Page 162 of The Edge of Darkness

“Thank you.” Niall nodded. “I’m assuming all went well?”

“The palace is secure, Ferhan is in chains, and the rest of Ramil’s loyalists either surrendered or fought to the death. Zofia’s father and a few other trusted generals have enacted a temporary council to delegate the restructure of the court’s inner workings and weed out anyone who might still hold allegiance to Ramil’s ideologies and agendas.”

“Good.”

Morah led Fallon over to where we were standing. “Thank you for all you’ve done,” she said, placing a hand on Folquin’s arm.

“There needs to be a crowning before the war,” the spy insisted, tipping his head toward Fallon.

“He received the last of his treatments early this morning. We leave for Benmoor shortly, and he’ll be crowned within a few days,” she assured him.

He nodded. “That’s good to hear.”

Indeed, it was. Fallon had achieved a recovery that seemed nearly impossible. And now, he would take his rightful place on Benmoor’s throne.

I smiled at the new High Lord. Although he couldn’t see it, I was almost positive he could somehow feel it.

“You did well,” Niall told Folquin. “And you caught us just in time too. We’re about to leave for the highlands.”

“Oh, yes. That reminds me . . .” Folquin snapped his fingers, and a garment bag appeared on the table. “As requested. I had some extra bolts of leather lying around, so these should do nicely for the trip.”

I took the liberty of leaning forward and unzipping the bag, finding several pairs of jackets, pants, even some finely embroidered tunics, all emblazoned with Calledan-gold stitching.

“For the Dionachs you spoke of in your missive,” Folquin explained, lifting his eyes to the two winged figures in the room.

I looked at Niall for confirmation of what he meant.

“Seeing as how Silas doesn’t have much in his arsenal besides everyday leathers . . . and Remic”—he tossed a pointed look in Remic’s direction—“has a bad habit of purging anything that he can’t wear on a weekly basis, I sent a message late last night to see if something could be made for them.” He turned back to Folquin and grinned. “Though I wasn’t expecting such a selection, given the short notice.”

“A ridiculously short notice if I may say so,” Folquin said, laughing. He gestured for me to lift the fabric from the bag. “The jackets are woven much like your first Lumeri dress was. The wearer simply needs to command the garment and it will fit itself to their exact anatomy—wings and all.” He gave me a wink.

Silas and Remic shifted closer as I laid the pieces of clothing out on the table for their viewing.

“You truly are a master at your craft,” Niall said.

“One of my many talents.” He bowed. “Enjoy yourselves in Vahrenhall.”

“The highlands are always a good time,” Roirdan said, clapping Remic on his back as he, too, leaned over the table and surveyed the new articles of clothing. “And for once, everyone will be in style.”

Remic rolled his eyes and shrugged the commander’s arm off his shoulder, then nodded at Folquin in what I assumed was his own gesture of thanks.

Folquin nodded toward the bag once more. “There is something for the lady as well.” He flicked his gaze over to Nivelle, who sat, sipping her cup of tea, looking completely content to not be included in this conversation.

When she became aware of everyone’s stare, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What?” she asked over the rim of her mug.

I reached under the hefty leathers and unfolded a slender, black dress with a thin trimming of gray fur along the bottom hem.

“I believe this is for you,” I said as I walked over and placed it in her lap.

She stared down at it, and a blush crept over her cheeks as her fingers touched the fabric and stroked the fur. Her mouth opened, then closed, further confirming my theory that the words “thank you” were not part of the common tongue for witches.

“Thank you, Folquin,” I said rather pointedly on Nivelle’s behalf.

“Shall we prepare to make the journey then?” Niall asked, coming to my side and planting a kiss on my temple.

“Ugh.” Roirdan rolled his eyes. “Can you save the mushy stuff for your private bedchambers?”

Niall lifted his head. “No,” he drew out the word. “I quite prefer to love on my mate whenever and wherever I choose. If you don’t want to see it, avert your eyes.”