Page 63 of Atop the Faerie Throne
“I’ll let you know when I’ve had a moment to think, Cressidick,” I retort.
The atmosphere turns downright frosty, and I don’t realise why until Lore breaks out in a cackle. His utter delight pours down the bond in counterpoint to Jaro’s complete horror.
Shit. I didn’t…? Did I? Goddess. Idid.
It was an accident. A total slip of the tongue.
Well, nothing to do except own it, I suppose. Lore’s hat puffs up on my head. I can’t see it, but I know whatever it is, it’s big and feathery—a veritable ‘fuck you’ to the queen of autumn.
“Elatha escaped,” I continue, affecting an air of ambivalence. “Eero remains holed up in his city. Has there been any movement at all from Siabetha?”
“Skirmishes along both of our borders, mainly. Though his spies will undoubtedly tell him of our victory here,” Aiyana says, keeping her gaze notably short of meeting mine. “His next move will likely be a campaign of misinformation to counter the bad sentiment he’s stirred up among the people of his own Court.”
“News travels fast, and he who controls the flow of information controls the world,” Mab murmurs, appearing to Aiyana’s left. “The morale in the city is low. The Temples should preach the truth of what happened here. If we stir unrest in Summer, it will be ripe for a change in leadership.”
I repeat her suggestion to the gathered fae, adding, “I would prefer a mostly bloodless solution. Eero is the enemy. His people are not.”
Ashton’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Winter does not have the kind of time it takes for civil unrest to turn into an uprising. Our food stores run low. Summer and Autumn have always provided what we need, but with Summer refusing to send food and?—”
“My Court is hardly in a position to feed ourselves,” Cressida snaps.
I hold up my hand for silence, and this time Bree enforces it, stealing away the noise in the tent with his magic.
“We are here to establish how to end the two wars that the queendom is facing,” I remind them quietly, ignoring the fuming glares sent my way. “Bickering over trade can wait until the threats are over.” I turn back to Drystan. “Could we ride up the Torvyn, destroying the remaining camps?”
“It would be a waste of your time,” he dismisses, then in a more even tone, he says, “You’re talking about at least a week, if not two, of hard riding and fighting. It would be exhausting. Your energy would be better spent focusing on Eero.”
“It would save lives,” I add. “And if we could catch Elatha, we could stop him before he takes that medallion back to Fellgotha.”
Drystan’s distrustful frown lands briefly on Caed, then he shakes his head again. “We may as well throw the Fomorian right back into his father’s path while we chase after a legend that probably doesn’t even exist.”
“The bàsron are more than just some legend,” Caed objects. “The most convincing argument for their existence is that wedon’tgo down into the Deep Caves.”
“I thought that was because of the tunnel wyrms,” I say, frowning.
“We’re Fomorians, little queen. Can you imagine the glory that killing a huge beast with paralytic breath and armoured skin would bring? Sure, it’s terrifying, but we domesticateddrakes. If there wasn’t some other reason for us to avoid the Deep Caves, I’m sure we’d have made tunnel wyrm hunting an annual sporting contest.”
“Armoured skin?” Lore breaths, his cap tightening on my head as his pupils dilate.
“Fascinating,” Ashton drawls. “But forgive me if I don’t take the word of the Blade Prince. The fae have defeated the Fomorians time and time again. No such creatures have ever been encountered, and I will not be sending my troops to die at sea in the pursuit of them.”
Caed’s jaw locks, but he says nothing. His resignation and anger burn bright down the bond, the acidic combination matching my own feelings.
“King Ashton is right,” Cressida agrees. “We’ve seen this before. Once the Fomorians are routed from the land entirely, we’ll rebuild our fortifications. Provided the Nicnevin doesn’t decide to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps, by the time they return in a few hundred years, she’ll be a half-decent warrior, and they won’t stand a chance.”
Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Ignoring her biting comment, because I understand the place of hurt that it comes from, I turn back to my Guard.
“Then we agree; I should follow them along the Torvyn and reclaim the river entirely.”
It’s not as though I’d be much help clearing up Elfhame, anyway.
I’d rather be useful, and if the stories are true—as I’m afraid they might be—then I’m making hunting down Elatha a priority. Perhaps we won’t catch him before he can return to Fellgotha and try his hand at summoning the bàsron, but if we ride fast, there’s still a chance.
“She’s right,” Jaro says. “It would solve the issue quickly and leave Queen Cressida to sort out the mess that is her Northern border.”
Drystan pauses, considering the map a moment longer. “Five days,” he finally relents.
I can’t throw my arms around him and hug him like I want to, but I make sure he feels the pulse of love and gratitude I send down the bond in his direction.
