Chapter 49

Forty-Nine

Rhoswyn

“ D on’t react,” Mab cautions. “But your púca has been dosed with something.”

Don’t react? Is she serious? I knew my goblet was empty, but I didn’t think Hawkith would actually try to poison me.

It’s all I can do not to turn my incredulous gaze on my grandmother, where she’s floating beside me.

“Are you feeling okay, Nicnevin?” Hawkith asks.

“As well as anyone can when their mother-by-mating starts talking about raising their child for them.” Fury rips at my heart, but I don’t let it show.

I’m more worried about Bree. He looks outwardly fine, but I’m fairly certain that’s a glamour because he hasn’t touched his tattoos once in the last few minutes.

“It would be my honour to raise my grandchild,” Hawkith purrs as Bree’s hand on my thigh goes limp. “And you needn’t worry about the rest of your Guard getting in the way. I’ve got potions prepared to keep them from interfering.”

She has? “I’m not interested in your offer.” I stand, protectiveness surging through me. “But I’d like to know what exactly you put in my wine.”

“Just a little something to help things along.” She stands as well, and Drystan follows. “No, you stay here, son. The under fae and I will leave you two alone.”

Her servers are already fleeing the room, abandoning their posts with a hushed urgency that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.

What. Has. She. Done?

“Not so fast,” I snap, my hand slipping into Mab’s.

Hawkith backs away, offering me a small bow. “I insist. We don’t have long, you see. Come, púca.”

“What are you up to, Mother?” Drystan steps after her.

“What Cedwyn would never have the balls to,” Hawkith raises her chin delicately. “King Elatha has no use for our court. As long as we pay tribute to him, he’ll let us be.”

The floor falls out from beneath me as I realise what she’s saying. “You betrayed us to the Fomorians.”

“No. I betrayed you.” Hawkith shrugs, still backing towards the door and clicking her fingers in a gesture for Bree—who still hasn’t gotten up—to follow. “As soon as the fever the wine induces is over, you’ll birth the heir of winter, and then I’ll hand you over. Finally, an Iceblyd will sit on the throne.” She switches her gaze to Drystan. “Don’t ruin this. You understand how important?—”

She dies in the next breath. Her head falls from her shoulders in a flash of quicksilver. It rolls across the floor, coming to a stop at her son’s feet. Her face fixed in that smug, bold smirk as her knees crumple and her body collapses behind her.

All of the candles, lit by her magic, go out at once, leaving only the light coming from the open doorway. It frames Cedwyn in a bluish halo. The king is breathing raggedly, his eyes widening as he drops the sword which just took Hawkith’s head. It smashes to the ground, losing its shape and becoming little more than a bloody metallic puddle with a silver hilt glinting from within.

“No.” He looks down at his trembling hands like he doesn’t recognise them, then up at me. “I… I killed her. I killed my mate.”

A rotting madness creeps into those grey eyes, blotting out the light in them almost completely.

“You swore the vow of allegiance,” Drystan whispers, staring blankly at the corpse of his mother.

The vow to obstruct harm to the Nicnevin manifested as this. Behind him, Ashton leans against the far wall too casually for someone witnessing such chaos.

“I never wanted her dead.” Cedwyn looks so lost. “She’s my perfect mate. So tenacious. So cold that she burned, and she never burned hotter than when she was trying to kill me.”

He rips his sleeve up his arm, exposing the glittering red mating mark. The ink turns pale and fades as we all watch until it’s barely distinguishable from a scar.

They hated each other, and yet they were fully mated. I can’t even pretend to understand the depths of the fucked-up relationship those two shared, and right now, I don’t even care. Bree is more important.

“Titania?” I call, dropping Mab’s hand now that the threat has passed. “Can we heal him?”

She appears in a sweep of bright robes, her dark skin crinkling as she frowns. “It’s not poison, so no.”

“Hawkith said it induced fever,” Drystan says, dropping the glamour over Bree as he approaches. “Male fae can’t have fevers, but it stands to reason?—”

“It’s so hot in here,” Bree murmurs, shoving at the ripped, hooded black coat he always wears until he’s shirtless, then reaching for the laces at his groin. My hands grab for his, stilling his frantic motions. “Shit, dragonfly, why are you so cold?”

“She was my mate!” Cedwyn screams, his composure shattering as he drops to his knees beside Hawkith’s body.

“Bricriu might be going through a similar experience to a fever,” Drystan finishes, ignoring his father’s torment. “It would be wise to seek out the high priestess and try to procure him an antidote.”

“No potions.” Bree flinches back so violently that his chair falls back. He sprawls on the floor, dodging Drystan’s outstretched hands when the dullahan tries to catch him.

“Ashton Froshtyn,” Cedwyn whispers, and I glance up at him, only to find him cradling Hawkith’s head in both of his hands. “Kill me.”

Ashton doesn’t hesitate. He’s so fast I don’t even get a chance to make out a word of protest. One second, he’s lounging against the wall, and the next, his own quicksilver sword runs through Cedwyn’s heart.

“Good,” Cedwyn whispers, slumping. His hands cup the sharp point sticking through his chest almost reverently. “Now kill yo?—”

The king can’t finish the order. Ashton twists the blade, and in the next breath, he’s gone. The middle Froshtyn sibling staggers, his gaze unfocused.

“I’m free,” he whispers. “I’m free, I’m free, I’m free.”

He’s clearly in a state of shock. The floor is a mess of blood and bodies, and I can’t focus on any of it because Bree is panting like he can’t breathe, reaching for me like I’m the solution.

“In layman’s terms,” Drystan mutters, ignoring his family with a brutal curtness I suspect is pure self-preservation. “Bree will survive. He’s just really, really horny.”

If it’s anything like the pain of my fever, horny is an understatement.

“Bree?” I murmur, cupping his face. “Bree, I need you to tell me what you want.”

“Nicnevin Rhoswyn!” Someone is calling from beyond the room. “ Nicnevin !”

“I need…” Bree’s eyes are unfocused as his face scrunches in pain. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

My heart rips open. “You’re not fine.”

“Nicnevin Rhoswyn, Elfhame has fallen!”

What?

How?

My breath catches in my lungs, and I look desperately between the open door and my suffering mate. If Elfhame has fallen, there are things that need to happen. Plans must be changed. Cedwyn is dead. I need a new vow of allegiance from Ashton. I need to raise those armies I promised Florian.

Oh, Goddess… Florian! Is he alive? If I know anything about him at all, he would’ve rather died than given up the palace.

Bree’s panting pauses long enough for him to give me a small shove.

“Go.”

No. I take his hand in mine. “I can’t.”

I just can’t leave him suffering like this. Unwillingly, I look up at Drystan, fully expecting him to tell me that I need to get over such na?ve notions of caring for a male who can’t die and focus on more important matters.

I’m so braced to deal with the scathing rebuke that when Drystan stands in a swirl of black and says, “I will take care of it,” I don’t process it.

His tone is clipped as he continues. “Bricriu is your only priority. Call the redcap back to protect you both.”

Normally, his orders make me bristle, but right now all I can feel is relief as I grasp onto his decisive leadership like a lifeline.

“Okay.” It’s the only response I can formulate before he’s gone, slamming the door between us and the rest of the world.

Leaving Bree and me alone in a room with two dead bodies and what remains of dinner.

Would eating help? Perhaps water, or vomiting, might limit the effects of whatever potion she used. A second later, I disregard that notion. Hawkith was many things, but she wasn’t stupid. That potion won’t have an antidote because she would’ve anticipated my mates demanding one.

My púca is shivering but tugging at his clothes like he’s too warm—or the fabric is irritating him. I remember that symptom of the later stages of my fever. Even the softest fabric felt abrasive.

“Bree, I want to help you,” I whisper, reaching for him, only to hesitate. “Will you let me?”

Is he even in a state to consent to this right now? He’s certainly in no position to take charge, and if I do…

Shit. I don’t want to make the trauma he’s already dealing with worse by making the wrong move. But his welfare is literally in my hands.

“Won’t hurt you,” Bree mutters, slipping fully onto his back as his forked tongue slips free. “Just lock me in a room somewhere. I won’t—” He cuts off on a groan. “Fuck.”

Reaching into my chest, I search for the excitable bond to Lore and try my hardest to channel all the fear and uncertainty I’ve experienced in the past few hours down it.

He’s there before I can blink, taking in the room with a slow growing smile. His clothes are splattered in blood, his flat cap so bright it glows in the dimness of the room.

“Regicide, pet! And I wasn’t invited?” He bends down to examine Cedwyn’s corpse, then reaches for his hat.

“Lore, forget about the blood for one second. Bree’s been dosed with something. I need to get him back to our room before it gets any worse. Then I need Kitarni.”

Perhaps she can come up with some antidote.

“No!” Bree bolts upright and grabs for me, dragging me into his lap completely. “No other females. I can’t. I won’t!”

I don’t think he really understands what we’re saying, but the visceral reaction leaves no choice but to agree.

“No other females,” I promise, running a hand over his messy hair. “Lore, please. We need to get him out of here.”

Bree can’t stay on the floor in a room full of blood and quicksilver.

Lore sighs, plops his hat onto my head, and then blinks Bree away, leaving me alone for less than a second before he returns to collect me.

When we reappear in our room, Bree is writhing on the bed, his sleeveless coat gone along with his boots. I rush to help him as he claws at the laces on his ripped trousers.

Of course, the moment I’m in touching distance, he grabs me.

“Soft,” he croons, his black tongue lending the word more sibilance than usual.

Both of his palms come to rest on my skin wherever they can, shoving my clothes out of the way.

“Ask Kitarni if she can come up with an antidote for a potion that was meant to induce a fever,” I order Lore. “And quickly.”

Because Bree is in pain, but I’m not quite certain he’s in his right mind, and that’s a boundary I don’t want to cross.