Page 56 of The Arrow and the Alder

He needed to figure out a way to spin the tale, and he needed to figure it out fast; otherwise, he’d be cast out and Weald would be lost to Massie and his witch forever. While some of his determination may simply come down to ego, Alder also wanted revenge for his family––for his mother.

And maybe, somewhere deep down inside, he did care about his court.

The solution struck him some time later, while tossing and turning in the middle of the night. Oddly enough, it was Josephine who’d given him the idea. The only downside of his new plan was that telling this version of the story might make her hate him even more, if that were possible. He felt a sharp prick of regret on that account, but again, better angry than dead.

Either way, it was too dangerous for Josephine to stay here. It didn’t matter that she was part kith. She’d only known a mortal life, and her chances of survival were better if she returned to that life—in secret and concealed by Abecka’s enchantments, hiding until she could safely pass through the Rift. Alder had suggested this to Abecka right after Josephine had left with the priestess, before he’d gone to his kin. Let Abecka and her elders figure out what to do with the coat while Josephine lived in relative freedom and safety, without the pressures and expectations put upon her by the Light Court.

He owed that much to Rys, at least.

Abecka, predictably, had not agreed, and they’d argued until she’d refused to hear another word about it. In fact, she’d promptlysuggestedhe mind his own business—like his beard, which he needed to shave before he stood before the elders and the people. Alder had inevitably conceded on this point, but he already missed his beard. His face felt too soft now. Too smooth.

Too much like the old Alder.

This morning, or at least Alder assumed it’d been morning—it was impossible to tell underground—Evora had delivered his attire: a soft white tunic and a forest-green waistcoat with golden clasps down the front. The long velvet jacket was the color of storm clouds, and small enchantments had been embroidered in gold, compliments of Abecka. He could feel the whisper of her power in the threads, enchantments of protection, of strength, and of comfort.

But not even the enchantress’s power could settle the beast inside of him. If anything, she’d made it more restless.

Sometimes Alder wondered why he’d bothered, why he’d even come back. He could have stayed in Kestwich, and truthfully, he’d intended to, where he could’ve lived a nomadic life far away from the past, surviving off of the land of the present, accountable to no one. But he knew well that the past was never so easily dismissed. It was the most cunning of hunters, incomprehensible in its patience, and it always came to collect its due.

Also, Alder had wanted to see his mother.

Stumbling across Massie and the coat had seemed like a rare gift from Demas himself—an opportunity to make things right.

And if the Fates found favor with him, they might deliver a cure.

Alder’s gaze fell upon the three little moonstone figurines decorating the mantel: the Fates. There were three in total: one of Sight, one of Speech, and one of Sound. It was the Fate of Speech who had cursed the Light Court and thrown the entire kith realm off-balance, and it was this Fate Alder plucked from the shelf.

He turned it over in his hands. The face was completely featureless but for the mouth that sat open, casting her wretched curse over their lands.

“Through blood, by blood, may your sins be paid, spent from a mortal heart, the heir must claim. A babe wrought by harvest’s light, and virgin be, by immortal’s sight, holds the only path to your salvation.”

It had been the beginning of the end. Judgment and justice served to all for the actions of few.

No, they were all guilty. The princes had simply brought their corruption to light.

Josephine’sgrandfather.

Alder squeezed that little figurine. His hand wrapped around it completely, and he closed his eyes.Jakobiánhad been the unconscious man in the chair—the one who had brought this curse upon them, and then abandoned them all—for love, no less! And yet he’d kept Abecka’s enchanted coat all this time. Alder wondered if Jakobián had held on simply for nostalgic reasons, or if he’d known what sort of power resided in it now.

Because—according to his conversation with Abecka—the power bound in the coat’s enchantments was not one she had placed.

Jakobián had to have knownsomething; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with a fake and exposed the real one to Josephine.

A knock sounded.

Alder opened his eyes and set the little figure back upon the mantel as he said, “Come in.”

The door opened, and Serinbor stood on the other side. His gaze landed on Alder with no small amount of disdain, especially when he took in Alder’s appearance. It was as though Serinbor were suddenly looking at the past, and all the old quarrels raged like a tempest between them.

“Is it time?” Alder asked.

Serinbor tipped his head and stepped aside.

Alder joined him at the door. He looked at Serinbor, but he’d turned and walked on, which was just fine with Alder. Better that than lavish more condemnation over a past he could not change. He followed Serinbor down the stone path, over a bridge, and past a handful of kith Alder didn’t recognize. They stopped chatting as he approached, staring at this newcomer so boldly wearing Weald. Alder passed, and whispers followed.

Bring them all.Time to get this theater over with.

But the farther they walked, the more populated the pathways became—both Light and Weald now, including some from the small crowd of kin he’d met with last night. They appeared marginally more hopeful today as they gazed upon his freshly shaven face, and Alder hated to admit that Abecka had been right.

---