Chapter 51

Fifty-One

Drystan

E lfhame has fallen.

Those three little words change everything.

I’m free.

Two more words that I never thought I’d hear my uncle say.

Rose has turned the Winter Court upside down. No. My mother did. Now it’s up to me to deal with the fallout. Ashton looks like he’s about to break the throne he’s sitting on. He keeps staring at the blood on his hands like he wants to check that it’s real.

That’s another mess. We don’t need a newly minted king. We need established rulers with strong courts. Some of Cedwyn’s generals are even looking to me first, but I refuse to pick up that poisoned chalice.

Ashton doesn’t know it, but Archie is lingering behind him, waiting for something. I’m not sure what my grandfather wants anymore, given that Cedwyn was the target of most of his ghostly revenge antics, but he touches his collar when he sees me looking at him.

I barely resist the urge to do the same, but there’s no point reminding the court of what I am. It will only add fuel to this burning clusterfuck.

The hastily thrown together war room is brimming with old fae warriors, messengers, and court busybodies who have no business being here. Jaromir is with me, the search for Torrance abandoned, and now he’s bristling with a feral energy that I’m beginning to think might be a symptom of being away from Rose for too long. At least his bulk is giving me space as I stare at the perfect ice-miniature of the queendom.

The one where Elfhame City is currently under a blue and black banner.

“What information do we have on Florian’s forces?” Jaro demands, again .

Nothing more than we knew five minutes ago , I want to growl at him.

“The Knight Commander would rather die than abandon the city,” I reply evenly. “We have to assume he and his knights are dead unless we learn otherwise.”

This entire operation has now become suicidal. When the knights had control of the palace, and the passageway to Orvendel, there was a chance we could fight this battle on two fronts, trapping the Fomorians between two forces. Victory would’ve been a goddess-damned sight easier.

Now we have to assault our own city. A city that was designed to withstand siege from everyone by the greatest fae minds of the second era.

“How in goddess’s name did they build their armada so fast?” General Elvira mutters, throwing her long braid over her shoulder. “We had months…”

“Before Eero allied with him,” Jaro mutters. “The Summer Court’s resources will have helped immeasurably.”

We’ve never fought Fomorians with fae allies before.

And my mother would’ve added winter to that alliance.

Now she’s dead.

And I am an orphan. A bastard orphan lordling.

Shutting that thought down with a viciousness that would probably scare my mate, I turn back to the map.

“What of the passageway?” Elvira asks. “If we can still reach the palace, there’s a chance our plans could still work.”

“It’s possible that it hasn’t been discovered,” I admit, slowly. “But it would be impossible to bring huge numbers of soldiers through there without attracting notice.”

“We wouldn’t need to,” Jaro murmurs.

“You’re not thinking…”

“I’m suggesting we take Rose.” The wolf is glowing in his eyes. “With my shield, she won’t come to harm.”

“Until the first bit of iron bypasses your magic.”

“So we take the Fomorian. His magic is unaffected by it. He keeps them at a distance, while we protect Rose, and the redcap will obviously want to be there too, for the carnage, if nothing else.”

Like Bricriu and I won’t? If he’s talking about taking our Nicnevin into the middle of the enemy stronghold with only a seelie, a psychopath, and a Fomorian, he’s insane.

“Not unless there’s no other choice,” I grate out. “We need more information before we consider anything so rash.”

Kitarni bursts into the room, and I cock my head at her, waiting for news of Bree’s condition. Ever since he told me he was poisoned, tension has been coiling in my gut.

I endured years of her throwing females on the cusp of fever at me, and foolishly assumed that her quest for an heir would stop because I was Rose’s mate. Now Bree is suffering as a result of my oversight, and Rose was almost thrust into another fever, which would’ve wasted days of precious time and possibly brought an innocent child into the mix.

“The Nicnevin is helping him through the aftereffects of your mother’s potion,” Kitarni says quietly, coming to stand at my side before raising her voice and addressing the room. “I’ve heard nothing from the Temple of Elfhame, either, and that worries me. We have many channels they could’ve tried.”

“Suggests to me that they didn’t have the time to counter whatever the Fomorians threw at them,” says a rotund general leaning on a huge war axe at the other side of the table. “Which means there could be some unknown threat that our forces are ill-prepared to face.”

“Send Lore to find Florian,” Jaro orders a squire, who nods and immediately takes off to relay the order. “If the Knight Commander is in Orvendel, the redcap will find him. We need more information before we send our troops into a death trap.”

General Elvira frowns. “And if Orvendel is lost? It was always a risk having an escape route so close to the water.”

“Then we take it back,” I state. “It borders winter. A sneak attack from the mountains?—”

General Kildare shakes his head stiffly. “You’re not the King of Winter to make that decision. Unless you plan on challenging him for the position…”

My eyes flick to Ashton, still sitting silently on the icebound throne. “I have never wanted to be king. As a member of the Guard, I am sworn to my Nicnevin first and foremost. King Ashton is the only rightful ruler of this court, and the one I support wholeheartedly.”

There it is, the thing that makes the stoic fae all breathe a sigh of relief, and perhaps a few of disappointment. Did anyone honestly believe I’d want to be trapped in this frozen tomb when I could be with my mate?

Then again, some fae would do anything for that crown, Hawkith included. I was never one of them, but that didn’t stop Cedwyn from treating me like a usurper, or my mother from trying to force me into becoming one.

“Are you willing to vow it before Danu?” Elvira presses.

“Unnecessary.” Ashton speaks for the first time, standing. “Our troops are at the Nicnevin’s disposal.”

“You’ve not even been crowned yet,” one of the soldiers in the back points out, and Ashton grins.

“If I wanted the opinion of an asskisser like you, I’d have asked. Get out of here, Lendry. We don’t need your piss-poor excuse for military experience cluttering up the room.” From his robe, he pulls a familiar circlet, then pops it over his brow with a flourish. “Good enough for the rest of you? Or do we need to ask the Fomorians nicely for a little break so we can plan a party?”

There are bristles from the crowd, but General Elvira is one of the first to bow. “All hail King Ashton, second of his name.”

The oldest warrior in Calimnel bowing kicks the rest of them into action, because soon the rest fall to their knees as well.

“Yes, yes. Whatever.” Ashton sweeps a hand at the map. “Get on with figuring out our next move. And someone needs to take my brother’s and his mate’s bodies to our family vault until their funeral can be arranged.”

He steps away from his throne, crooking two fingers at me. “This way, lad. High priestess, you, too.” I’m just close enough to hear him mutter, “There are some wrongs I should like to atone for before you leave.”

There’s a small privy chamber towards the back of the throne room, one that Cedwyn was once fond of using to entertain whores in front of my mother. Apparently, they stopped that since my self-imposed exile. The bed that used to be here is gone, replaced with a cluster of chairs around a low pit of flickering blue flames.

I wave Kitarni in first, meeting Jaro’s eyes for a second to check that he’s got things handled with the generals before closing the heavy slab of ice behind us. I shouldn’t worry. He’s a military man in his element. For all that the loss of the outer wall shook him; he knows what he’s doing.

“There’s so much to do…” Ashton paces the far wall, blue flames casting odd highlights over his navy leathers. “I… I didn’t want this.”

Kitarni straightens, inclining her head to show she’s listening. “I offer my counsel, should you need it, Your Highness. But I regret to say, after so many years without your name, you don’t have much time for self-rediscovery.”

Ashton raises a hand to pinch his brow, then stops mid-motion, staring at his left hand like it’s a stranger.

“I… I was never right-handed.”

“What?” All of my disbelief is layered in the one-word question.

“Cedwyn hated that he was the only right-handed Froshtyn. One of his first orders was to make me use my right hand as my dominant one. I can… fuck. I can wipe my ass with my left hand.”

Oh Goddess, he’s losing it.

This is equal parts pitiable and frustrating. We don’t need a broken king. Not now. The realm won’t survive the infighting that will cause.

Ashton pulls himself straighter, then looks at Kitarni, who seems to have gravitated closer to him while I wasn’t looking.

“I’d like you to ask the Temple to oversee the reconsecration of the Iceblyd tomb in Mirrwyl,” he begins. “I suppose they’ll need their remains re-interred. Cedwyn had me toss them from the cliffs of Saradil’s plateau, but I managed to go back afterwards and hide them in a cave to the south. I’ll show the scouts where.” His head falls. “And Lord Drystan should carry his family name, with access to all the fortunes his mother owned, as the last of her line.”

My heart skips a beat, but I don’t speak. I don’t think I can.

It’s not just the news that whatever long-dead Iceblyd ancestors will finally be laid to rest. Ever since I was born, I’ve been Lord Drystan Snowchild, the infamous bastard of Calimnel. The son of the female who managed to trap the king. Grandson of a traitor.

Drystan Iceblyd. I can’t decide how the idea makes me feel.

Ashton pauses at my silence, darting a glance up. “If you want it, lad. It’s yours. Those two fucking fought over you like dogs over a bone, but Iceblyd was a noble house, once. When I was a child, your grandmother used to take me sledding, for fuck’s sake.”

I hadn’t known that, either. I suppose there was a reason Cedwyn felt so betrayed by Archie’s coup.

Kitarni interjects. “There is a heavy price to pay for changing an entry in the Book of Names, Your Highness, and it can only be paid by a parent.”

Ashton looks her square in the eye and says the words that finally shatter my reality. “You really think Cedwyn would’ve tortured his own child so much? No. His mate bore my son, and he hated all three of us for it.”

No . Not possible. Cedwyn and Hawkith were mates—truly mated—so the chances that he could be…

“Danu works in mysterious ways,” Kitarni murmurs.

Goddess. There’s mysterious and then there’s fucked up.

Rose guessed, I realise, looking up at the ceiling with dread. My mate knew my parents were mated, and she knew one of them wasn’t even my parent. Was it all so transparent, or was it the Goddess’s influence?

My uncle—my father —won’t look at me.

“Why?” I ask. “Archie—Archibald Iceblyd—tried to kill you. Killed your parents.”

“That was almost six hundred years ago.” Ashton waves his hand in the air. “And Cedwyn spent almost every night since then tormented by ghosts he couldn’t even see. I’m not stupid or stubborn enough to follow in his footsteps, and I don’t need to crush the Iceblyds to rule Calimnel. Once the war is over, we’ll make it official and look at getting Mirrwyl restored, so you’ll always have a true home in your own court.”

I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants the ice to open up beneath me and swallow me whole. Another angry, bitter part thinks Ashton is five hundred years too late to start righting wrongs and heaping favours on me.

If I’m his son, I’m the heir. Just that word threatens to shatter my composure. ‘Heir’ makes me exactly what my mother always wanted. It grants her a final victory over Cedwyn and makes all the punishments I suffered at his hand meaningless. He took my head for almost two centuries to prevent this exact scenario.

If Ashton dies—and we’re in the middle of a Goddess-damned war, so it’s a distinct possibility—that makes me king.

I’d rather rot in a windowless room for a hundred years than spend a second as King of Winter.

“Make a new heir,” I whisper. “I won’t sit on that throne.”

I’m turning on my heel before he can respond, barely aware of Kitarni counselling Ashton to ‘give me some time,’ when Gryffin bursts through the door to the privy chamber, with Jaro hot on his heels.

“What—” I begin, but I’m cut off when the Autumn Prince scans the room and scowls when he fails to find whoever he’s seeking.

“Where is she?” he demands, lines of strain bracketing his features. “I thought he’d go after the Nicnevin next, but if she’s not with you?—”

“Who?” Kitarni asks, striding forward.

“Caedmon.” Gryffin spits his name like a curse. “The bastard stabbed my mate, pushed her out of a window, and then left her for dead.”

The blue flames behind me roar scarlet and orange, bathing the room in golden warmth even as my veins ice over.

“Where. Is. Rhoswyn?” I demand, reaching for the Call as I stride from the room. “Tell me someone is with her.”

“We just sent Lore to look for Florian,” Jaro says, leading the way out of the war room at a run, his wolf snarling through his voice as his eyes flash golden. “And Bree was recovering from Hawkith’s potion.”

Leaving Caed with the perfect fucking opening.

“Yeah, the redcap turned up on our doorstep spouting off about Elfhame having fallen, told Caed to watch Rose and Bree, and then disappeared,” Gryffin explains. “Caed went all stiff, asked for a second alone with Prae. The next thing I know, I’m sending everything I’ve got down our mating bond to keep her alive while a barbegazi with healing magic tries to keep her heart beating.”

We let our guard down for one moment, and it was all Caed needed to strike. I knew this would happen.

“He can’t kill her without dying,” Kitarni says, panting as she tries to keep pace. “Lock down the citadel. He can’t get far.”

“He can.” Jaro groans. “I gave him one of the Leaves of Illidwen.”

He what ?! “Why would you?—?”

Jaro shifts, avoiding all questions as his wolf tears down the ice-bound halls, claws leaving gouges in the floor.