A silent conversation passed between the women around them. Gwen could not help but be impressed by their steadfastness in the face of two clearly superior warriors. But whatever they communicated with looks and shrugs, it was their leader who spoke for them all.
“It remains to be seen if Sylva will vouch for you. Until then, surrender your weapons or you’ll go no further.”
At her words, four of the women stepped forward, two to each of them.
Lyrena lifted her sword into an attacking position, her voice silky and lethal. “Try me.”
She’d been to Eldermist before, Gwen remembered from Arran and Veyka’s recounting of their journey upon leaving Baylaur. The humans had threatened Veyka then, and Lyrena had not forgotten it.
The red-haired woman shrugged with feigned nonchalance that belied the growing tension in the air. “If you are as peaceful as you say…”
“Give them the sword, Lyrena,” Gwen said. They were both lethal without weapons. A wave of her hand and Lyrena could set all six women’s clothes on fire. The weapons were symbols of authority—and symbols of goodwill when surrendered.
But Lyrena tightened against her. She did not turn her head when she spoke, her words so quiet that Gwen almost missed them and the humans certainly did.
“It was a gift from Arthur.”
Gwen’s heart did that terrible clenching thing that it had started after Parys’ death. If she did not get it under control, tears would be next. And there could not have been a worse place to fall apart.
But the tears did not come. Her eyes did not burn. Lyrena—imperturbable, smiling Lyrena—was tense with anxiety. It unlocked something inside of her; a strength and steadiness she had thought completely gone.
“You will get it back,” Gwen promised. With the hand that did not hold her own weapon, she reached back. Lyrena jolted at the touch, but Gwen did not pull back. She curled her fingers around Lyrena’s. “I will get it back for you.”
A silent heartbeat passed. Then Lyrena’s fingers answered hers, and she held out her sword to the humans.
Even disarmed, the humans held their formation as they escorted Gwen and Lyrena down into the village. Gwen scanned the buildings they passed, taking in as much information as she could. Information was always useful, either in battle or bargaining. She knew Lyrena did the same at her side. Their hands were no longer linked, but she could sense the taut energy emanating from the golden knight.
The glowering patrol leader took them to what appeared to be the village square. It was mostly as Veyka had described it, though two of the buildings were half tumbled down. An effect of the earthquake they’d felt across the entire continent? There were not enough people to match the buildings. Gwen counted less than twenty as they worked their way into the center of the village, and most of those were hidden behind cracked windows.
The village was still under the humans’ control, but they had not survived unscathed.
Someone must have seen their approach and run ahead. The door of the largest building—a half-collapsed guild hall of some kind—flew open and three humans spilled out, a familiar face in the lead.
“Sylva.” Gwen bowed her head.
The elderly woman returned the gesture of respect. “Lady Guinevere.”
“This is the Council of Elders?” Lyrena asked, disbelief crowding the syllables.
Sylva nodded. “What remains of us, yes.”
Lyrena had seen them before, Gwen remembered. Before.
Sylva, another woman with graying hair, and a middle-aged male watched by a fae guard that Gwen recognized as one of thecontingent she’d sent to the village, though she could not recall her name. How many had there been before? How many males had the fae female cut down because they were taken by the succubus?
Lyrena swallowed beside her. “What happened—”
“We don’t have time for that.” Nor could Gwen stand to hear another story of death and darkness. Most of their two hours was already gone. “Baylaur has fallen to the succubus. We are here as royal envoys on behalf of High Queen Veyka Pendragon and High King Arran Earthborn. The Queen and King are involved in rescue operations for the last of the survivors from Baylaur. They seek your permission to bring the refugees here.”
“Here,” the woman at Sylva’s side managed, her mouth gaping. An elder, but not nearly as composed as Sylva. “Fae refugees in Eldermist.”
The man, his thick hair unkempt and bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes, was unequivocal. “Absolutely not.”
“Without their guards, we would not be alive,” Sylva reminded him. She did not voice support one way or another; simply pointed out a fact. She was practiced at this game of managing her co-councilors. Gwen remembered her steadiness from her time in Baylaur.
“And if there are males among them, we will become nothing more than a meal,” the other woman said, regaining her voice.
Lyrena found hers as well. “None of the males will fall to the succubus. We will provide all of them with amorite.”
