Page 8 of His Summer Prince

“Are you worried?” Carlisle asked. “You’re further north than me.”

Wren let out a breath and leaned on his muck rake, thinking. “I’m not frightened,” he said eventually, “but what if the orcs advance north? Because where else would they go? Lord Aranin’s troops won’t hold them up forever.”

Their lord had sent his knights to the front in hopes of containing the invasion. So far, they were successful, though that was due to the orcs hating the cold Valian winter as much as summer fae did. Once the sun came out and the snow melted, the orcs would press north.

It had Wren tossing and turning at night—the snowmelt setin weeks before it was safe for Elior to leave the Summer Court. What if the orcs overran Lord Aranin’s troops and Wren had to flee before he had a chance to see Elior?

Outside the barn, a throaty bark sounded, drawing him out of his thoughts. Not a second later, a sheepdog with long, fluffy fur careened around the corner, racing into the barn. “Toby!” His bright amber eyes were fixed on Wren, and he bounced toward him, tail wagging. Wren crouched down, welcoming him with open arms. He petted Toby’s merle coat and rubbed his belly as he rolled over, his fur soft as silk. The affection earned him something that looked suspiciously close to a smile.

“Good boy.” Wren fished a piece of dried meat from his pocket, laughing as Toby’s eager tongue curled around the treat. He’d let Toby play in the snow for a while, but now the bitter cold had driven him back into the warmth of the barn.

Toby kept Wren and Carlisle company for the rest of the day, watching them as they worked. When Wren returned home at sunset, his father sat in a corner, woodworking, while his mother was stirring the pot in the hearth. She had tied her hair back in a severe bun that pulled her gaunt face into sharp angles. She turned when he entered, displeasure on her face.

“Shut the door!” she barked. “We’ll lose all the warmth of the fire if you keep it open.”

Wren hurried inside, toeing off his boots and leaving them by the door—he knew better than to bring dirt into the house; it’d only earn him another scolding. His mother took great care to keep their home clean. Wren wiped Toby’s paws with a cloth before the dog trotted off to curl up on an old blanket by the hearth. Wren would return him to the barn later so that he could guard the sheep overnight. Now, it was feeding time. Wren poured sheep milk into a bowl and filled another with soaked bread, setting them in front of Toby, who greedily gobbled up his dinner.

Wren’s mother stirred the pot once more, then took it off the fire and carried it to the kitchen table, dragging her right foot. Wren hurried to get plates and spoons, trying to save her as much walking as he could. Her testy greeting had told him it was a bad day, and he didn’t want to worsen her mood by dawdling.

With her limp, the position as the lord’s cook was a challenge. It meant dragging herself up the hill in the morning and down again at night, a journey that took her twice as long as someone with two healthy feet. In the beginning, Lord Aranin had a mounted knight pick her up and drop her off, but when the orcs invaded, he no longer had the resources. He’d invited her to move into the castle’s servant quarters where she’d have free room and board, but she had refused. Wren’s mother was a proud woman. She loved her family and wanted to be with them even if she had trouble showing her affection in ways other than ensuring their bellies were full.

Wren placed the bowls around the table, and his mother ladled out the stew. Steam rose, and the scent of boiled vegetables seasoned with ginger and clove filled the air.

Wren’s father put aside the piece of wood he’d been working on. It was hard to tell what it’d be once it was finished. Wren bet on a sheep. His father loved them as much as he did though he hadn’t been a shepherd in fifteen years. He was a quiet man, leaving the talking to his wife. Like her, he loved his family and struggled to express it. The carving, whatever it might turn out to be, was a gift for one of his grandchildren—nothing else would’ve put that smile on his lips as he worked. All three of Wren’s elder sisters were young mothers or currently with child. Agnes was on her third.

Wren’s mother sat with a heavy sigh, and Wren made the mistake of glancing her way as he took his seat at the table.

“You should’ve found yourself a strong woman before this dreadful war started and our good Lord Aranin called all thegirls to the front,” his mother said.

Not again. Wren mentally rolled his eyes. Every evening, there was a one-in-two chance she brought up his unwed state, urging him to go to any lengths necessary to find a respectable woman to marry—“respectable” referring to her skills with the sword.

In her youth, his mother would’ve loved to become a knight, a profession reserved for women since the day the orcs discovered their appetite for men. Sending a man onto the battlefield was like throwing meat to the wolves. Those savages didn’t fight men, they ravished them. Women, on the other hand, were of no interest to orcs.

Unfortunately, as she’d been born with a limp, becoming a knight had been out of her reach. The next best thing would’ve been marrying a knight. Wren wasn’t sure what had happened at the time, whether his mother had been unable to capture the attention of a strapping young woman or if his father had snuck his way into her heart first, but either way, there was no knight for her. When her daughters were born, her hopes had shifted to them, but Wren’s sisters had shown no aptitude for fighting, much to their mother’s dismay. Her streak of bad luck continued when none of them chose to marry a woman, let alone a knight. And now, as the war was raging, Wren’s sisters were all pregnant or nursing, making it impossible for them to go to the front and bring honor to the family. Thus, her last hope of welcoming a formidable knight into the family rested on Wren’s shoulders. She’d be furious if Wren married anyone else.

“You’re a man now, Wren,” his mother said, dipping her spoon into the stew. “It’s time you find yourself a wife. The Bradshaw’s daughter is a fine choice, strong and bright. I’ll ask her mother if we can meet with the girl once she returns from the south. She’ll have killed more orcs than any other girl in Castlehill, I can tell you that. Wouldn’t you want someone likethat as your wife?”

“I can meet her when she returns,” Wren mumbled, chewing a piece of cauliflower. He had no interest in the Bradshaw girl, but he wanted to keep the peace. Come spring, the fighting in the south would intensify, and Wren would be in the Somer Valley by then. There was little chance he’d actually have to meet the girl and lead her on.

He finished his meal under further beseeching. As soon as the bowls were empty, he encouraged his parents to retire, promising to clean the kitchen. Once he was alone, he washed up, wiped the table and added wood to the fire, ensuring there was enough to keep the house warm overnight.

When he’d finished his tasks and quiet settled over the house, Wren sat down at the kitchen table and took off his locket. The golden sun engraved on the outside shone in the firelight. He unclasped the locket, revealing Elior’s face.

The wave of longing that crashed into him tore a sob from his lips. It had been months since they’d seen each other, and there were months to come. Tenderly and with utmost care so as not to damage the small painting, Wren stroked his fingertip down the length of Elior’s copper blond hair. God, how he wished the spring festival was tomorrow and he could drive his sheep across the hills to their summer pastures.

He focused his thoughts on Elior, recalling his cut-glass accent, his scent of summer evenings and roses, the way his hand closed around Wren’s when they walked side by side. Wren wasn’t alone when he was home, but he was lonely. Neither his stern family nor his incidental friendship with Carlisle filled the void Elior left. If Elior could, he’d be with Wren right this minute, like Wren would be with him if it were possible. Not being able to talk for months was agony.

By the fire, Toby gave a small whimper and made puppy eyes at Wren.

“You miss him too, don’t you?” Wren asked.

Toby made another small, whiny sound.

“We’ll get to see Elior in the summer.”

Toby’s ears perked at Elior’s name. He threw Wren an expectant glance as if asking him to conjure Elior out of thin air. Wren wished he could. He and Toby had moped for days after saying goodbye to Elior.

Still, relief had flooded Wren when Elior had said he wouldn’t court a girl during winter. Fae were bound by their word and incapable of breaking their promises. Knowing Elior wouldn’t get close to someone over the long months of separation afforded him peace.

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