Chapter 16

Sixteen

Rhoswyn

F rom our vantage point, I can see the village carved into the lower trunks of the trees ahead. It’s beautiful—or it was. I can imagine that the burning shells of buildings before were once full of rustic charm. Now they’re swarmed by Fomorians and fae locked in battle, the fires lighting up the carnage in vivid orange hues.

“You’ve brought us to a battlefield,” Jaro growls, his wolf glowing from his eyes.

“We brought you to the queen,” the soldier replies evenly. “Besides, there’s no risk to the Nicnevin up here. The Fomorians have yet to master flying.”

“It’s on my list,” Prae mutters, but is ignored.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Bree’s hand whips out and snatches a crossbow bolt from the air just inches from the side of my face.

“Sure, no risk,” my púca grumbles, putting himself slightly in front of me as Lore blinks away—presumably to take the head of my attacker.

I find my answer almost as soon as I ask the question. Screams echo from our left, and my head turns, seeking out the threat only to watch as the Fomorians currently running towards that part of the fray begin to slow down, then start to turn and run back in the opposite direction.

They don’t make it far.

What I’m seeing doesn’t make sense. The Fomorians are… ageing? Thinning? Weakening? Some combination of all three? Their blue skin turns grey before my eyes, their frames slouching and their muscles evaporating until there’s nothing but hunched-over living skeletons for yards on either side of her .

Cressida wears leather armour like she was born into it. Though her features are hidden, the golden spikes sticking out of her helm in a halo that loosely resembles a crown of thorns mark her unmistakably as royal.

“Queen Cressida of the Autumn Court,” the soldier announces, unnecessarily. “And her knight consorts.”

A sharp pain in my lip makes me realise I’ve been worrying it between my teeth, and I let out a sharp breath to collect myself.

The autumn queen is terrifying, true, her magic formidable, yes. But Aiyana or Eero could claim the same, and neither of them ever inspired this strange sense of awe. It doesn’t take a genius to realise it’s because this queen is doing the one thing neither of them would ever dream of: she’s fighting alongside her people.

Doing what I wish I had the courage and skill to do.

“Cress,” Maeve mutters. “Still a lazy fighter, as always.”

The female in question struts forward. Two of the knights beside her are beheading the shrivelled Fomorians around them with quick slashes of their swords, batting away those who still have the strength to try to attack their queen.

It’s barely even a fight at that point, more of an execution.

Between those two, directly behind Queen Cressida, is a lone archer, quickly and efficiently removing anyone who would think of hurting her from a distance.

A Fomorian in full plate steps out from between the trees that ring the village, brandishing a greatsword that’s taller than I am. The iron covering every inch of his massive form protects him from the withering magic, but Cressida doesn’t falter.

She waits for him to make his swing, dodges at the very last second, then stabs her blade through the gap beneath his arm with a swift punching motion, withdrawing it in a spray of blood that covers her. The shock of her strike is enough that her attacker overbalances, leaving one of her knights to collect his head.

The archer kicks the male’s skull away like a football, and my gut churns.

Then all four of them take to the sky, leaping into the air with an ease I can’t help but envy. Cressida’s wings are the bright orange of a monarch butterfly, but her companions are an identical soft umber brown.

As the quad draws closer, I almost expect to begin withering myself, but the only two who collapse to the ground, clutching their heads, are Caed and Prae.

Frowning, I step between them and the approaching fae. “They’re part of my court. Leave them be.”

The queen’s armoured head tilts to one side as she lands on the wooden walkway a few paces away, and I see her cold copper eyes narrow behind the guard of her helmet. It makes the hair on the back of my neck rise in warning, and I reach for Danu as the rest of my Guard tenses.

Something tells me this queen will attack me outright rather than play the subtle games that the other royals have forced me to endure. Before, I would’ve said that was a relief, but now that I’ve seen how formidable she is, I’m not so sure.

No one is more shocked than I am when she holds a hand up in a clear signal to stop and the Fomorians recover. Before I can try to figure out which of her knights was using magic against them, the queen drops to one knee, plunging her blade into the wood below her.

“I swear my fealty to Nicnevin Rhoswyn,” she begins, and I blink furiously at the unexpected words. “Never will my deeds bring harm to her, nor shall I hear of harm to her, unless it is to obstruct it. I accept her as my Nicnevin, on the condition that she rules my subjects with the Goddess’s fairness, and that she will perform all duties as they are written in the Treaty of Marlen. May Danu witness my vow and strike me down if I recant.”

“Accepted,” I stammer.

She stands as soon as she’s done, one of her legs jerking before she thumps her fist at the joint in her armour with a curse.

“Fucking brace,” she mutters, as sparks fly from the hinge before looking me in the eye. “This is your problem now, Nicnevin.” She waves a hand at the still raging battle below us. “Deal with it.”

Without another word, she strides away.

“Make me solid,” Maeve demands, uncaring of my stupefied state.

Because I’m still holding tight to the connection to Danu, I do as she asks.

No one is more surprised than me when my grandmother stalks up behind the queen and jumps on her back, wrapping her legs around Cressida’s waist.

“Gotcha!” she crows, holding a ghostly blade to the autumn queen’s neck. “Why are you giving my granddaughter such a hard time, Cress? I thought you’d at least have the decency to ask how I was.”

Seeing the two of them fight in such close quarters makes me worry that they might tumble over the edge of the bridges. Everyone has frozen, everyone except Cressida, who squats and grabs the back of Maeve’s tunic, flipping the dead Nicnevin over her head with practised ease.

“I have not missed that,” she grumbles. “Fuck’s sake, Maeve, I’m covered in blood and tired as shit. Can you save beating me up until I’ve at least had two hours’ sleep?”

Maeve gets to her feet and mock punches the queen’s arm. “You missed me. Admit it, bitch.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, and Titania appears beside me with a small smile.

“Cressida was one of Maeve’s handmaidens before she took her own crown. Cressida’s grandfather, the first king of the Autumn Court, hoped that by encouraging their friendship, he’d be able to use her to manipulate the Nicnevin.” She sighs. “Unfortunately for him, Maeve was perhaps the least influenceable queen in history, and Cressida is a close second.”

The two of them are tussling now, uncaring of the drop just inches away. Maeve isn’t drawing on me to use her powers, and neither is Cressida. They look and act so much like siblings that I wonder why Maeve didn’t say anything before.

“How in Danu’s name are you still alive, you decrepit old bat?” Maeve demands, rolling her over until her head is hanging over the drop. “I’ve been dead, what? Four thousand years?”

“Yeah, and you’re showing every one of them.” Cressida huffs and gets to her feet, still struggling with that same leg. “I, on the other hand, am still as flawless as the day you up and fucking killed yourself!”

Suddenly the jovial attitude of before vanishes, replaced by a pain-filled angst. Cressida’s knights, who had kept their distance until now, take a step forward as one, only to stop instantly when she holds out a hand.

Her hands rise to her helm, tugging it away to reveal a sharp, diamond-shaped face and long dark hair in a mass of black warrior braids. Cressida sweeps a beaded strand back from her face and pins her old friend with the harshest, most unforgiving look I’ve ever seen.

“You fell on your own blade—and don’t fucking deny it, bitch. I was there when they sounded the victory horns. I saw you sneak away from that battlefield. Then two weeks later I receive a letter saying you left me your Goddess-damned horse ?”

“It was a great horse.” Maeve turns away and gives me a pleading look.

“I didn’t want a horse.” Cressida’s voice rises with fury. “I wanted my best fucking friend. I grieved you for decades, put up with your useless peace-keeping twit of a daughter waffling on about maintaining lasting treaties in your name, and you’re not even going to apologise?”

Maeve’s stare hardens. “Hey, kid, I’ve punched her. You can let me go now.”

“Oh, no you—” Cressida cuts off, glancing around us, perhaps remembering how public this little argument has become, and I freeze as she pins me to the spot. “I mean, my lady Nicnevin. Might I offer you and your grandmother refreshments in Illidwen?”

Maeve raises her hand to her neck and makes a subtle slashing motion, the gesture hidden from Cressida behind her. At the same time, the autumn queen is staring me down like a predator. Wait, can Maeve eat or drink like this? She’s still technically a ghost…

Panicking under the weight of those stares, I accidentally fumble the connection to Danu, and Maeve loses her corporeal form by default.

“Refreshments sound good,” I pause, looking back at my males. “We clearly have a lot to discuss.”

“Yes. Like why the hell you have the blade prince hovering over you like a nursemaid.” Cressida’s brows furrow.

Perhaps if Eero or Aiyana had asked the same question, I might’ve floundered. But she’s friends—practically siblings—with Maeve, so I meet her gaze and shrug as I give her the answer I’d give my grandmother.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

The unseelie queen throws her head back and laughs. “Well met, Nicnevin. Come. The battle is over, and I need to sit down.”

Without waiting for any kind of acknowledgement, she turns and struts along the bridges, leading us back into the forest.

At the next trunk, Cressida presses a hand to a knot in the bark. It springs open, revealing a vertical pool of darkness just large enough for a person to cross through.

She strides into it without hesitation, and two of her knights wait at the entrance while the third—the archer—follows her inside. Taking a deep breath, I step through next, without waiting for my Guard.

The first thing I notice on the other side is the wonderful warmth emanating from a large hearth on the opposite wall, and I gravitate toward it, grateful for the heat. We’re in a large war room, and I smile as I realise the darkness still swirling behind us must have been some kind of portal.

Is the trees’ magic responsible for transporting us here, or the queen’s? Or is it enchanted, like the ladder? I have so many questions, but I force them down and focus instead on watching as the rest of my Guard file in. Cressida’s remaining two knights follow, but they don’t stay. The pair head straight for the great doors with quiet bows, leaving us with their queen.

The majority of the space is taken up by a map table in the centre of the room with chairs around it. Cressida has collapsed into one, and her archer bends, unbuckling the armour over her calf and revealing what looks like a fine network of vines hidden beneath. I’m so distracted by the glowing plants that I don’t immediately notice the unnatural thinness of the queen’s legs.

The part of her which should be thick and strong with muscle is barely the width of my wrist, and the other leg’s no better. Even the bones of her knees look shrunken. How on earth did I not see this before?

Glamour.

Cressida must have kept this hidden to hide the weakness from her enemies on the battlefield. I can’t tell if she’s showing me now out of necessity, or if she’s open about this with all fae.

“You know it’s rude to stare,” she quips, but Maeve rolls her eyes.

“Don’t listen to her, kid. She doesn’t care about appearances. She’s only showing you now to shock you.”

I glance at the queen, trying to figure out if what Maeve is saying is true. It’s been thousands of years since she lived, and assuming that things haven’t changed seems stupid.

The fae male at her side plunges his fingers into the vines, and I watch his brow furrow in concentration as the glow brightens. Some of the vines were severed, but they grow back into place under his care. From the blood seeping free beneath them, I’m guessing they were damaged in battle.

He finishes his work, and stands, bowing as he leaves the room, but Cressida doesn’t leave her chair.

“So, Nicnevin”—she kicks her boots up onto the map table—“how do you plan to save my court?”

I choke. “Saving—what?”

I came here to demand her army to save Elfhame .

“As per the terms of the treaty of Marlen, a Nicnevin vows to defend and protect the courts when called upon.” Cressida is smiling like a cat who’s got the cream, purple painted lips stretched wide around rows of pearly teeth, and I blink in disbelief. “So, when can we expect the reinforcements I’ve been asking your seelie twit of a brother for since this invasion began?”

I look back at Jaro beside me, who’s just as stunned as I am, then at the others. None of them were ready for this. We spent so long worrying about how to get the oath out of the minor royals that no one ever anticipated Cressida would give it to me and then use it against us.

“I assume you’ll be using your vast powers of necromancy to annihilate the army currently decimating my own?” Cressida continues. “Or perhaps you’ll persuade the Court of Blades to finally answer my fucking letter?” She shoots Lore a death glare.

“Your war is boring.” He blows a raspberry at her. “Plus, I don’t know if you noticed, but I found a shiny new pet.”

“Lorcan,” she growls in exasperation, and I’m struck by the familiarity of the exchange. “We both know neither of those things is the reason you’ve been ignoring my summons for decades.”

There’s a quiet, intimate accusation there that makes my heart sink. Lore’s hat tightens on my head as if reassuring me, but all it really tells me is that I’m not imagining the way Cressida is looking at him. There’s more there than an assassin who used to work for her, more than a queen ordering one of her lords. There’s history between them that I don’t know about, and I’m not sure I want the details. Yet her expression fades as Lore steps up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.

“Whose dust is on my skin, pet?” he murmurs in my ear. “Who’s wearing my cap right now?”

It’s true, a satisfied part of my hind brain realises with satisfaction. Even after the ride with the kelpies, a hint of my dust is still glistening in his hair.

I have the oddest, violent urge to tug him down and force him to eat me out until he’s a walking beacon of violet glitter.

Shit.

I pace away, not stopping until Maeve gets in my face.

“Kid, let me talk to her. Make me solid and give me fifteen minutes. I swear, I’ll fix this.”

She stares at Cressida with a look of sadness.

“Spirits don’t make good diplomats,” Drystan advises, visibly grinding his teeth together. “And your grandmother’s memories are of a different person?—”

“Shut the fuck up, bastard,” Cressida orders him. “If that—” she cuts off, searching for the word, before abandoning her point with a huff. “Bring Maeve back, if she’s finally summoned the balls to explain herself.”

I bristle at the insult to my Guard, but Lore’s hands reach my shoulders and rub soothingly, his touch grounding.

“Pretty pet,” he croons. “Want to ditch this bitching competition and go do something fun? We can even take the púca with us.”

“All of you,” I say, before I’m even conscious of opening my mouth.

The redcap has managed to play on the one emotion that’s stronger than my protectiveness. The possessiveness sparked by the realisation that I’m meeting his former lover. Worse, that I have to cooperate and negotiate with her.

“Wolfie as well,” Lore bargains. “But someone has to keep an eye on the stabby prince and the spirits. That seems like a job for a boring winter lord.”

Drystan radiates disapproval as he glowers at Lore, but he agrees, anyway. “The redcap speaks sense. Go.”