“Give it time,” Sylva advised. “Time is the only medicine that remains the same, no matter what realm you’re in.”
Lyrena snorted. “Yes, because Lady Guinevere is known for her patience.”
Shewasknown for her patience. And composure. And she was going to argue with Lyrena about it—when she was less tired, and in less pain.
Sleep, that was how she’d escape both the pain and the two females determined to drive her to distraction.
Gwen closed her eyes—but not in time to miss Lyrena’s wink or the flash of her golden smile.
89
EVANDER
“And this is where the High King of Annwyn cut off my arm,” Evander said. He curled that arm around his wife, kneading his knuckles into the soft flesh of her hip.
“Ah, yes, the storied Brutal Prince,” Mya laughed. “It is hard for me to connect the picture you paint with the male I’ve met.”
Evander blinked. “He led a combined army of fae, humans, and faeries against the most terrifying evil to ever plague our world.”
Mya shrugged. “The part I notice is how he drools after Veyka.”
Evander scoffed in disgust, though he knew that he was little better. He would never forget that terrifying moment of silence on the battlefield, his back pressed to the door inside the tower, Mya high above him. The succubus clawed to get in, their rasps rattling with death. Then it had all stopped, and the silence of the unknown was worse. But the sounds of battle stayed dead. Mya barreled down the stairs into his arms. The succubus were gone, his wife safe. He would hold tight to her for the remainder of his days, and any onlookers be damned.
He’d shown her the throne room, the terraces, the enormous library, and now the narrow crossing where the Gremog guarded the goldstone palace.
“I’m surprised you’ve made it this long without asking me which direction to the sea.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For several heartbeats, he thought she was playing some sort of trick on him. But when her eyes opened again, the sapphire was brighter than it had been in weeks.
Mya stepped around him, her eyes searching past the floor of the valley and the still-wrecked city below. Over the ring of mountains, their deep orange tips standing in sharp contrast to the pure blue sky.
“That way.” She breathed in again. Evander did not doubt that if there was even a hint of sea salt on the air, she would find it. “How long until we can go?”
Evander huffed a laugh. “That is for my queen to decide.”
“A few more days,” she sighed, her eyes still on the horizon. “The last of our injured are healed. The palace is cleared. But I want to ensure the city has clean water before we leave.”
All of the systems had been destroyed by the succubus. Wells polluted, caches of food destroyed. It would take months to sort out, maybe even years. It was not a task that Evander envied, and one he was more than ready to leave to Veyka and her Knights.
“We must also speak with General Ache about the transport of our new priestess,” Mya added.
“Prisoner,” Evander corrected. If it had been up to him, they would have said no. Merlin was too dangerous to be kept alive. But in a strange and uncharacteristic act of mercy, Veyka and Arran had sentenced the priestess to banishment rather than beheading.
“I shall be the judge of that,” Mya reminded him, though her voice was too gentle for even a reproach. He did not really need either.
She let him bluster, but she knew as well as he did that her edict was the one that would rule. Mya would lay her hands on Merlin and then decide her fate—whether she would be welcomed as a water wielder into their Aquarian home, or have that same magic turned against her, a cage more powerful than any made of fire or ice or wind.
Mya let him turn her back into the goldstone palace. She dropped a hand to his arm. He paused, letting her have the time she needed to anchor herself. She’d done what she could to help the refugees returning to Baylaur using her ethereal powers, but this was not her place, and she could not be responsible for all of their emotional healing. It weighed on her. So Evander stood, an anchor in a swirling sea, for as long as needed.
Finally she exhaled and started back through the towering goldstone arches. “Will you miss your home?” she asked.
Evander didn’t have to look up or look around to know his answer. “This place was never my home,” he said, squeezing her hand tightly in his own. “You are the only home I will ever need.”
90
ARRAN
The histories of wars did not recount the hours after the battle. Nor the next day or the next week. If it were not for Isolde, more humans would have died from their wounds the day after the Battle of Camlann than had been slaughtered by the succubus in the valley. So named to distinguish it from the last battle of the Great War, fought in the Effren Valley seven thousand years before, and in honor of the humans, who’d lost more than any of us. The fae losses were dire as well. Tens of thousands had walked onto the twin battlefields. Less than half their number walked or flew or ran off.
