, Alder was momentarily surprised when he touched skin. He’d grown the beard for nearly two years; without it, his face felt oddly…small.

After visiting his kin last night, Serinbor had been tasked with escorting him to the hot springs, where Alder had washed and properly shaved. Serinbor hadn’t been happy about this task, and Alder even less so. The two men had a long and very complicated history, and being around Serinbor only reminded Alder of all the poor decisions he had made, all he’d forfeited in the height of his pride.

Especially with Serinbor. Someone who had, at one time, been like his own flesh and blood. Serinbor had humored Alder’s escalating indulgences until Serinbor’s own sister had grown affection for Alder, affection that Alder had not returned. It didn’t deter him, selfish ass that he was. He’d broken Genava’s heart; he knew he would. But it was the final blow to an increasingly fragile brotherhood, and Serinbor had never forgiven him.

Alder touched his nose. It was still tender where Serinbor had struck him, the pitiless bastard. Still, Serinbor’s reaction forced Alder to confront the terms in which he’d left Weald: a spoiled, indulged, and arrogant prick, even by kith standards. Especially by kith standards.

Alder’s unparalleled skills as an archer, his charm, and his shrewdness—especially when it came to dealings with the other Courts—were the only things that’d kept the people of Weald from turning on him completely. But he’d been gone for two years. That was a lot of time to build a narrative, to let it fester. He’d seen it in the kin he’d met last night, the way they’d stood back from him, the way they’d looked to each other. His people were glad to see him, but they were also leery, though Evora stood unflinchingly beside him, as always, and probably to her detriment.

Yet despite their misgivings, he also spied hope, and that was what Alder clung to as he’d spoken with them, as they’d filled him in on all that Massie had done. Despair over Alder’s mother had tilled the soil of any past condemnation, leaving it fertile for Alder’s planting. But he still wanted to tell them that he wasn’t the man they thought he was.

He was worse. Much worse.

But if he told the entire truth, they would hang him on that statue right beside his family.

Alder would deserve it, but he had a certain high lord to kill first.

So Alder shared very little with his kin, and mostly asked questions, instead. He didn’t let Sienne, one of Abecka’s elders and a renowned healer, anywhere near him, though she tried to get to his nose, at Abecka’s behest. He’d told her that he wanted to heal naturally from the injury Serinbor inflicted—that he wanted to feel every consequence from the sins of his past, and while this was true, his primary reason was not nearly so noble.

Any healer worth their weight would immediately detect his other affliction. The one that was slowly consuming his soul—the one that damned him. Not even Sienne could heal this.

Only a god could.

It was this that left Alder in a quandary, for how did he tell the full story before Abecka, the elders, and what remained of Weald? He’d be called to do so tomorrow, but how could he without confessing this part? They would never trust him if he did, and if he were a proper noble prince, he’d have exiled himself for everyone’s safety.

Unfortunately for everyone, Alder was not that noble.

He needed to figure out a way to spin the tale, and he needed to figure it out fast; otherwise, he’d be cast out and Weald would be lost to Massie and his witch forever. While some of his determination may simply come down to ego, Alder also wanted revenge for his family––for his mother.

And maybe, somewhere deep down inside, he did care about his court.

The solution struck him some time later, while tossing and turning in the middle of the night. Oddly enough, it was Josephine who’d given him the idea. The only downside of his new plan was that telling this version of the story might make her hate him even more, if that were possible. He felt a sharp prick of regret on that account, but again, better angry than dead.

Either way, it was too dangerous for Josephine to stay here. It didn’t matter that she was part kith. She’d only known a mortal life, and her chances of survival were better if she returned to that life—in secret and concealed by Abecka’s enchantments, hiding until she could safely pass through the Rift. Alder had suggested this to Abecka right after Josephine had left with the priestess, before he’d gone to his kin. Let Abecka and her elders figure out what to do with the coat while Josephine lived in relative freedom and safety, without the pressures and expectations put upon her by the Light Court.

He owed that much to Rys, at least.

Abecka, predictably, had not agreed, and they’d argued until she’d refused to hear another word about it. In fact, she’d promptly suggested he mind his own business—like his beard, which he needed to shave before he stood before the elders and the people. Alder had inevitably conceded on this point, but he already missed his beard. His face felt too soft now. Too smooth.

Too much like the old Alder.

This morning, or at least Alder assumed it’d been morning—it was impossible to tell underground—Evora had delivered his attire: a soft white tunic and a forest-green waistcoat with golden clasps down the front. The long velvet jacket was the color of storm clouds, and small enchantments had been embroidered in gold, compliments of Abecka. He could feel the whisper of her power in the threads, enchantments of protection, of strength, and of comfort.

But not even the enchantress’s power could settle the beast inside of him. If anything, she’d made it more restless.

Sometimes Alder wondered why he’d bothered, why he’d even come back. He could have stayed in Kestwich, and truthfully, he’d intended to, where he could’ve lived a nomadic life far away from the past, surviving off of the land of the present, accountable to no one. But he knew well that the past was never so easily dismissed. It was the most cunning of hunters, incomprehensible in its patience, and it always came to collect its due.

Also, Alder had wanted to see his mother.

Stumbling across Massie and the coat had seemed like a rare gift from Demas himself—an opportunity to make things right.

And if the Fates found favor with him, they might deliver a cure.

Alder’s gaze fell upon the three little moonstone figurines decorating the mantel: the Fates. There were three in total: one of Sight, one of Speech, and one of Sound. It was the Fate of Speech who had cursed the Light Court and thrown the entire kith realm off-balance, and it was this Fate Alder plucked from the shelf.

He turned it over in his hands. The face was completely featureless but for the mouth that sat open, casting her wretched curse over their lands.

“Through blood, by blood, may your sins be paid, spent from a mortal heart, the heir must claim. A babe wrought by harvest’s light, and virgin be, by immortal’s sight, holds the only path to your salvation.”

It had been the beginning of the end. Judgment and justice served to all for the actions of few.

No, they were all guilty. The princes had simply brought their corruption to light.

Josephine’s grandfather .

Alder squeezed that little figurine. His hand wrapped around it completely, and he closed his eyes. Jakobián had been the unconscious man in the chair—the one who had brought this curse upon them, and then abandoned them all—for love, no less! And yet he’d kept Abecka’s enchanted coat all this time. Alder wondered if Jakobián had held on simply for nostalgic reasons, or if he’d known what sort of power resided in it now.

Because—according to his conversation with Abecka—the power bound in the coat’s enchantments was not one she had placed.

Jakobián had to have known something ; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with a fake and exposed the real one to Josephine.

A knock sounded.

Alder opened his eyes and set the little figure back upon the mantel as he said, “Come in.”

The door opened, and Serinbor stood on the other side. His gaze landed on Alder with no small amount of disdain, especially when he took in Alder’s appearance. It was as though Serinbor were suddenly looking at the past, and all the old quarrels raged like a tempest between them.

“Is it time?” Alder asked.

Serinbor tipped his head and stepped aside.

Alder joined him at the door. He looked at Serinbor, but he’d turned and walked on, which was just fine with Alder. Better that than lavish more condemnation over a past he could not change. He followed Serinbor down the stone path, over a bridge, and past a handful of kith Alder didn’t recognize. They stopped chatting as he approached, staring at this newcomer so boldly wearing Weald. Alder passed, and whispers followed.

Bring them all . Time to get this theater over with.

But the farther they walked, the more populated the pathways became—both Light and Weald now, including some from the small crowd of kin he’d met with last night. They appeared marginally more hopeful today as they gazed upon his freshly shaven face, and Alder hated to admit that Abecka had been right.

Serinbor turned down a tunnel lined by flaming golden sconces, where Evora waited amidst a small crowd. He didn’t see Josephine anywhere.

Evora pushed through the crowd to intercept him, appraising him from head to toe as she walked. “There is the Alder I remember,” she said with a smirk.

Alder didn’t tell his cousin that she was wrong. The Alder she remembered had died in a very dark cell, in a very dark place, a very long time ago.

“Our kin seem a little happier to see me today,” he whispered to her as he followed her through the crowd.

“Well, you don’t look like a wild bear.”

“I like looking like a wild bear. It intimidates my enemies.”

“Yes, but it also intimidates your friends.”

Alder winked, and Evora rolled her eyes. She pushed in a pair of wooden doors overlaid in silver vines, and the murmuring crescendoed. She led them into an atrium, where citizens of Light and Weald were crammed into every nook and cranny, all gathered around a platform where Abecka and her three elders stood—one male and two females, including Sienne. There was something familiar to him about the other female, but her back was to him and he couldn’t be certain.

Still, he didn’t see Josephine.

He was about to ask Evora where she was when Abecka’s voice rang over the din.

“There you are,” Abecka said.

The crowd quieted. The other female elder turned, and Alder felt his chances at a mostly tolerable future promptly crash through the floor.

Celia de’Lana.

She was from another life, another Alder, back when the Courts of Light and Weald had entangled themselves in petty tricks and scheming—mostly prompted by Alder’s devising, wreaking havoc out of sheer boredom. Alder’s mother had desired an alliance between their courts in the wake of all the problems Alder created, and she’d pressed for a union between Celia and Alder. Alder had had no inclination of being united to anyone, or anything, but Alder had been inclined to acquire the moonstone bracelet Celia always wore. It had been enchanted by the enchantress herself, and Alder intended to inlay the precious artifact into his longbow.

Celia had no notion of parting with it, of course, just as Alder had no notion of marriage. Clearly, he never said this to Celia as he’d proceeded to court her. And then one morning Celia awoke to an empty bed, a naked wrist, and a note of gratitude that also stated an end to their courtship, because Alder did, after all, have some manners.

Celia had never forgiven him, and truthfully, Alder wouldn’t have forgiven him either. Sometimes he wondered if he’d been more of a monster then than he was now…

“Prince Alder.” Celia said his name with acid, and there was fire in her gaze.

“Celia,” Alder said smoothly. “You look well.”

She looked as if she might ignite into kithflame, but he was spared her vitriol by a sharp knock on the door. “Ah, there she is now,” Abecka said, then, more loudly, “Enter.”

One of the doors swung inward, and Priestess Nistarra strode inside. Her gaze swept the crowd before settling upon Abecka, and she bowed low. “I have brought in Princess Josephine Alistair, as you’ve requested.”

Though he’d expected it, the title rattled Alder and for some unknown reason, his palms began to sweat.

And then Josephine walked in.