Page 2 of Tempting the Fae Lord
“Deal.”
I leave her be, trusting she’ll be down to start breakfast momentarily, and hurry outside to join Jack.
He’s already saddled our horses and stands nose to nose, nuzzling with Duskfen, a blue roan he’s known since the gelding’s birth. Meanwhile, Skeld, my red mare, eyes me like she’s not impressed at being asked to work this early in the morning.
Me either, girl.
I hand over the sugar cube bribe she’s expecting and hope for the best. After I mount, she only rears and bucks a few times, working the demons out.
“Feisty girl, that one.” Jack grins from atop his gentle giant.
“Wouldn’t have her any other way.” I scratch her neck and give her a good pat. She snorts. I like her temperamental personality. Keeps things interesting, and neither of us likes being bored. In that way, we work well together, Skeld and I.
We ride to the nearby village—which also happens to be the only village—to warn our neighbors of the coming storm and invite them into the relative safety of the fortress’s stone walls. The wind is crisp on my face, blustery, and carries the spicy scent of pine in every gust.
Roosters crow, announcing the impending dawn. Though it’s early, many villagers are up, stoking fires and tending to livestock. Farm life is a busy life.
Jack and I split up with plans to meet back at the square. It’ll be faster this way.
I hesitate at the first door I come to. This family won’t accept help from “the Gatekeeper’s minions.” I hate it when they call us that. As if their whole livelihood and existence weren’t made possible by him and him alone. The village itself wouldn’t behere if it weren't for the Gatekeeper. But even if they’re set on being ungrateful, it’s my duty to offer his protection.
As I raise my fist to knock, the door flies open. I have to sidestep to avoid being smacked in the face.
“You’re not welcome,” says the old man, Heward or Hagan or Hal or something else that probably starts with an H if my memory is to be trusted.
I look him in the eyes. “I’m aware.”
He grunts. “State your business, and go then.”
“Storm’s coming, and it’s bringing a load of ice. You and yours are welcome in the fortress if you so choose.”
“Pfft, so your master can feed off our blood? Not on your life.”
I suppress a shrug. He can be callous and judgmental with his life, but his family shouldn’t have to suffer for it. Plus, he knows very well that the Gatekeeper prefers to feed from the willing.
“In that case, we’re meeting at the square to round up the livestock from the open pasture to the barns. Help or don’t.” I leave.
He slams the door behind me. Asshole.
Not all the villagers are like him. Most accept our help graciously, and if they harbor ill will toward the Gatekeeper or those of us who live within his walls, they have enough courtesy to keep it to themselves.
The rest of the knocking goes more easily.
By noon, Jack’s leading a group back to the fortress, and I’m with the town’s best riders and a couple of loyal herding dogs corralling the livestock. The villagers complain of the damp cold and the biting wind, but the weather doesn’t bother me. I’ve always been more comfortable in the elements than others. That tolerance got me into trouble a few times as a child, but I know better than to brave the chill for too long now that I’m grown.
Once the little town is as prepared as we can make it, the stragglers and I begin the ride over the well-worn path to the fortress. To my home. As we’re passing through the arched stone gate and into the castle walls, the freezing rain starts to pop a random rhythm off the wooden planks. If that’s not good timing, I don’t know what is.
This isn’t our first ice storm, and it won’t be our last. The villagers know where the guest quarters are, and they’re familiar with the routine.
I leave them and Skeld in the capable hands of the stable master, less the last few sugar cubes in my pocket for my loyal-but-grumpy mount, and jog through the keep toward my quarters.
The scent of freshly baked bread wafts into the halls. Here’s hoping Amaris didn’t spit in it because the smell is divine, and nothing is stopping me from rushing straight to the kitchens to claim a loaf. Not even pesky eight-year-olds.
There’s no sign of Amaris, but the pleasant sight of Eulayla slicing a mountain of potatoes greets me as I enter. Her gray hair is tied back with a green ribbon that matches her apron. She isn’t looking, so I sneak a finger’s swipe of the berry jelly cooling on the counter.
“Owe, ouch, owe!” Too hot, too hot, bad idea, too hot. I flick it from finger to palm and blow frantically.
“Serves you right.” She laughs without glancing from her project.
