“Generals. The Iron Coven is a coven of war, after all,” Grae elaborated. “Isn’t that how the rumors of our great armies started in the first place?”
“All three of you are generals?” Zyana’s attention passed over the gods. “Why do three high-ranking military members need to accompany a prince to a Circes season? It is meant to be a social gathering, not a war brief.”
“Tell me, would you send your prince to foreign lands with nothing but decrepit advisors to protect him? I assure you, if we had, our prince would currently be dead.”
“How?” Zyana seemed genuinely perplexed but curious.
“Ran into some trouble on the journey, but”—Grae shrugged, running a hand through his wavy hair—“we handled it.”
“Were they masked mages?” Trista voiced the question before she could think better of it.
Ares turned his golden gaze to her. “Yes,” he said carefully, “how did you know?”
“We had the same problem,” Zyana voiced.
“Seems Witch Country isn’t as safe as your Witch King claims it to be,” Ares stated.
Brune stood up, the wooden bench creaking as he did. Both witches’ focus traveled up the god’s towering form.
“Thank you for keeping us company,” Ares murmured as he rose from his seat. His gaze passed over Demurielle and Zyana to linger on Trista. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of each other.” He and Grae stepped over the bench, and the three gods departed toward their prince.
When they were out of earshot, Demurielle leaned into the table. “Was it just me, or were theyreallyintense?”
“Mmhmm.” Zyana didn’t take her eyes off their retreating forms.
“Very,” Trista agreed.
“But also…” Demurielle pulled a face, suggesting she was both impressed by and attracted to them. “I mean, I’d bet on them in a fight.”
And they’d win. Every time.
Zyana groaned.
“Honestly, so would I,” Trista muttered, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Turning her head to study the gods again, a sense of dread settled over her.
War gods in Witch Country. There was a precedent already set for how that would end.
In bloodshed.
Chapter XII
Timeseemedtostandstill. It had only been four days since Ares had arrived with his retinue and the Iron Prince. There was always one of the three gods with the prince, who showed up at every meal and sat with Prince Roan. She had only seen Ares twice more, the lack of him almost as concerning as the sight of him. The question of why he’d come weighed on Trista constantly. Though there was some relief in the fact that he hadn’t turned the castle into the Blood Gauntlet, it did little to settle her turmoil.
Coincidentally the storms had started that same night he had arrived at dinner. According to both Demurielle and the Witch King, it was early for them, but just meant they’d get a heat wave before Autumn brought the wind and, with it, the cold. The rain, however, meant fewer outdoor activities, making the entire castle restless.
Trista, on the other hand, loved the rain. It had a soothing effect on her, and she could get lost for hours watching from a window, especially with a good book in hand. Which was precisely how she found herself in the library. Soon after arriving at Spellspire, she had visited, but she hadn’t been able to fully dedicate herself to the task of exploring it, so she merely stood in the entry looking at the books longingly.
But now she made the time. It held old magic of its own—built into the walls, encased in the stone floor. The type of spell that answered a primordial question to her own magic. As if to say,this is where you came from, this is what you once were. Whatever their curse had been, it hadn’t affected old structures infused with ancient magic. The Akeso had the same feel to it, though its magic was less showy.
Stairs and ladders led to whole other rooms full of books with their own layers and secrets. On the first day, she merely wandered, taking in the sweeping shelves, the decadent smell of old books, reveling in the feel of the spines of hundreds of titles on her fingertips. On the second and third days, she orientated herself to the sections she could find—royal history, encyclopedias, poetry. The Akeso’s library held not even a fraction of the palace library’s tomes and scrolls.
Though she had seen several witches come and go from the library, there rarely seemed to be anyone lingering in the cavernous stacks. It offered a peace that the rest of the castle could not. The only constant company was small, drifting balls of light that held little heat.
Three currently bobbed alongside her, delightful whizzing and buzzing sounds emitting from them. Any time she paused to study the name of a text on the shelf or pulled one off, they’d glide around it, revealing the title. She named them the light sprites and found their presence comforting as they bounced and looped happily in the air.
Trista followed a long stretch of a shelf, its winding, endless mass leading her further back into the library’s depths. It was even darker, the lanterns more scarce here, and she had only the three luminescent wisps to brighten the way.
“Coven Conflict, Hack Vines and Other Strangling and Insidious Flora, Garden Spells,” she muttered the titles aloud as she passed by sections. “If I were a book on dark magic, where would I be?” she mused. Despite her current inability to heal, she was still passionate about her research on Noxa.