Page 21 of This Midsummer Heart
I have just stepped into the local healer’s parlor—a grand space, thanks to all the travelers in need of her services, no doubt—when I hear a low rumble from the street, like a stampede or horses passing through. A cry rises from the Lis Byway.
“Bandits, bandits!”
Cursing, I fly from the parlor almost literally, my wings beating furiously as I make my way back to Auberon.
I’m too late. A force so large they’re practically light cavalry races out of the town, hollering war cries as they ride.
Auberon lies face-down in the street. I’m racing to his side before I can stop myself, before I can remind myself I’m not supposed to care for him any longer.
At first, I fear he is not breathing. Then his limbs slowly stir, trying and failing to lift his broken body from the dirt of the road. I turn, mouth open to call for help.
And then my own breath ceases as I notice the flash of white among the shaggy horses heading south out of town, chased by a force of local guards that is half their number.Giselda. The bandits have Giselda!I reach for my magic, for a spectacular spell that will spook their horses.
Nothing happens. I grab for another binding, hoping to slow their horses. Their gaits barely change, the thunder of their hooves no quieter.
I fall to my knees not far from Auberon, overcome by hopelessness. Giselda isgone. And without her, I have no hope of reaching Nox.
I have to get her back. Ihaveto.
But with my magic failing, I have nothing left but tricks of the fetes to aid me.
Auberon rises to a seated position with a mighty groan, rubbing the back of his head. “They snuck up on me. I didn’t hear them coming,” is all he manages, his pupils dilated as they take in the crowd gathering in the street, anxious to hear what their town has lost to that lawless band.
One look at him and I know: We won’t be chasing after the bandits tonight.
Chapter twelve
Into Nerania Wood
Auberon
IremembertheexactmomentI gave up on my marriage to Titaine.
As we trudge towards the boundary of Nerania Wood instead of Trident, the half-healed cuts to my lip and eye sting. My ribs ache, too, and I’m more than a touch miserable after days of human healing and skulking about like criminals in Mircose, I know I should be glad now. A bed and proper elven healers are beyond that line of wide-trunked trees, painted red as the sun dips beneath the gathering clouds. But the memories only grow more vivid the closer we get.
Beside me, Titaine is likely still mourning the loss of her horse. A grief intense enough that we have completely rerouted from her precious itinerary, staying close to the path the bandits took instead of our more direct route to the southern wolding. And here I am, dragging myself along beside her, mourning something else: the loss ofher.
She’s never going to forgive me for losing her horse.
I have mixed feelings about coming here; the elves of Trident Wood would’ve been more welcoming. Yet Nerania’s lord is one of my favorite people, not to mention one of my greatest allies.
It’s his wife that’s the problem.
There is no direct history between Lady Cassandra and I. As a moon elf, she technically owes her allegiance to me as king of the dark elves, but the moon elves have always had a fae-like quality about them. They’d rather dance around the subject of their loyalty than outright refuse it. Still, Cassandra backed my rise to power. Besides that, she owes me for legitimizing her chosen mate, a low elf and the one-time “silver pirate” who terrorized the seas.
But in true moon elf fashion, Cassandra manages to stay loyal to her liege and make his life as miserable as possible at the same time. And it’s all because I was once expected to take her sister as my bride.
No, that’s unfair to say. I loved Lusida, once, as she loved me. Once, we were young and inseparable—even if neither of us quite knew what we wanted out of life yet. Looking back, it’s clear our relationship was not destined to last.
Lusida is ancient history for me now. She would likely stay the same; she was always too practical to hold onto a grudge, or pine for a man who no longer wished to be with her. It’s Cassandra who will not forget it.
Something tells me Titaine hasn’t, either. There’s an obvious stiffness taking root in her, the closer we get to the Wood’s edge. Layered on top of her lingering anger about the bandits—about me and the bandits—and the loss of her precious horse, she looks as though she could ignite with fury at any moment.
Or run in the other direction. Titaine was always good at running away, when it came to me.
I might as well get it over with now. How much angrier can one little fae woman really get?
“Titaine, before we go any further,” I begin, guilty of drawing out the words to delay their conclusion just a moment longer, “there’s something you should know.”
