Page 16 of This Midsummer Heart
I can’t remember the last time the summer heat bothered me. The sounds of whirring cicadas begin to grate on my nerves along with Auberon’s incessant prattling. I’d forgotten this about him, that he is not good at maintaining silence. He and Robin get along well for that reason.
Auberon pulls his gelding abreast of my mare. “Come now, Titaine, aren’t you the least bit interested in making conversation? Or have you nothing interesting to say?”
I ignore him, urging Giselda ahead.
“There once was a fae maiden fair,” Auberon begins, just when I thought this day could not get worse.
“Auberon,” I say sharply, hiding the rising color in my cheeks with my glamour.
“…who had such fine golden hair. And a beautiful dress, and an ornament for each tress.”
There is a long pause.
He doesn’t know how to finish the rhyme.
“She didn’t look fit for a journey.”
I roll my eyes. “Lovely effort.”
“Dear Titaine,” he coos, “I’m only getting warmed up. It’s a long way to the next town.” He takes in a deep breath, as if about to shout. “There once was a House of Fetes dame, whose ex-mate and traveling companion were one and the same. It seemed a good plan, till they rode through the land, and her beauty began to look plain.”
I pull up Giselda. “I have had enough of you!” I shout, startling the birds from the meadows surrounding the road. “I will see you in Mircose, and not a moment before!”
With a press of my knees, I urge my mare ahead, giving her rein to gallop at full speed once she’s had time to warm up. Not that she needs it. Giselda’s line traces back to the Aulden Steeds. Though she appears like any other white mare—albeit a stunningly graceful one—she is no true horse, but the descendant of a horse-like creature born in the Dewspell Era. Then, magic was wild but extraordinarily powerful, and wielded only by a rare few. The fae we just left trace their ancestry back to the Aulden, too, and believe themselves to be truer fetes than any others.
Sometimes, I almost think they are right.
Within minutes, I feel my anger fading. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to let Giselda run free without needing to circle back toward Laufee, to just ride with the wind battering at us as she runs at a pace and with a sure-footedness that no ordinary horse can match. Without thinking, I begin to flutter my wings so rapidly it’s as if they tremble. I stand in the stirrups, then lift slightly out of them, connected to Giselda only by her reins.
I forget Auberon quickly, and his cruel words. He can be like that. Charming, full of honey, a little impish—and then full of barbs the moment your back is turned. When it comes to the fetes, his slights always run freely. No turning of backs is needed.
I harbor no illusions about Auberon, even before his behavior this morning. We are still enemies, belonging to rival houses that would cut each other to the bone for the least bit of advantage. Maybe the fetes and elves aren’t true enemies anymore, fighting horrible battles that leave the earth scarred. But the war still goes on, this time through trade, commerce and contracts with the merchant guilds.
I tell myself this morning was a good thing. It’s a reminder of who Auberon truly is.
But oh, how a part of me still weeps to hear his disdain for me, when once he held me above all others and gilded me with his love! An elf’s esteem can be a powerful thing. But his animosity?
There is nothing in this world that can protect even my fierce fete’s heart from its sting.
Chapter nine
Northmen
Auberon
Titaineridesawayina flash, leaving me sagging in my own saddle with relief. I let out a low whistle of amazement as the white mare I bought her disappears into the trees.
I remember that horse being expensive. With speed like that, I can see now that she was a bargain.
It’s a good thing the mare is galloping far too fast for Titaine to risk looking back at me, for I am unraveling. It’s been years since I spent all day in the saddle, and the bedding the wild fae allot to their guests is not much more comfortable than a bed roll. Every part of my body hurts—even parts of me I would not have suspected, like my hands. I must’ve been gripping the reins too tightly yesterday.
I stretch my neck, alarmed when it issues a pop. Since when do my joints creak and pop, or my muscles grow this sore? I am not some warrior king whose days of training are long past, growing complacent by the fire as my strength ebbs with time and disuse. I train daily. So why do I feel like this?
The answer isn’t easy to admit. More of my elven strength must come from magic than I’d ever dreamed. It’s disheartening, to feel like I’ve engaged in combat with a warrior twice my size, as if I am full of bruises and barely-healed wounds, all because I traveled on this gelding for more hours than my body approves of.
How am I going to keep this up all the way to Nox?
Perhaps I can find some tonic or tincture to help when we reach the human town. Better still if I can locate an apothecary or green witch before reuniting with Titaine. She does not need to know how horrible I feel.
