Page 62 of Atop the Faerie Throne
“What’s she doing here?” I ask, teeth grinding together.
“They are his grandparents,” Jaro reminds me. “And you did tell General Reyni to apologise.”
That better be the only reason she’s approaching Caed. I quicken my pace as Drystan nods and strides away, leaving my Fomorian alone with them.
“I’ve got this,” I tell Jaro. “Can you make sure?—”
“That the redcap hasn’t gotten distracted? I’m already on it.”
He drops another lingering kiss to my mating mark—which has no right to turn me on as much as it does—and jogs off in the same direction Drystan went. In a few more steps, I wind up within earshot of Caed’s conversation.
“My point is,” Reyni says, sounding almost like she’s scolding him. “You might be a son of Balor, or whatever nonsense you just spouted, but you’re also a son of one of the oldest fae houses, and after careful consideration?—”
“She means several hours of ranting,” Finch interrupts, his cap an almost luminous scarlet.
“Whatever.” Reyni waves him off, armour glinting in the sun as she shoves her wild black hair out of her face. “You should visit our estate once things have settled down. There are portraits of your mother we could show you, and her things haven’t been touched since she was taken.”
They haven’t noticed me yet, and it gives me a chance to check on Caed along our bond. His emotions are mixed, but at the forefront, there’s a lot of mistrust and sorrow.
“I barely knew her,” he mutters. “You’re wasting your time.” He turns sideways, bringing me into the conversation. “Besides,the Nicnevin probably doesn’t have time to run around the Autumn Court.”
Reyni and Finch offer me deep bows, and that gives me pause. I suppose a whole bunch of unseelie just saw exactly what level of destruction I’m capable of. They didn’t bow properly before, but they’re definitely doing it now.
I guess death on an untold scale is what it takes to earn their respect… or was it what happened with Lore afterwards?
On second thought, perhaps I don’t want to know.
I should say something. Probably. But I’m not sure that getting involved will help. It’s Caed’s choice how much he lets them into his life.
“Shall we get going?” I ask him, holding out my hand as I pointedly ignore the both of them.
He takes it, shuddering as my skin meets the lines of his mark, and then tucking me under his arm, hesitating for a second before pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“Thanks for the rescue,” he murmurs under his breath, guiding me towards the command tent.
“You won’t be saying that in a second,” I reply, grinning as a red knit cap appears over my head from nowhere.
Lore’s claiming me—as if the mark flirting with the hem of my dress isn’t enough. It makes me smile as we duck under the heavy flap held aloft by soldiers and into a makeshift war room.
The minor royals are already here, blood-splattered and still in their armour as they trade barbs across the map on the table. I grimace at the sight of the tiny blue flags that form a perfect line from Elfhame up to the Endless Sea, and the dagger sunk into the wood over the Fomorian Mountains.
Of course. We might have driven them out of here, but the Fomorians are still in control of the Torvyn river and large swathes of the Autumn Court.
The invasion is still happening, and the golden flags clustered along the Summer Court’s borders aren’t exactly promising either.
They fall silent at my entrance, watching me take in the situation with grim eyes. All three of them are surrounded by their generals, and soon the weight of those stares begins to prickle at the back of my neck.
Kitarni isn’t here. Perhaps her presence would’ve eased the tension a little or softened the hard edges of the battle-worn fae around the table, making them less intimidating.
“As long as they hold the Torvyn, they have a direct line to the Capital whenever they want to relaunch their invasion,” Caed advises me. “And budging them…”
Will cost more lives.
The tension is choking the air, but my shoulders relax somewhat as Drystan takes his spot on my other side, Jaro, Lore, and Bree hanging back. The latter takes a position by the tent doors, cat ears twitching. Their presence gives me the confidence to move forward and play with the violet flag in the centre of the city with my forefinger.
“What does the great Nicnevin propose?” Cressida asks, mockingly. “Fuck the enemy into submission?”
Ugh, it’s too soon after my death for me to deal with her particular brand of causticity.
