Page 63 of Heart Cradle
“Yet.” Calen muttered.
“He thinks she’s mortal,” Nolenne said. “That’s his blindness. His mistake.”
Eiran adjusted. “And that blindness,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Maeve’s still form, “will cost him everything.”
Orilan’s expression shifted. “Then we let him keep believing it. Let him think she’s still only what he saw. A human lover. An insult. Let him think we are still without the Chain, still searching.”
“And when he finds out?” Aeilanna asked.
“Then he’ll want her,” Branfil said. “Not just for cruelty, but also for control.”
“He’ll come,” Hayvalaine grimaced. “The Pale Court’s magicers will notice the change in balance.”
“Then,” Eiran said, “he’ll find he’s already too late.”
Orilan’s gaze lingered on his grandson, unreadable. “She was never the threat he expected, but she may be the one he deserves.”
Taelin’s voice was low, threaded with the wariness of a war leader who’d seen too many battlefields turn on arrogance. “We assume too much of Vargen’s ignorance.”
Calen frowned. “You think he knows?”
“I think he suspects,” Taelin replied. “And suspicion is a powerful thing in the hands of a desperate man. The whole Pale Court is fucking desperate.”
“Desperate and vicious,” Fenric muttered. “A wonderful combination, especially when you factor Davmon and Petra too.”
“Yes, and I don’t like being blind in the dark,” Taelin continued. “Not when there’s blood at the borders and my daughter just reappeared after two hundred years, beaten and emaciated.”
“Ahh, but a future Queen is asleep in my grandson’s bed,” Orilan added cheerfully, sipping from the glass of wine he had conjured out of nowhere. “Frankly, I’m struggling to see the downside.”
Taelin gave him a long-suffering look. “We are on the brink of war, Father.”
“Then we must stock the best wine,” Orilan said, gesturing towards Maeve. “She’ll wake into chaos either way, may as well let her miss the boring build-up.”
Soren said quietly, “When she wakes, she’ll be surrounded by strangers with too many expectations.”
Calen nodded. “She’ll need time, is all.”
Fenric added, “I’m praying I don't say the wrong thing. I don’t fancy being stabbed. Well…by her, hmm, maybe.”
Taelin sighed. “This is serious, Fen. For the love of the gods, will you all stop fucking around? We are on the brink of war. Our scouts are dying.”
“Oh, son,” Orilan drawled, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound us. We’re perfectly serious. Bran’s been heavily sighing, Soren’s been brooding, Calen hasn’t smiled in an hour, and Fenric made a valid point, first time in at least a decade. That’s practically a war council, and you are the Commander.”
Eiran didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched, but Taelin pressed on, ignoring them all. “If Avelan is orchestrating tension, stirringthe realms into aggression, then they’re moving towards something. I fear Maeve’s arrival is more than coincidence.”
Branfil spoke gently. “You think he anticipated it?”
“No,” Taelin replied. “I think he fears it, and fear like his doesn’t sit idle. It acts, very fucking recklessly.”
Eiran’s gaze didn’t leave Maeve’s face. “Then let him act. The longer he sees her as small, the louder her truth will ring when it crashes through his walls.”
Orilan’s tone turned, sharp beneath the wit. “That truth, lad, may ignite more than just Avelan’s fury. It may shatter our alliances, divide our court and summon old ghosts from the cracks.”
“Then we hold,” Eiran said simply. “And we wait for her.”
“Gods help us,” Fenric muttered, “we’re waiting on the woman with the scariest glare I’ve ever seen.”
Orilan smiled slowly, eyes gleaming. “And may the gods help Vargen when that glare turns towards him.”
