By the dead gods, she was killing me.
“How?” I pressed.
“Saga told us that seers sometimes use a potion to ease themselves into visions. Isn’t that right, Saga?”
“Yes,” the princess answered.
“Shehasn’t even used that yet!” I added. “And she said it’s very dangerous.”
“So is losing the most powerful fleet in Winter’s Realm. Or giving up our only advantage and not marching west.” Thyra cut me a glance. “We have to choose, and I’m going to use every instrument at our disposal.” She patted the bag laid across her hip. As it so often had, the Frør Crown rested inside. “It must have worked for our family in the past, even if we, to my knowledge, have no seers after the one rumored to have created the Hallow.”
She wasn’t wrong there. After Saga had told us of her vision, we’d had the Scholars research our family tree. According to the records, there had been one renown seer many thousands of turns ago. He’d been the first to wear the Frør Crown, so weassumed that he’d also created it. Perhaps with the intent for his descendants to use the Hallow. Why else would a family better known for elemental magic keep such a thing? Revere it even?
I loosed a breath thick with frustration. “Let’s hope they have that potion in stock.”
The workshop was near the healing sanctuary. Healers often needed potions, even those that had little to nothing to do with their profession. As we strode by the sanctuary, I prayed that we wouldn’t find ourselves inside it after what we planned to do.
Thyra approached the potion maker on duty, a very young dryad who looked shocked to see us. She told him what we needed, and he disappeared into the back rooms.
“Are we sure this is the best way?” I looked to Saga instead of my stubborn twin.
“Not at all,” Saga muttered. “It’s completely mad but, given the circumstances, it might also make sense.”
“We’ll be careful,” Thyra assured me. “Take a half dose each.”
I arched my eyebrows at her.
“Why doesn’t Saga take it?” I asked. “She’s a real seer.”
“The powers of the Frør Crown are closely tied to the Falk line,” Saga answered. “And yes, while I have some Falk blood, you two have more. I don’t mind trying, but I think it will work better for you.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered.
Thyra blew out a humorless laugh. “If the Crown is going to do anything, we need it to be now. We need to know how to proceed. Our mates’ lives may depend on it—not to mention the outcome of this war. Lives lost.”
Of course I wanted to do what would bring Vale to my side, but in that moment, an image of Sayyida and Vidar emerged most clearly. Their mother, their other siblings, and countless sailors loyal to their house, waited across the sea to slow down the king. To fight for us.
On the other side of the coin, fae gathered in Bitra, prepared to march west and fight to take Avaldenn before the king arrived with more soldiers. For my sister and me to secure the throne.
No matter what we did, fae would die.
Thyra pulled the Frør Crown from her bag. The amethysts glittered in the flickering torchlight of the workshop, distracting me.
“I’ve spent so much time cursing that crown,” I said, “that I almost forgot how beautiful it is.”
“A piece of art.” Thyra’s eyes shone with equal reverence and distrust as she studied the Hallow. “And perhaps today it will give us useful information.”
The potion maker emerged from the back, a vial of shimmering white liquid in his hand. He came to stand before us and bowed.
“Have you seen anyone use this before?” Saga asked the dryad.
“Once.”
“And?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Should they sit down to use it? Is it a violent potion? Did itwork?”
