Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Zenith

As we tear down camp, the pungent smoke from damp wood looms heavy in the air. Thick soot clogs my nostrils. My throat itches. Every minute we stay here is another minute we're behind schedule.

It's a four-day trek to cross the next bridge suitable for wagons and get back on the road to Willowood. Anash is busy writing to let Lord Warner know of the delay, along with a missive to Her Majesty about the rebel's request to meet with her.

Ha! As if she'll entertain the notion of peace talks when the fae weren't the ones who started this conflict in the first place. If humans wanted peace, they should have remained peaceful.

Simple.

"Ho, there," I yell to a group of soldiers loading canvas into a wagon. "It's lopsided. You must distribute the weight evenly. Better for the horses and the axles." That much should be obvious. I fight not to shake my head, but I have to remember these fae weren't soldiers before they signed the registry. Most of them weren't travelers either. Their once simple lives are now burdened with purpose.

As new to them as it is to Anash.

My preference would be to guide them through the transition slowly. But the time for that has run out. I need them hardened, practiced, and efficient—and I need it yesterday.

"Let me show you." I leap into the wagon and drag heavy canvas to the front corners. "Like this, with the weight here."

"Got it," says one of the women. Matilda, I think, but I don't want to get it wrong.

"Your name, soldier?"

She stands at attention. "Matilda, General."

"Matilda, this crew can proceed without you. Go teach the others. Inspect each wagon for weight distribution and report to me when they're loaded."

"Yes, sir." Her response is professional, but her gaze glints with a pleased sparkle at being assigned an important task. I'll remember that. If she performs well, I'll be sure to call on her again.

"Thank you." I hop down.

Captain Randal is escorting a young fae dressed in white and gold court clothes my way. He looks out of place in what's left of our camp.

"Messenger for you, General," says Randal with a curt nod before returning to work.

The messenger bows and waits as if he requires permission to speak. He doesn't. No royal blood flows in my veins, though I appreciate the respect.

"Rise." I offer my wrist. He clasps it and meets my gaze with gold eyes that match his clothes and wings. "What news do you bring from Lemossin?"

"Bad news, I'm afraid," he says in a hushed voice. The last thing we need is more bad news. "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"

"This way." I lead him to my tent, which will be the last to be packed, since Anash is still using it as a makeshift study.

Mud cakes our boots, sticking, then falling off in clumps. The fae tucks his wings in like he'd rather not touch anything. I don't blame him. Camp is a mess of dirt and soot, our tent only slightly less so.

I hold the inner tent flap open for him. "Come on in, it's fine. Your name?"

"Thistle, sir." He ducks inside.

Anash is busy scrawling line after line.

Thistle glances at him pointedly. "I was told to deliver the message to you and only you, High General."

I wave this off. "Nonsense. Prince Anash is here as my scribe. Everything I know, he knows by the necessity of his assignment. My prince, this is Thistle, messenger from the queen."

Anash looks up then. "Hello."

"Go on," I say.

Thistle still hesitates.

"I could leave?" Anash says quietly.

"Nonsense. You're fine as you are. I said go on, Thistle. Let's have your message."

"If you insist." He clears his throat. "A large contingent of rebels have made it to Lemossin. They've taken to the city streets with their protests. As our army stands divided, with most of the soldiers here with you, we can't subdue them all. We arrest one wave, only for a new wave to take their place. They come in such numbers as to threaten the security of Ralossi Palace. The dungeons are full to bursting."

"And the princess?" Anash asks, voice tight. "Is she safe?"

"So far, everyone in the palace is safe. The queen portals between the palace and her advanced scout troop in Ember Crest daily. The timeline must be hastened. No more practices and drills. Queen Aurielle requests your immediate advance into Willowood, where her troop will meet yours. Cut the head from the snake in Irondale, and the tail in Lemossin will flail uselessly."

I'd love nothing more than to be in Willowood already, but I can't. "I too have bad news. Anash writes even now of our delay. As you saw from camp, fire has destroyed the bridge south. We must detour to the next one, several days out of our way."

"That will not do."

"I don't see how it can be changed."

"Right. Me either." Thistle chews his lower lip. "Unless you leave the wagons and horses behind and ford the river here."

"We're too far out to make do without tents and supplies. Men cannot fight when they are starved and sleep deprived. Perhaps if we were closer, but…" I shake my head.

"I see."

"Perhaps the queen could portal to us?"

"She cannot. There's no mage with the talent on this end to aid her. For most mages, gating requires at least two."

I didn't know that, though it makes sense. One mage on either end.

"I'll relay your situation back to Ralossi. Perhaps she'll have a solution by the time I return."

Anash rises and thrusts out a stack of missives, the wax seal on the top letter still wet and glistening. "Take these. For Queen Aurielle, for her advisors, for Princess Suvi, and for my mother, Queen Eilonwy. Each sealed for their eyes only."

Thistle tucks the stack inside his doublet. "There's only one queen now, Prince."

Anash's gaze hardens, eyes glinting. "You would say my mother isn't queen and yet still call me prince? And so what title shall we give my mum? You'd call her by her first name only?"

"No. Uh, sorry. It's not my place to?—"

"That's right. And it's not your place to question me either. Take the letters, see they're kept private, and hold your tongue next time you wish to speak to me."

Thistle no longer meets his eyes, gaze fixed at his feet instead. "Yes, Prince Anash."

Anash flicks his fingers toward the exit. "You're dismissed."

"Travel safe," I add awkwardly.

"Yes, General." Thistle leaves chastened, his exit not as finicky as his entrance.

When we're alone, I glance at Anash, who's still seething if his tight expression is anything to go by. "It's not like you to pull rank."

"Hmm, no. I don't care for such behavior in others and certainly not in myself, but if the rest of the court thinks they can disrespect my mother the way that fae just did, we have a problem."

"Indeed."

He gapes at me. "Wait, you agree?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I?"

He shrugs as if trying to feign indifference when he's clearly quite invested in this topic. "Well, I thought since Aurielle declared her new one-ruler policy or whatever she meant…"

"You worry."

"I do. My mother is as much a member of the royal bloodlines as Aurielle, same as Falia Vesper and even the Gatekeeper."

"My loyalty is to all four bloodlines, regardless of who's ruling."

"Regardless of who's ruling," he parrots quietly, almost to himself. "What if they make you choose?"

"They won't."

"But if they do? If Aurielle demands one thing and my mother demands another?"

"My duty is to protect them both. And you. All of you."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Everything in me wants to put Anash first. To put his family first. But truly, if it came to an ultimatum, how could I choose? I am Zenith of Lemossin. There are other gargoyles in Tierney, devoted to Anash's line. My gut says I belong to Queen Aurielle.

But my heart belongs to Anash. "I could never betray you, my love."

His lips part and his face goes white. He looks like he could use an embrace.

So I hug him, holding him to my chest. "Don't worry. It's not going to happen. I won't have to choose."

He utters a faint little whimper and nods against me. My poor Anash. In the middle of a smelly, soggy war camp when he deserves to be pampered.

I'll win us this war and make things right again.

For Anash.