Page 14 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
And—if she had to guess again—she’d be willing to put money on the fact that Owen didn’t want him home.
He wanted himdead.He just needed to be sure.
“Um, Prince Caerwyn,” Aislinn began, “did he just turn twenty-one?”
“He did.”
“And is he… tall and tanned, with dark hair and rather well-muscled arms?”
Bellona bit her lip, hiding in a smile. “Yes.”
“So he’s—”
“The chap you tried to skewer earlier? Yes.”
Aislinn sunk into the pillow, burying her face.
“Don’t worry, pet, he didn’t take it too personally. Carried you here himself. Quite the image.”
Aislinn blushed. She was not accustomed to being carried, particularly by strong mortal men who… well. That hardly mattered.
“I need to report back to my father,” she said. “Let him know—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Flora snapped.
“You won’t be in any—”
“It’s not us I’m worried about, lass. You’ve got a rather impressive hole in your middle. I won’t have you ruining the work I did of stitching you back together. I know you lot heal quickly, but you’ll be laid up here for at least three days unless you want to be crawling home.”
Aislinn winced, touching the thick bandages around her middle. She was unaccustomed to being told to rest, and despite what Flora said about fae healing, she took longer to heal than most. A downside of her mortal half.
She cursed the fact you couldn’t heal yourself. She wasn’t the best healer, but she’d be able to speed it up some. Beau had explained it to her once—how when you were injured, your energy was already taken up trying to heal the damage. You couldn’t spend it elsewhere.
“Don’t fret too much,” said Bellona, with a warm smile. “We’re not terrible hosts. I’ll wager you might even enjoy yourself.”
Even though moving felt like subjecting her abdomen to a white-hot cheesegrater, Aislinn couldn’t possibly comprehend lying in a bed for three days, and forced herself to move out of whatever passed for the medical bay not long after the other dwarves had left.
The main room of the cottage was a large, open space with a low ceiling. Most of it was taken up by the kitchen and the large table at the centre, but dozens of pantries, cupboards, desks and alcoves filled the rest of it. A workbench took up the whole of one wall, filled with gears and springs, deconstructed weapons, and scraps of iron in various sizes, all meticulously ordered. In the centre of the room was a small set of stairs leading to a loft above, where the dwarves must have slept. Did the prince sleep there too? Aislinn wondered. The steps and ceiling looked rather narrow and low for him.Everythingwas on the low and narrow side, actually—but why would it be anything else?
“You’re up!” said a cheery voice.
Aislinn turned towards the kitchen. A tiny dwarf emerged from a cupboard, whisking something in a large bowl. She was far smaller than the other three Aislinn had met so far, barely meeting her middle, and unlike the others she was as pale as a moonbeam, a ghost of spring. Flowers sat in the braids of her milk-white hair, offset by the periwinkle blue of her eyes. She looked almost like an elfin child, although Aislinn knew she was likely older than she was—dwarves could live for some six hundred to eight hundred years, but unlike fae, they were slow to age. Fae were much like humans for the first twenty-five years or so.
“Hello!” said the dwarf, setting down her bowl. “I’m Luna Tourmaline. I’m the cook!”
“I’m Aislinn Ardenthorn. The faerie princess.”
Luna smiled, her entire face bright. “So the others told me. Would you like to help me cook? I know you’re injured, so if you’re not up for it, it’s no matter—”
“Oh, no, please. Make me useful.”
Luna’s grin widened. “You sit there,” she said. “I’ll get you peeling.”
Another dwarf came in as Aislinn began with the apples. She introduced herself as “Fortuna Springshard, but you may call me Fort.” She was a small, battle-scarred warrior with short, cinnamon-coloured hair, brown skin and amber eyes. She had a pair of pistols strapped to either side of her thighs, which she started cleaning at the table only to be shooed by Luna to the workbench. Her fingers moved quickly over the parts of her weapons, like someone used to sleight of hand. She reminded Aislinn of a fox.
“How many of you are there?” she asked.
“Seven dwarves,” Luna chimed, “and Caer, of course.”
