Page 15 of This Midsummer Heart
But then, much to my relief, she pauses in her retreat, pivoting sharply to face me again. Her eyes narrow at me and my still unbuttoned vest—she can’t resist looking—as she retorts, “Just so we’re clear, breakfast was an hour before dawn, and you weren’t invited. The wild fetes feasted me like one of their own departing, not because they wanted something, but because I’ve spent years repairing relations between my House and their tribe. Relationsyoudamaged. While you were still drooling on your pillow, I was sorting how our mutual aid would continue once the House of Fetes moves to Nox.
“Get over yourself, Auberon. It isn’t cute when the incorrigible young elven leader makes stupid mistakes and loses friendships. And no one thinks you’re young anymore.”
My hands tighten into fists around my traveling pack. “I do not drool.”
Titaine rolls her eyes and leaves, exiting in a whirl of white silk.
Well. Not the fun morning I thought this would be. I’m obviously in for more tense silence, adding to the tedium of our journey.
I sigh, scratching the back of my head in vigorous annoyance—I’m beginning to think the wild fae gave us lodgings with fleas or bedbugs—and make up my mind. If the long hours of riding are going to be anywhere near tolerable, there is only one thing I can do:
I have to make peace with the wild fae, and quickly.
Chapter eight
The Wild Fae
Titaine
WatchingAuberontrytomake peace with the local tribe of wild fae is equal parts troubling and amusing. The fae helping me saddle Giselda are merry about it, some even supplying made-up dialogue to fit the mouths of Bramble Circle’s Speakers and a visibly uncomfortable Auberon.
“About that time I gave your Speakers the worst table at my wedding feast and assumed we wouldn’t know the difference,” one of the young fae says, dropping her voice to mimic Auberon’s as she adjusts Giselda’s saddle blanket. “So sorry.”
I stifle a laugh. That had been quite the debacle—especially since I had personally informed them they’d have a seat of honor. At least they hadn’t blamed me for it. Nevertheless, it left me wearied. Though it was the happy day of our bonding ceremony, I understood that there was much work to be done. The union of fetes and elves wasn’t complete just because their Houselords were bonded. That day was only the beginning.
“Don’t forget that time I underpaid for precious fetewood yew for our bows, right before the blight hit the grove,” another fae imitates as he fits Giselda with a bitless bridle.
Our Houses have been fighting for decades, vying for supremacy over who would represent magical beings in Laufee, over trade contracts, resources, and—I shudder just thinking about it—the occasions where we negotiated terms for inter-House trade.
The House of Elves makes the best weapons, ever since the fall of the ancient Dwarvish Houses (not that the elves would ever admit their work is second best). The House of Fetes knows how to imbue weapons, objects and tonics with lasting enchantments, but we are neither crafters nor smiths. Elves and fetes have need of each other’s craft, yet organizing any kind of trade takes weeks of flaring tempers, accusations and general bad behavior.
Almost entirely on the elves’ side, of course.
When I gifted Robin’s service to Auberon, I thought everything would go smoothly. For a time, it did. Then, slowly, we began to dissolve into the usual squabbles over value, which led to claims of dishonor, which led to dishonesty, which led to...the same things elves and fetes had been doing for centuries.
I’d bonded to Auberon expecting growth and change. As he was never any help in resolving tensions, it seemed he merely expected the House of Fetes to bow. He had no interest in fairness, and fair bargains had long been one of the House of Fetes’ chief tenets.
But as I watch Auberon now—shuffling his feet like an embarrassed child being scolded by a favorite teacher, a hand rising to rub the back of his neck—I forget to laugh at the young fete’s antics. Is Auberontrying,for once? I honestly can’t tell.
Just as Auberon opens his mouth in protest to something the Speakers said, the elders of the wild fae dismiss him with a curt touch of their brows. Well. That could’ve gone worse. At least they offered him some kind of salute of farewell.
Auberon returns to his gelding Raven, pulling himself into the saddle he’s tacked up himself. No one offered to help him with his horse.
Serves him right. That’s Auberon for you. He never thinks any of his choices will have lasting consequences.
After the stunt Robin pulled and the humbling he just received from the Speakers, I hope Auberon will tread more softly from now on. My hope is likely in vain—it always is, with Auberon—but it is there nonetheless.
And then there is the issue of him taking my money. He had no right. Yet he did exactly what I thought he would do.
I try to tamp down my strong emotions, so as to avoid exciting Giselda. With a light hop into the saddle assisted by my wings, I stroke her mane and urge her on, touching my forehead in salute to our wild fae hosts.
“May the wilds be bountiful,” I call out, offering the traditional parting words of Laufee’s wild fae tribes.
One of the Speakers shakes her head—not in admonishment, but with a deep sadness I can practically feel. “May the wilds remain to nurture us all,” she replies, a farewell that is far from the usual “wherever thou may roam, may thy heart to these wilds ever be true.”
More than ex-mates stealing my coin or the journey ahead, her words trouble me long after we leave Bramble Circle and the rich green boughs of Evermore Forest.
My anger towards Auberon is boiling over by the time we make it out of the forest. Meadows, strung together like a pearled hair net, greet us with rolling hills of bright purple wildflowers and small yellow sunflowers. The morning is heating, too, adding to my discomfort as we ride and shortening my temper.
