Page 37 of This Midsummer Heart
But it isn’t just anger. The ache in my chest isn’t from pent up rage. I remember how it felt when I learned of his affair—when I realized that no matter how much I tried to prepare myself for him to choose a consort, or how much I tried to protect my heart, nothing would make that pain go away. He didn’t even stay with that wood elf for long, according to Robin. Just long enough to destroy everything I’d ever felt for Auberon.
And I’d felt foolish, too. A feeling that is echoed when I find the true central street of this village and see just how far it stretches and how many businesses line its streets, and then realize Auberon wasright.Of course he just had to be right.
This is a town. Probably Adellor, if I’m remembering the map of this region correctly. Which means that briar we crossed through is absolutely not supposed to be there.
For a moment, I think of all those scratches on Auberon’s arm and wonder if I should be worried. Who am I fooling? Iamworried. Worried minor cuts will turn into an infection—or a curse—from the enchanted thorns. Worried our journey will be even further delayed. Worried I won’t have enough magic left to make it to Nox.
Worried Auberon will leave me before I have the chance to leave him.
And, yes, I am worried about what he’s doing with the miller’s wife right now. Which is ridiculous. I have far bigger concerns. Just because we’re still married under elven law doesn’t mean I have to think of him as my husband. As a fete, a magical bonding will always be the mark of a true pairing, and I dissolved ours years ago.
So why can’t I stop my jaw from clenching, or my wings from agitated flutters? If they keep this up, I’ll end up flying down Adellor’s main street.
I don’t have feelings for Auberon. I don’t. Ican’t.How foolish would that make me, falling for him again after mere weeks in his company? Except that, in reality, it only took days for me to fall for him the first time.
No matter how quick and clever my mind is, it seems my heart is determined to make my decisions for me. I try to slam a mental door shut on my feelings for him, and still there is a sliver of warm light invading my peace.
I return my focus to finding an inn—only to receive a similar reception as the one I got by the mill. No one has rooms to spare for a fete. And despite my attempts to pull together a human-looking glamour, they all seem to know I’m hiding wings and pointed ears beneath it.
Not that it’s a very good glamour. My thoughts are scattered, robbing me of focus, and I feel the cost of wielding unruly magic more acutely as my hunger grows. Exhausted in every way possible, I enter a taverna instead, hoping a warm meal and cool beverage will restore me.
The interior of this taverna is warm but cozy, with a bar on the side that is so thoroughly polished it reflects the bright sunlight from the windows and brightens the dark timbers of the vaulted room. Only a few of the tables are occupied, mostly by elders enjoying an early supper. I get the feeling, from its size, that Adellor is used to far more foot traffic than this.
The briar is strangling this town.
No sooner have I thought it than a harried-looking woman in a half apron appears, not to take my order but to slide into the seat next to me. “You’re afata,aren’t you?“ she says, using this region’s name for the fetes.
Warily, I nod. But instead of asking me to leave, she slumps back in her chair with relief. “I’m the mayor of this town. Name’s Arquina. Do you have much experience with curses?” she asks. There is hope and not a little desperation on her face.
Silently, I thank Morgana, revered ancestor of the fetes, because for once, I’ve stumbled into exactly the right place.
Chapter eighteen
Night Blooms
Auberon
Mywelcomelastedjustlong enough for me to get a meal down. Sadly, before the miller’s wife could produce a blueberry pie, the miller himself arrived in the doorway.
It is difficult to say whether his reaction to me was thanks to my being a dark elf, or my being a stranger alone with his wife. I suspect it was a bit of both, since he punctuated yanking the chair out from under me with, “Get out of my house,elf.”
I was all too happy to oblige—even if it meant dealing with Titaine. The food was good, and, best of all, free. I had little to complain about when I left.
Now a great deal happier with a belly full of home-cooked, hearty food and whistling a tune, I find my way to the town’s central street, gratified when I behold its size and the crowded commercial district. By which I mean it was crowded with businesses, rather than people; the town’s wide street feels empty, even to one who’s never seen it before. I suppose all this was built before they began growing that briar. Maybe it’s their way of keeping bandits out, like the ones we pursue.
The ones who have my father’s dagger, the Blade of Hedril.
I’m starting to feel like I’m not a very good leader, and that’s not an emotion I wish to sit with for long. It would be easy to blame my father, who raised me to be a leader in war, then gave me his dagger and crown once we found peace. “You’ll make a fine king someday,” were his last words to me before leaving Glowarian Forest for the long walk of the elves—the one that would take him into the next realm. Before this, he told me it was not his calling to be a peacetime king.
The truth is, the war between wood elves and dark elves had been alternating between a simmer and a rage for so long, I don’t think he knew the first thing about true peace, nor did his father before him. I did the best I knew how to, and that meant neglecting my role as king in order to preserve that fragile peace between the elves. I became Houselord of the Elves instead—even if by birth and blade, I was still king of the dark elves.
I’ve spent so long trying to avoid the appearance of favoring one side—an uphill battle, since I resemble my dark elf father so much, setting me apart from the wood elves of my mother’s line. There are always powerful wood elves insinuating that I favor the dark elves more, or that I am somehow more dark elf than wood elf. Once, one actually questioned whether my mother is truly a wood elf.
She bestirred herself from the Eastern Cross to address that one, then returned to the woods of her home. I miss her, but I don’t begrudge her for her absence. She outlasted a political marriage to my father that brought her no joy since the first day I was sent into battle. She deserved to move on with her life.
I wish I had inherited that skill. For now, as I watch Titaine being led into an inn by a human woman, I cannot help but look at my bride and think,That woman used to be mine, and I lost her.Just as I cannot help but wonder,What will it take to win her back?
She’d never accept my suit a second time—not after the mess I made of our first bonding. But sheisstill my wife, even if it’s only because of ridiculous elven bureaucracy.
