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“But no one’s allowed in or out of the realm. So there have to be patrols along the borders,” I said, finishing his thought.
At least people have food and resources. A small blessing, but every one counts.
We’d snuck aboard the back of a cart and hidden beneath the stack of pelts within. Now we walk the city streets in heavy cloaks, hoods drawn up to shadow our faces.
There are still townsfolk milling about. Stalls are set up, selling blown-glass ornaments and lefse as they were last time I was here, but there’s an air of disquiet. There are no cheerful conversations or smiles as we pass. Tension hangs between the stone buildings and drifts on the cool breeze. Perhaps it has something to do with the underfae, walking past in pairs, spears leaned against their shoulders.
“The people seem fed. Streets are clean. There aren’t any public arrests or detainment camps,” I say.
“Given what we’ve heard of the other realms, I feared far worse conditions. There may be hope for our negotiations yet.”
Keep Wolfhelm appears before us, the fallen wall a beacon of hope itself. The open grounds before the keep are patrolled by two underfae, their horns covered in a light dusting of snow.
I take in a deep breath, trying to steady my hands within the cloak. As if sensing this, Kel reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezing it. My heart calms.
I don’t know if this plan will work, but I am sure that this is the right thing to do.
“Ready?” Keldarion asks.
“Let’s try this again.”
We walk up to the gate. Immediately, the two underfae move, crossing their spears to bar our entrance.
“The keep is off-limits to civilians,” the one on the right says, her skin a pale blue, like ice.
“We greatly need to speak with your leader, Faustrius. Please allow us an audience,” Kel says.
The two guards exchange a look, then the one on the left laughs. His horns are curled like a ram’s. “Do you not think our leader has better things to do than entertain civilians? Who are you to demand an audience?”
The last time Keldarion and I met with the leader of the underfae, I’d been blinded with anger. There could be no common ground when such a chasm lay between us.
Now, instead of collapsing the bridge, we will build one.
So I throw off my hood and hold my chin high. Keldarion does the same.
When I take a breath in, the whole realm seems to breathe with me.
“I am Rosalina O’Connell, and this is Keldarion of Winter. And we are the rightful queen and king of the Enchanted Vale.”
41
Keldarion
Our footsteps echo on the cold floor of Keep Wolfhelm’s throne room. Somehow, Rosalina and I walk in time with the host of underfae guard that accompany us. They have no set uniform, each wearing furs in a motley of colors, but they all carry the same long spear. I roll my shoulders, phantom aches throbbing along my spine as my body remembers the feel of those spears shooting through my back and out my ribs.
The throne, a stoic, dark thing carved of eternal ice, sits upon a dais, a few steps above the rest of the hall. Once, it was my father’s throne. Once, it was mine. Now, it belongs to him.
Faustrius sits straight-backed, his red gaze burrowing into me. Giant antlers stretch out on either side. The colorful cloth tied to them hangs limp, the air so still in here. All the holes in the walls, ripped open during our battle with Caspian, have been repaired. The stone is a slightly different color. It does not hold memories of my father’s reign.
Faustrius is dressed no more elaborately than the guards. The white fur of his cuffs and collar is stained with dirt, and his boots are covered in dried mud. His slate-blue skin is more sallow than I remember, with dark circles beneath his eyes. Black scruff covers his jaw, and the lines of his face are deep trenches.
Light from the torches, lit by glowing crystals rather than flames, flickers off something on Faustrius’s back. The sheath of his broadsword. My fingers sting, and I take an involuntary breath in. That weapon, forged of mythkarite, broke the Sword of the Protector. My whole body remembers the shattering as if it were my bones, not my blade.
Faustrius clutches the armrests and leans forward. His voice bellows through the hallway, ringing in every corner, deep and ancient: “I told you to leave and never come back.”
We stop before the throne, and I don’t need to communicate with Rosalina in our minds to know what we must do. Together, we fall to our knees in a bow.
Silence echoes through the hall.
