She turns to me, eyes clear and honesty ringing through her voice, as though she’s passing judgment on us and finding us truly wanting. “The high fae forget that the first victims of Kharl's war were the witches themselves.”
Reed stares at her, his mouth tight as he holds in a grimace, but her words just keep tumbling out. “Do you think the mindless raving masses want to be that way? Do you think they knew what he would do to them? When he first came to the Southern Lands, he gave them two options—join him, or die. Any witch who escaped him, fleeing their covens and ancestral lands, found themselves at the mercy of the high fae. Painted as enemies and hunted for nothing more than the blood in their veins and their silver eyes. All of the witches in the Northern Lands were there because they had no better option. I heard countless stories from them of the hunt for our people that drove us all from our homes and the trees that love us.That’sthe truth of the kingdom you’re fighting so hard for. That is the truth of your war.”
* * *
We cross through the fae door and back onto Yregar land after the moon has reached its peak in the sky, shining down on us and casting an ethereal light over the starkness of the castle and its surroundings.
As I wait for the others to cross through, I can't help but look over my shoulder at the pastures that lie beyond the stone wall. Through the large iron gate manned by the soldiers, my home is in ruins.
We’ve been desensitized by years of slow decay, but seeing the Ravenswyrd Forest, and even the Goblin Lands, has made the desperation within me grow. It doesn't have to be this way. We can find our way back to a flourishing kingdom, stronger than ever before, I know it.
Tyton rides alongside me, his eyes now back to the same simple blue of the Celestial bloodline. His expression is clearer than it has been in many months, and when he feels my eyes on him, he turns.
“I can't hear it anymore,” he says to me, shooting me a long look and keeping his gaze pointedly away from the witch. “I’ve always heard the ramblings of madness for days after the forest took my mind, but there's nothing there now.”
The witch’s voice is uncharacteristically soft in the cool night air. “We left the forest a sacrifice, a gift for seeing you safely through. You listened to what it had to say, and so now it will let you be until you meet again. That’s the Ravenswyrd way. That’s the old way, of the trees.”
Tyton’s brow furrows. The horses still move briskly along the cobblestones, delayed only by the inky blackness of the night as it blankets the road to the village. Even simple things like torches and firewood are now in great demand and not to be wasted lighting paths that are sparingly used.
“Who was the girl? The one who saw the wraith, who died thinking the massacre was her fault. What was her name?”
Reed glances over, apprehensive, but he looks to the witch for her answer. She stays silent for a long part of the walk, her hands tight on her reins and the horse fussing underneath. Northern Star calms and snorts happily when the witch runs an absent hand down her neck.
We make it through the village, past the homeless sleeping on the streets and into the inner walls before the witch finally speaks. “Tawnie. Her name was Tawnie.”
Tyton nods, happy enough with just this information, but the name niggles at the back of my mind.
At the stables, we dismount and hand the reins off to Ingor and his stable boys before we unpack the supplies from the saddles. The witch insists on carrying the leather satchels herself, and I insist on carrying the wooden box she recovered from her parents’ room, jerking my head for her to follow as I lead the way to the healer’s quarters.
When we arrive there, Tauron is standing in the doorway, a scowl on his face, but he bows to me and says, “There's been no change. He still mutters in his sleep and jerks like he's fighting off banshees in his mind.”
The witch moves around him and begins unpacking her bounty, lining up freshly scrubbed jars and placing cuttings within them as she waits for water to boil on the woodburning stove. She takes no notice of any of the eyes on her, blocking us all out as she gets to work.
I dismiss Tauron and send Reed and Tyton off to get cleaned up and rest, aware there's a long night ahead of standing watch over the castle for us all.
The witch moves about the kitchen area confidently, pausing only long enough to press a palm against Roan’s forehead. Frowning, she presses her fingers to his throat and she shuts her eyes for a moment, then continues checking and testing him in all the little ways of a seasoned healer confident in her craft.
I watch on as she crushes flowers and chops up stalks, grinding leaves into paste and rolling seeds between her palms, slowly adding all these things to the bubbling pot of water on the woodfire.
A fragrant smell begins to waft through the room, honeysuckle and the intoxicating scent of the fae flowers dancing together in a promise of life. The witch didn’t take any of the flowers blooming from the fallen witches, instead harvesting them from a small patch in the garden where they were once cultivated in abundance by her coven’s diligent hands.
She removes the pot from the direct heat, letting the water simmer as she stirs, but doesn't make any further moves to add to it. The mixture slowly thickens as she toils above it, her watchful eye calculating every step of the process until finally she pulls out a smaller spoon. Dipping it in the pot and then slowly dripping liquid from it, she checks the consistency. It's the exacting sort of work that means the difference between life and death, the sleeping high-fae prince on the floor reliant on this concoction.
When she finally deems it finished, she dips the spoon in once more, taking a few drops of the emerald liquid. After letting it cool for a moment, she ducks down to carefully siphon it between Roan’s lips, watching him like a hawk. It’s such a small amount that he doesn't need to swallow, thankfully. Instead, it melts onto his tongue, and we both watch as his skin begins to glow, golden and vital, as the fae flowers infuse him.
The rattle in his chest eases away until it disappears entirely, and a great sigh heaves from his chest. He finally stops muttering and falls into a deep sleep. The witch watches it all, shrewd eyes narrowed, and at his relaxation, she nods to herself, satisfied it’s a job well done.
“Tawnie is a type of owl, as well. Is it customary for witches to name their children after creatures in the forest, or just a practice within your family?”
She doesn't answer with words, but her shoulders push back as she straightens. My guess is correct—the eight-year-old was her sister.
Ignoring my presence, she gets to work as though the Fates themselves command her. Pulling out the vials she carefully emptied and scrubbed out days earlier and then placed in boiled water, she lines them up on the bench for filling. All of the work she did over the past few days in preparation suggests she knew that, at some point, we’d have to procure these ingredients for her, one way or another.
She spoons the elixir into the vials slowly, her hands steadfast and sure, until five of them sit sealed with a cork on the bench before her. The journey into the forest, her hard work, and the ingredients boiled down to five tiny vials, an illusion of a small yield from her work, but I know better.
If two drops can save a high-fae prince’s life, then a great bounty lies before her.
Shifting on her feet, she begins to scrub all the tools that she used, diligent and steadfast. She doesn't seem to care that there are maids and servants within this castle that she could demand service from. For the work she’s done, no one would deny her, even being a witch. She treats every person she comes across the same, addressing my family by our royal titles but never attempting to bow. She’s humbled herself to no one but the Goblin King.
