Page 92 of Atop the Faerie Throne
“Stupid was trying to lie to a fae,” Drystan corrects, as Jaro’s wolf growls in agreement. “Let alone the Nicnevin.”
Silently, I agree. But was the lie out of desperation, or part of some greater subterfuge? Why even bother when he must have known we’d detect it? A test, perhaps?
My headache is only growing worse, and my hackles rise as I make the connection too slowly.
“One of you has iron on you,” I whisper, my spine stiffening.
Thirty
Drystan
Rose’s weariness filters through the bond, and I glower at the Fomorians.
Coming here under a guise of truce while smuggling iron? I’ll incinerate them for the insult.
A ring of flames surrounds them with little more than a thought, pressing in.
“Wait!” the male at the front—Arvid—protests. “We swore we’d leave all of our iron behind. This is a misunderstanding.”
“It was me!” a child’s voice cries, “I did it.”
My insides wither as the young Fomorian female is shoved forward by her elders to face Rose’s judgement. She can’t be more than ten summers old. That’s not unusual. They’ve sent children against us in raids before, though that stopped once Caed took over the invasion.
It grates on me to approve of anything he’s done, but he was a more honourable adversary than his predecessors.
My eyes slide sideways, checking his curse mark in hope, only for my jaw to clench when I see no change. Damnit.Desperation has begun to claw softly at my insides over the last week, since the night I caught him kissing Rose like a dying man, and this is just the latest in a long line of failures on my part to break that stupid curse.
What more does the Goddess demand of me? What more must I do?
Returning my focus to the child, I frown as I note the rich green of her eyes and the single points of her ears.
Caed sees it too, grimacing as the child draws out a rough and rusted metal collar from the front of her tunic, laying it on the ground with a fearful look at the six of us.
“It was my da’s,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave it.”
Goddess-damnit. Rose droops like her limbs are too heavy for her, her nausea and sadness streaking down the bond.
All that this child—thishalf-faechild—has of their father is a fucking collar.
Rage burns at my insides even as Lore blinks forward and snatches the thing up, throwing it as far as he can from our group. I can feel Rose burning with disapproval, so I cut her off before she can do something that will harm her, like tell him to retrieve it.
“There are better ways to remember your father. Ways that won’t harm his people or his queen.”
The kid’s jaw wobbles, but Fomorians don’t cry, and she’s apparently no exception. Her head jerks down in agreement, silenced by the intimidating glares of her peers.
Keeping a mental eye on Rose—whose energy is returning now that the collar is away from her—I tamp down the flames.
“The Nicnevin gave you a gracious offer,” I say, my voice still dark with threat. “Take it, or crawl back to your mountain and take your chances with your king.”
“We’ll camp by the wall,” Arvid agrees, cutting off his female’s protests before they can form. “And await word in the morning.”
Rose nods, then gives Lore a meaningful look that results in her quickly being blinked away.
Urgh. We won’t see either of them for a few hours.
“I’ll coordinate with the watch on the wall,” Bree mutters, and we all hear the unsaid ‘so you’re not shot on sight.’
“Do you have enough provisions?” It grates on me to ask, but Rose will want them taken care of.
