That morning, however, even with blood from the night’s battle still spattering my arms, I hardly thought of the war. I could only think about Gareth. Gareth Fontaine and his foolish friends, one of whom was apparently a fantastic shot with a crossbow even when he was drunk.
I took to one of our new mares with a curry comb, hoping a few minutes of vigorous brushing would calm me. A list of tasks awaited me—writing reports, training our new recruits, running through my daily conditioning exercises—and I wouldn’t be able to focus on any of them until my anger quieted.
Before even a minute had passed, however, Posey found me. One moment she wasn’t there; the next she was, in that uncanny way of the Olden fae.
“You look terrible,” she remarked, regarding me over the mare’s shoulders with her bright silver eyes. “What happened to Cira? I heard something about an arrow wound.”
“We were on patrol in the southeastern canyons yesterday evening,” I replied, eyes focused on my work. “An intoxicated ass thought she was a game bird and shot her with his crossbow.”
Posey snorted. “What kind of game bird is as large as a Rose in flight?”
“I think we can blame that miscalculation on the aforementioned drunkenness.”
“I suppose he could have thought her a harpy or a chimaera. Neither is as unlikely as it once was.”
“If he were smarter, he would have given me that excuse,” I said grimly. “Alas.”
“Did you kill him?”
“The thought crossed my mind. But then a piece of Mist fell. Even that far south, we could feel the aftershocks. We left, we fought the invaders, we secured the break, we came home.” I pressed my lips together, remembering how bravely Cira had fought, even with her injury. “If her wing is permanently damaged…”
“Then you’ll kill him?”
“Perhaps.”
Posey began combing her fingers through the mare’s mane. “Who was he, anyway?”
“Some librarian from the capital. A friend of my sister’s friend. I don’t know his name. But Gareth will tell me, or else I’ll make him tell me.”
“Gareth? He’s your sister’s friend?”
“Gareth Fontaine.” I punctuated the words with a brisk stroke of my comb. “A professor and librarian at the university, and a breaker of many ladies’ hearts, if I am to believe Farrin’s stories, and I have no reason not to.”
Posey looked at me with new interest. “What sorts of stories are those?”
“I came out here for peace and quiet,” I said, “not vulgar storytelling.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed peace and quiet if you’re the Warden’s favorite.”
Something about the tone of her voice made me lower the comb and look at her.
“What is it?” I said. “You’ve come to tell me something.”
Just then a small falcon glided into the stable and alighted on the mare’s stall door. My angry heart lifted to see the familiar brown feathers of Freyda, my falcon and familiar. Posey turned away from me to stroke Freyda’s speckled white breast.
“The Warden wants you,” Posey said, holding up a curled piece of paper. “And if you don’t go quickly enough, she’ll take it out on me. Soplease go quickly. If she asks why you’re late, blame it on Gareth and his friends.”
I sighed, set down the curry comb, and came to Posey’s side. Freyda watched my approach with a stern yellow glare. Never mind that she was my bonded familiar and I would never love another creature the way I loved her. I hadn’t sought her out upon returning to Rosewarren, as was our custom, and it was clearly important to her that I understand how upsetting that was.
“When you say the Warden will take it out on you,” I said to Posey, “what does that mean?”
Posey handed me the Warden’s message and raised one elegant silver eyebrow. A row of elaborate pearlescent earrings glinted in each of her long, pointed ears, and her green-tinged skin gleamed in the torchlight.
“She doesn’t beat me,” Posey said coolly, “if that’s what you mean. I can tolerate a lot, but not that.”
“And if she did decide to beat you, how would you fight back, exactly?”
“A captive fae is still a fae. There’s some strength in me yet.”
