Chapter 31

Thirty-One

Rhoswyn

I break into a run, leaving the others cursing in my wake as he staggers through the gap, then falls to one knee in the grey mud.

My head starts to pound, and I stumble a little just before Jaro’s hand captures my shoulder and pulls me to a stop.

“Let us get him for you,” he says, supporting me when I wobble.

I grimace, but realistically, I have little choice but to brace myself against his body as Drystan passes us with long, easy strides.

It’s unfair, I decide grumpily, as he stands beneath the gates and takes in the collapsed Caed with an unreadable mask on his face. He says something I can’t hear, then cocks his head at whatever he can see inside the camp, before hooking a hand under my Fomorian’s arm and hauling him back to his feet.

This close, I can see Caed’s ash-blond hair has been stained brown with blood, and the deep wounds across his body are steadily oozing more of the stuff. He manages another step before his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses again.

Bree lands on my other side, shaking his head. “You don’t want to go in there, dragonfly. Let Jaro take you back to the camp. We’ll free the rest of the captives.”

“What about the Fomorians?” I ask.

Bree shrugs. “It looks like Caed slaughtered them all.”

He… what ?

I blink at the exhausted Fomorian now being poked by Lore. When the redcap is certain that Caed is out, he whips his hat from his head and stuffs it inside a particularly vicious wound to his chest.

“Lorcan,” Jaro censures.

“What?!” Lore shrugs, tugging the cap free and swiping it across Caed’s face next. “Waste not, want not!”

Caed coughs up more blood, which Lore happily collects, before sighing. “Fine. I’ll take him back to camp.”

In the next second, Caed is gone, and a moment later, I’m beside him. Goddess, even though a lot of the blood on him has mysteriously disappeared, he still looks awful. I grimace as I survey the wounds across his body. Jaro returns next, and busies himself by bustling around the camp, relighting the fire and checking our mounts as they return one by one.

I guess he’s babysitting me, but he’s also giving me the illusion of privacy, which I’m grateful for. Now that we’re away from the iron, I can feel trickles of his pain along our bond. It’s nowhere near where it should be given the severity of his wounds, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s because he won’t draw from me, or because Danu’s curse prevents it.

“Titania,” I murmur, dropping to my knees beside Caed.

The spirit of my grandmother appears beside me, her colourful skirts passing through his arm from her nearness.

“Not again,” she says, looking at him sadly. “This is becoming a bad habit.”

My gut twists as I nod, reaching for her hand with mine. “We can heal him before he comes around.”

At least that way, he might sleep through the pain.

The healing is slow, and my eyes burn by the time the chest wound is sealed completely. Someone stabbed him in the heart—tried to truly kill him—and my own clenches at the thought.

A golden leaf falls onto his chest as we finish, and I brush it away impatiently before giving in and starting the process of washing the remaining blood from his skin. I’m halfway done when Jaro comes to sit beside me. In silence, he takes in the lines of Caed’s curse mark as I wipe the inked skin clean. The wolf’s head at the top is clear as day, and so is the hat in the third frame. Closest to his wrist, there’s even the faintest smudge of black in the rough shape of a harp.

“Do you think Drystan will ever…?” I trail off, staring hard at the second frame down.

The one that remains completely, hopelessly, empty.

Jaro doesn’t answer me, and neither does Titania, who drifts a little farther away, giving us some privacy. My breath hitches slightly.

“I don’t think… I can’t…”

His arm wraps around my shoulders, and I rest my head against his collarbone, breathing him in. “It may not come to that.”

“It will.”

“You don’t want him to die.” At my slight little head shake, Jaro presses, “Do you love him?”

There it is. The question I hoped he wouldn’t ask. I’ve already confessed to mostly having forgiven my Fomorian, but love? That would make this already tense situation worse.

“I don’t know.” The confession hurts. Loving Caed isn’t as simple as loving the knight beside me. “Even if I did, it would change nothing.” I shouldn’t have let myself get this attached to him. I should never have accepted his invitation to the lantern festival. “The smart thing to do would be to keep my distance, wouldn’t it?”

My wolf doesn’t answer that, either. Perhaps because he, like me, is all too aware that it might be too late.

Come Beltaine, there’s the very real possibility that one of my mates will kill him. If I’ve been stupid enough to fall in love with him by then, only heartbreak can come of it.

Caed coughs, shattering the moment, but I can’t focus on him because Lore has blinked another high fae into the clearing and left him propped up against a tree to my left. This one is clearly wounded, albeit not tortured like Caed was. Someone has tied a makeshift bandage around his midsection, and sweat pours from his brow, likely meaning he has an infection on top of it all. A scarred priest follows him, then Prae, Gryffin, and the rest of my Guard.

Wiping my burning eyes—because I can’t let Drystan see me crying over Caed—I blow out a breath and subtly shift away from Jaro as I search for my composure.

“Let me,” Prae mutters, taking the cloth from my hand the second she sees Caed on the floor.

Reluctantly, I relinquish his care to her, narrowing my eyes at Gryffin when he bows—because I still haven’t fully forgiven him, even if she seems to have.

Jaro nods at the two newcomers, heading over to where Drystan is pulling food out of satchels to begin making a meal.

“Nicnevin.” The priest bows low, and even the wounded warrior dips his chin, though it clearly pains him to do so.

“Your brother, Prince Uther, and his mate Sir Illarion, Knight of Illidwen,” Bree murmurs under his breath, indicating first the priest, then the warrior.

“I’m glad you’re both safe.” A little of the tension bleeds from my shoulders, and I stand, approaching them slowly. “May I heal you both? We have food, too.”

Uther is less severely injured than his mate, but one of his wings is held out from his body at an uncomfortable angle, the tendons bent. He has the same piercing blue eyes as Madoc, but his hair is black, with blood-red streaks dyed into it.

“A healing would be welcome, but we must leave swiftly.” He looks genuinely apologetic as he kneels and checks his mate’s wounds again. “I wished to meet you and thank your Guard for his intervention in the camp, but our legion is waiting for us to return and secure the bank of the river. Your Guard’s actions have opened up an opportunity for us to call in reinforcements and begin setting up new defences.”

He sounds almost in awe of Caed, and not for the first time, I wonder what happened in that camp.

“They’re heading for Elfhame.” Drystan walks past with a scowl. “It makes sense that they’ll draw most of their forces there to try to take the palace wall.”

“All the more reason to act now.” Illarion grunts. “Cressida will want us to use their distraction to our advantage and retake as much of our land as we can.”

“We won’t abandon Elfhame,” Uther assures me, as I bend down and take Titania’s offered hand, silently willing her healing magic into Illarion. “Bram visited me and reminded me of our mother’s instructions, not that I’d forgotten. My loyalty remains to the Nicnevin. As soon as our position is secure, we’ll ride to the capital.”

Shaking my head, I release my brother’s healed mate and frown at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I have the sight.” Uther takes a deep breath. “I’m a medium. Bram’s spirit came to remind me of my promise upon his death.” He stops, smiling as a silver-and-black fox runs through the clearing and bumps his head against Uther’s knee affectionately. “Hey, brother.”

Bram doesn’t shift, though I know he can. His vulpine face regards me sadly, and the sight of him makes my chest ache painfully until I have to bite my lower lip to hold myself together.

“I’m sorry. If not for me, you’d have been able to see one another again,” I apologise, offering my hand.

Uther takes it as he cocks his head to one side. “That wasn’t how he explained it. It was his choice, was it not?”

The explanation I want to give won’t form, so I choose to focus on healing him instead.

He takes my silence as an answer and nods sagely. “A word from one who counsels the spirits of the fallen? The guilt we feel at a loved one’s passing is almost always self-inflicted. Bram made the choice, and I don’t believe he would take it back if he could, regardless of the outcome.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep quiet, watching Bram as his fox twirls around us, and trying to ignore the weight that settles in my ribs. Titania and I finish healing Uther, and she disappears, leaving me to ground the power through my Guard with a sigh.

Caed coughs again, waving Prae away as he forces himself to his feet. The suddenness of the movement startles Bram, and the fox darts away into the trees, leaving a hollow ache in my chest.

“So, the mad son of a bitch lives?” Illarion also stands, grinning. “What? Cat-sìth got your tongue? You wouldn’t shut up before they dragged you off to the commander’s tent.”

Caed shrugs, eyes roving the camp but refusing to land on me. “Maybe I’m just catching my breath after freeing your sorry asses and the rest of your useless fairy legion.”

“You could’ve done it faster.” I want to smack Illarion for that comment, but Caed just laughs.

No one else seems to catch it, but the sound rings a little empty. It can’t be easy, killing the people he once thought of as his own.

“Yeah, probably. I was too busy sending a message.”

A message? To who? Elatha?

Uther grimaces. “I wondered why the butchery was so… extreme. Do tell. What point were you making by ripping out their tongues?”

Lore grins easily, grabbing a pouch from Wraith’s saddle and shoving a handful of dried berries into his mouth. “Must be his redcap ancestry. Finch loves a little fun mutilation, too. Maybe you can bond with your grandpappy over that.”

Caed rolls his eyes, and I clear my throat. “Reyni owes you an apology.”

“I don’t want it.” The Fomorian takes a step towards the campfire, wobbling slightly as he accepts a piece of jerky from his cousin and shoves it into his mouth. “Besides, there’s no time. We’re heading for the Winter Court now, right?”

I swallow, trying to clear the bitter taste of the lie, but no one calls him on it. I doubt he even realises it’s an untruth, but it’s clear his fae family’s rejection has cut him.

Then again, perhaps he secretly believes he should be used to it now, given the Fomorian penchant for familicide. It’s unfair that he should be born of both fae and Fomorian, and yet be accepted by neither.

“We’ve got to visit a few more shrines along the northern coast.”

“We’re still doing that shit?” Caed mutters in disbelief. “Really?”

“Only the ones that fall directly on our route to the Torvyn,” I promise.

Prae offers her cousin a sympathetic smile. “It’s mostly a ruse, anyway. The pilgrimage gives Rose an excuse to practise unleashing her necromancy on the Fomorians. The more of them we kill, the more likely Cressida will send troops to help Elfhame.”

“The Queen is refusing to send her soldiers?” Uther looks toward his mate with concern. “She?—”

“We don’t have the numbers,” Illarion concedes, his mouth set in a grim line. “The Nicnevin’s plan makes sense. Retaking the forts along the coast will give us a chance to secure the capital. Cressida will want an adamantine defence system in place before she sends troops anywhere.”

“Our battalion will come, even if the others don’t.” Uther flares his wings and pulls the previously damaged one around to examine it, nodding appreciatively before releasing it. “I would sooner hang from the palace branches than leave Florian to fight alone.” He pauses. “Can you imagine the ribbing from our brothers if I was the only one to miss out on kicking the Fomorians back to Fellgotha?”

Jaro nods, tipping a handful of chopped meat into the pot over the fire, where it sizzles and pops under the heat. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Besides, this way we can kill two valravne with one stone. Whenever Rose blesses a shrine, it makes Eero and that awful priest look like morons, and there are quite a few near to the most strategic forts.”

“Priest?” Uther frowns.

“Grand Cleric Mervyn.” I sigh in resignation. How is it that our list of enemies only seems to grow with each passing week.? “He’s decided that the Fomorians are responsible for ‘corrupting’ my Guard.”

“He’s an elitist prick,” Drystan snarls. “A pesky gnat in the grand scheme of things.”

“One who’s successfully campaigned to have the high priestess removed and who is preaching his heresy wherever he goes.” Jaro scrubs at his beard, his tone dark with caution. “We’d be foolish to underestimate him.”

Caed rolls his eyes. “How about we just send the redcap to kill the priest?”

“Yes, why aren’t we doing that?” Lore asks, blinking beside me to offer me some of his berries. “Can I kill him?”

That idea is distressingly tempting. Between him, Torrance, Eero, Elatha… Just having one less enemy after my head would surely be better than nothing, right? A fearful part of me pipes up, reminding me that things are never that simple in Faerie. There’s always a price with the fae.

“Killing him just risks making him a martyr.” Bree strokes his tattoos as a crevice forms between his brows.

“Yes,” Jaro acknowledges reluctantly. “And Eero will no doubt use it as ‘proof’ that you’re trying to silence anyone who objects to Caed’s presence on your Guard.”

“Just kill the asshole.” Drystan shrugs at Jaro’s exasperated expression. “Politics like that is a waste of time. You are the Nicnevin. Questioning you is questioning Danu, and the unseelie won’t respect a Nicnevin who allows so much dissent in her own temple.”

“If the redcap is taking requests,” Caed adds. “I vote to make it painful. He deserves it.”

“I wish Kitarni were here.” I lean into Lore, letting him tuck my hair behind my ear. His fingers graze the sensitive tip, derailing my thoughts for a second before I continue, “She’s the head of the Temple. She’ll know what is the best course of action.”

And she’d probably be less biassed about it than my Guard.

Lore shrugs, then blinks away, leaving me stumbling to regain my balance.

“Goddess, when he does that, I never know if someone is going to die,” I mumble.

“I’d give it good odds,” Caed agrees. “For what it’s worth, if he kills the fucker, I’m sure he’ll make it hurt.”

Ordinarily, I’d never wish that on anyone, but Mervyn set in motion the events that led to the disaster that was Siabetha, and by extension, Bram’s death. He was even involved in the mess in Pavellen.

“I hope he does.” I say it so quietly that I almost hope they don’t hear, but Bree’s ears twitch tellingly.

“Careful,” the púca warns. “If you get too bloodthirsty, Lore might take it as an invitation to introduce you to a proper redcap fucking.”

“For Goddess’s sake, what does that even mean ?” I’ve got my guesses, put together from tidbits dropped here and there, but no one will outright say it, and it’s making me nervous.

Suddenly, every other person in the camp has somewhere else to look. They almost look… nervous?

Drystan shatters the moment by changing the subject with the subtlety of a club. “What exactly happened in there, Fomorian? Just how many of our plans did you hand over to the enemy?”

Caed glares at him. “I don’t break under torture, asshole, and for the record, most of my injuries were just a good, old-fashioned Fomorian greeting for traitors.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Jaro remarks.

The shifter’s tone is deliberately non-confrontational. Too bad that Drystan isn’t on the same page.

“Did you tell them anything, yes or no?” my dullahan demands.

They’re toe-to-toe now, the promise of violence heavy in the air. “How could I do that when you tell me to fuck off whenever the map comes out?”

“You know enough. You know that we’re headed to Winter. You know Rose’s weaknesses?—”

“Just tell him you didn’t spill our secrets and be done with it,” Bree mutters, his hands stroking over his tattoos.

“Enough.” Gryffin stands, putting himself between the two of them. “Your pissing match isn’t helpful. Besides, he’s right. What could he possibly have told them when he’s never involved in any of our strategy meetings?”

“He—” Drystan starts, but I huff out an exhausted breath, and the dullahan stops himself. His exasperated look as he pins me to the spot speaks volumes. “I don’t trust it. Anything could’ve happened in that camp.”

“Caed’s healing,” I say. “He’s just been through a lot. Surely this inquisition can wait until he’s at least cleaned himself up, and then perhaps you could try being a little nicer about it?”

The answering stiffness in his shoulders and the clenching of his jaw assures me that this isn’t over, but Drystan stalks away, honouring my request—or at least part of it.

I turn to Caed next, softening my tone. “If you want to talk about it, I’m happy to listen, but if you don’t, that’s fine, too.”

I’m curious about his escape, and more than a little worried about his mental state after surviving it, but he tends to shut down when I push… He and Drystan have that in common.

“I, for one, wouldn’t mind hearing how you managed to slip free and slaughter an entire camp of Fomorians,” Jaro adds.

“It’s a lot easier when you don’t have to worry about iron.” Caed relaxes, busying himself with food, dismissing the subject.

Gryffin, sensing the moment has passed, returns to Prae’s side, and she rolls her eyes at him, mouthing, “Kiss ass.”

“We’ll head off to rejoin the rest of our battalion,” Illarion says grimly, after several long minutes. “Once everyone is well enough to travel, we’ll rejoin General Reyni’s troops and convince her and the queen to send us to Elfhame.”

“You think they’ll listen to you?” Drystan isn’t even trying to conceal his scepticism.

“I have been her Knight for centuries.” Illarion draws himself up to his full height. “Cressida will concede if I press hard enough. She respects her warriors.”

Like she respected Gryffin? I think darkly.

“Call, and we will be there.” Uther bows low. “With as many swords as we can muster.”

Given Cressida’s anger at me, I’m pretty sure the chances of an Autumn Court battalion riding to Elfhame’s aid are slim to none, but I manage a grateful smile in response, even as my gut churns anxiously.