Maybe King Érebo too?
Yrsa had not mentioned him, but he might have gone south with his allies.
The pieces shifted. Moves and countermoves. We might not have left the safety of Ramshold yet, but this was a battle strike. Since I’d already proclaimed that I was no son of his, the king wanted the other high lords and ladies to learn about his wife’s affair. To see the consequences of betrayal, on Magnus’s terms and timeframe.
Or perhaps the king still wanted to use the queen in other ways, and if Rhistel couldn’t control our mother for all hours of the day, he’d need a strong cell in proximity in which to hold her. Hence, a stop in Grindavik.
That struck me as true. They must have some plan to use my mother—likely at the mage court.
Thyra cleared her throat. “You’re right that we don’t trust her, Vale, but I believe that your mother owes my sister and me a conversation.”
She desired an apology, but as my mother’s whispering magic was still secret, Thyra took care with her words.
“So, I say yes. We find Queen Inga and bring her here.”
My gaze slid to my mate, but she was watching Lord Riis, red-faced and tense. Somehow, my father kept it together. Barely.
“Force?” I whispered. “What say you?”
She dragged her gaze up to meet mine, and her features softened. “We will save Queen Inga, but I am doing it for Vale and Saga. No other reason.”
Isolde pushed her chair back and stood. Others followed. “The sooner we put together a plan, the sooner we can go to Grindavik.”
Interlude
LORD ROAR LISIKA, WARDEN OF THE WEST, HOUSE OF THE SNOW LEOPARD
Atop a knoll overlooking the forested land outside of Avaldenn, the Warden of the West could not help but wonder how his plan regarding a certain lost princess had gone so far astray.
Twenty-five thousand fae had gathered outside the capital, and they were on the brink of war.
House Balik, House Riis, and House Virtoris all claimed loyalty to the Falk princesses. With that recent revelation, Roar questioned things. Mostly, the true motives of Magnus’s newest ally.
Before he sailed south, the king had called Roar to his study, to join him and the prince, seemingly finally himself after many days of acting oddly. There Roar had met King Érebo and heard the tale of Isolde and her twin, Thyra, freeing him. Denying him.
The darkness in the Shadow Fae’s eyes burned with black fire as he recounted the events beneath that mountain. And yet, despite also hating Isolde and Vale, throughout the tale, Roar got the sense the Shadow Fae king was hiding something. Not telling the entire story.
Roar was quite glad that King Érebo was sailing to Grindavik with his other allies, playing out some plan devised by PrinceRhistel. A plan in which Roar suspected he knew the bare minimum about and, truth be told, he was fine with that. At least for the time being. As the lord currently presiding over Avaldenn and the gathering armies, he had quite enough on his plate.
“Lord Lisika?” a voice came from behind, and the warden turned to find a soldier. He’d spoken to her before, many times, but she had the sort of forgettable face that meant her name vanished as quickly as the wind.
“Yes?”
The fae shifted in the mud that the melted snow had left behind. “The captains are in the central square.”
Roar’s lips curled upwards in his first smile in days. “Very good.”
He left the knoll and with enhanced speed and agility thanks to his brand-new metal leg, Roar made his way into the field of soldiers from all around the kingdom.
The scents and sounds of camp came at him from all angles. Crackling embers, unwashed bodies, and dirty canvases. None of the scents were pleasant. Just another thing that made Roar wish he was at the castle. Relaxing in comfort—or better yet, having already seen his long-held plan to fruition and calling Frostveil his own.
Many of the soldiers hailed from the west, and they bowed to him, but many others were not. Those fae stared at Roar with a sort of curious wonder, equally studying his new leg and the lord himself—how he moved through the world in a manner that they never could. Most soldiers were used to lords from lesser noble houses; not a high lord of the Sacred Eight. Some may never have seen someone of his status until arriving in Avaldenn.
Here, however, each soldier fought not only for their own lord or lady, but for the Warden of the West. For Prince Rhistel. For King Magnus. And unbeknownst to them, a shadowy abomination too.
The Warden of the West neared the heart of the camp. The path between tents opened into the square, and as Roar had predicted, a crowd surrounded the captains he’d called for.
Roar, ever the showman, smiled and swaggered up to the captains, waiting in a line, their hands and feet shackled to posts.
