Page 8 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)

Chapter eight

The Wild Fae

Titaine

W

atching

Auberon

try

to

make peace with the local tribe of wild fae is equal parts troubling and amusing. The fae helping me saddle Giselda are merry about it, some even supplying made-up dialogue to fit the mouths of Bramble Circle’s Speakers and a visibly uncomfortable Auberon.

“About that time I gave your Speakers the worst table at my wedding feast and assumed we wouldn’t know the difference,” one of the young fae says, dropping her voice to mimic Auberon’s as she adjusts Giselda’s saddle blanket. “So sorry.”

I stifle a laugh. That had been quite the debacle—especially since I had personally informed them they’d have a seat of honor.

At least they hadn’t blamed me for it. Nevertheless, it left me wearied.

Though it was the happy day of our bonding ceremony, I understood that there was much work to be done.

The union of fetes and elves wasn’t complete just because their Houselords were bonded. That day was only the beginning.

“Don’t forget that time I underpaid for precious fetewood yew for our bows, right before the blight hit the grove,” another fae imitates as he fits Giselda with a bitless bridle.

Our Houses have been fighting for decades, vying for supremacy over who would represent magical beings in Laufee, over trade contracts, resources, and—I shudder just thinking about it—the occasions where we negotiated terms for inter-House trade.

The House of Elves makes the best weapons, ever since the fall of the ancient Dwarvish Houses (not that the elves would ever admit their work is second best).

The House of Fetes knows how to imbue weapons, objects and tonics with lasting enchantments, but we are neither crafters nor smiths.

Elves and fetes have need of each other’s craft, yet organizing any kind of trade takes weeks of flaring tempers, accusations and general bad behavior.

Almost entirely on the elves’ side, of course.

When I gifted Robin’s service to Auberon, I thought everything would go smoothly.

For a time, it did. Then, slowly, we began to dissolve into the usual squabbles over value, which led to claims of dishonor, which led to dishonesty, which led to.

..the same things elves and fetes had been doing for centuries.

I’d bonded to Auberon expecting growth and change. As he was never any help in resolving tensions, it seemed he merely expected the House of Fetes to bow. He had no interest in fairness, and fair bargains had long been one of the House of Fetes’ chief tenets.

But as I watch Auberon now—shuffling his feet like an embarrassed child being scolded by a favorite teacher, a hand rising to rub the back of his neck—I forget to laugh at the young fete’s antics. Is Auberon trying,

for once? I honestly can’t tell.

Just as Auberon opens his mouth in protest to something the Speakers said, the elders of the wild fae dismiss him with a curt touch of their brows. Well. That could’ve gone worse. At least they offered him some kind of salute of farewell.

Auberon returns to his gelding Raven, pulling himself into the saddle he’s tacked up himself. No one offered to help him with his horse.

Serves him right. That’s Auberon for you. He never thinks any of his choices will have lasting consequences.

After the stunt Robin pulled and the humbling he just received from the Speakers, I hope Auberon will tread more softly from now on. My hope is likely in vain—it always is, with Auberon—but it is there nonetheless.

And then there is the issue of him taking my money. He had no right. Yet he did exactly what I thought he would do.

I try to tamp down my strong emotions, so as to avoid exciting Giselda. With a light hop into the saddle assisted by my wings, I stroke her mane and urge her on, touching my forehead in salute to our wild fae hosts.

“May the wilds be bountiful,” I call out, offering the traditional parting words of Laufee’s wild fae tribes.

One of the Speakers shakes her head—not in admonishment, but with a deep sadness I can practically feel. “May the wilds remain to nurture us all,” she replies, a farewell that is far from the usual “wherever thou may roam, may thy heart to these wilds ever be true.”

More than ex-mates stealing my coin or the journey ahead, her words trouble me long after we leave Bramble Circle and the rich green boughs of Evermore Forest.

My anger towards Auberon is boiling over by the time we make it out of the forest. Meadows, strung together like a pearled hair net, greet us with rolling hills of bright purple wildflowers and small yellow sunflowers.

The morning is heating, too, adding to my discomfort as we ride and shortening my temper.

I can’t remember the last time the summer heat bothered me. The sounds of whirring cicadas begin to grate on my nerves along with Auberon’s incessant prattling. I’d forgotten this about him, that he is not good at maintaining silence. He and Robin get along well for that reason.

Auberon pulls his gelding abreast of my mare. “Come now, Titaine, aren’t you the least bit interested in making conversation? Or have you nothing interesting to say?”

I ignore him, urging Giselda ahead.

“There once was a fae maiden fair,” Auberon begins, just when I thought this day could not get worse.

“Auberon,” I say sharply, hiding the rising color in my cheeks with my glamour.

“…who had such fine golden hair. And a beautiful dress, and an ornament for each tress.”

There is a long pause.

He doesn’t know how to finish the rhyme.

“She didn’t look fit for a journey.”

I roll my eyes. “Lovely effort.”

“Dear Titaine,” he coos, “I’m only getting warmed up.

It’s a long way to the next town.” He takes in a deep breath, as if about to shout.

“There once was a House of Fetes dame, whose ex-mate and traveling companion were one and the same. It seemed a good plan, till they rode through the land, and her beauty began to look plain.”

I pull up Giselda. “I have had enough of you!” I shout, startling the birds from the meadows surrounding the road. “I will see you in Mircose, and not a moment before!”

With a press of my knees, I urge my mare ahead, giving her rein to gallop at full speed once she’s had time to warm up.

Not that she needs it. Giselda’s line traces back to the Aulden Steeds.

Though she appears like any other white mare—albeit a stunningly graceful one—she is no true horse, but the descendant of a horse-like creature born in the Dewspell Era.

Then, magic was wild but extraordinarily powerful, and wielded only by a rare few.

The fae we just left trace their ancestry back to the Aulden, too, and believe themselves to be truer fetes than any others.

Sometimes, I almost think they are right.

Within minutes, I feel my anger fading. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to let Giselda run free without needing to circle back toward Laufee, to just ride with the wind battering at us as she runs at a pace and with a sure-footedness that no ordinary horse can match.

Without thinking, I begin to flutter my wings so rapidly it’s as if they tremble.

I stand in the stirrups, then lift slightly out of them, connected to Giselda only by her reins.

I forget Auberon quickly, and his cruel words. He can be like that. Charming, full of honey, a little impish—and then full of barbs the moment your back is turned. When it comes to the fetes, his slights always run freely. No turning of backs is needed.

I harbor no illusions about Auberon, even before his behavior this morning.

We are still enemies, belonging to rival houses that would cut each other to the bone for the least bit of advantage.

Maybe the fetes and elves aren’t true enemies anymore, fighting horrible battles that leave the earth scarred.

But the war still goes on, this time through trade, commerce and contracts with the merchant guilds.

I tell myself this morning was a good thing. It’s a reminder of who Auberon truly is.

But oh, how a part of me still weeps to hear his disdain for me, when once he held me above all others and gilded me with his love! An elf’s esteem can be a powerful thing. But his animosity?

There is nothing in this world that can protect even my fierce fete’s heart from its sting.