Chapter 20
TWENTY
CAIRN
I’ve spent hours moving through the forest to the north of the Dell.
Not the one they own with warded boundaries where they hunt my kind.
This one is older, with many places a solitary fae could hide.
That wouldn’t do for a business that prides itself on giving paying humans a guaranteed fae death.
This is a forest that existed long before humans started carving the world into their own image.
I take my time tracking game trails, checking sight lines, and finding water sources.
The forest starts three miles from the Dell, rocky ground giving way to a thick undergrowth, with the canopy closing overhead until the light turns green and dim.
It’s filled with ancient trees, their trunks wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder, roots knotted deep into soil that hasn’t been turned by human hands.
I find a sheltered hollow, deep in the forest. It took me three hours to reach it on foot, it will take longer to reach with fae who can barely walk.
But it’s defensible, with steep banks on three sides, and a stream cutting through the base.
There’s enough tree cover to hide our numbers from anyone not standing directly on top of us.
It will work as a place to catch our breath before the humans come hunting.
Because they will. The mage has likely already started talking.
I crouch at the base of an oak and run my fingers through the soil. It’s damp, which means it’s rained recently. And that means the tracks we leave will be visible for days unless we’re careful.
We won’t be careful. We’ll be slow, loud and obvious. We might as well light signal fires.
The thought should worry me more than it does. Instead, anticipation coils through my chest.
Let them come. Let them see what happens when the collars come off.
I rise and start back toward the Dell, fixing the route in my head, the problems we might face, and all the other things I haven’t had to think about for centuries.
The compound comes into view as the sun climbs higher.
From this distance it looks like an ordinary, peaceful morning.
No one traveling past would have any idea that the wooden buildings clustered behind the fencing hides fae, or that the smoke rising isn’t from cookfires or hearths, but from the burned bodies of the humans who lived and worked here.
The cages are out of sight from here. So is Cowen’s head, still mounted on its hook in the main hall. It can remain there as a warning for whoever comes to investigate. Let them see exactly what we think of what they’ve done.
Therin is in the courtyard when I walk through the gates, sitting on an overturned water trough with a sword across his knees.
He’s running a whetstone along the edge with the kind of focused attention he usually reserves for things he’s about to kill.
The blade isn’t his. This one is human-made, plain steel, and nothing like the weapons we usually carry.
But he’s treating it like it’s something worth caring about anyway.
“You look like you’re planning to bond with that thing.”
He doesn’t look up. “Might have to. It’s the only blade here that doesn’t make me want to weep.” He holds it up, squinting at the edge. “Human smithing. They still can’t forge a proper sword.”
“They’ve been busy building cages.”
“Priorities.” He snorts, setting the whetstone aside. “You were gone for a while. Find anything useful?”
“There’s a hollow to the north that will suffice.” I lean against the stable wall. “It’s not much, but—”
“It’s more than we had yesterday.”
“That’s becoming a theme.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile but close. “Vel’s inside. She’s been counting things all morning. Carts, horses, supplies. She’s made lists.”
“Just lists?”
“I’m not ruling out charts.” He picks up the whetstone again. “Fair warning, she has opinions about everything.”
“When doesn’t she?”
I push off from the wall and head for the lodge. The courtyard is full of fae. Some moving between buildings, others handing out food, and some just standing in the open, faces raised to the sun. A few look up when I pass. Most don’t.
Cowen’s head, still hanging in the lodge, has started to attract flies.
Someone should do something about that, but it won’t be me and it won’t be today.
Vel is at the far end of the hall, crouched beside a pile of harnesses with a piece of charcoal in her hand and a torn canvas spread across the floor.
“Well?”
My lips twitch. Anyone would think she was the commander and me her underling with the way she demands information.
“There’s a hollow to the north. It’ll do until we can find something better. Four hours at a decent pace.”
“Four hours for someone moving at full speed, you mean.” She rises, brushing dust from her knees. “We won’t be moving at full speed.”
“No.”
“The horses will help.” She waves a hand toward the canvas. “I’ve counted twelve that are serviceable. The draft animals can pull the carts. The riding horses can carry supplies or support anyone who needs them.”
Twelve. More than I expected.
“How many can we put on carts?”
“That depends.” She meets my eyes. “How many are we taking with us?”
“The count hasn’t changed. There are thirty functional, twenty who just need some time. The rest—”
“There are twenty-four who won’t make it, no matter how much you wish otherwise.”
“Twenty-four?”
“I checked this morning.” Her voice is flat. “Three died during the night. They can’t eat, can’t drink, and won’t respond to anything. They will slow us down, drain our resources and die anyway, whether it’s today, tomorrow, or next week.”
I stay silent. I know what’s coming next.
“We discussed this yesterday, Cairn.” She steps closer, lowering her voice even though there’s no one nearby to hear.
“If they can’t come back, we give them peace.
That was your decision. But it needs to happen before we leave.
Not somewhere down the road when we’re already exhausted, hunted, and can’t afford the delay. ”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her eyes narrow. “Because you’re standing there looking like you’d rather fight a hundred humans than do what needs to be done.”
The rage that lives in my chest has been burning steadily since the collar came off, fed by every death I’ve dealt and every cage I’ve emptied. But this is different. This isn’t killing enemies. This is killing my own people.
“Some of them were warriors,” I say quietly. “Before.”
“Before.” Vel’s mouth twists. “Before means nothing now. What matters is what they are, and what they are is already dead. The iron burned everything out of them. There’s nothing left to save.”
“Caelum—”
“Caelum is different. He’s one of us. He twitched …
once. That’s more than any of the others have managed.
” She holds my gaze. “I’m not talking about him.
I’m talking about the others. The ones whose hearts beat but nothing else functions.
They’re already gone, Cairn. They’re nothing more than animated shells. ”
I close my eyes, and sigh. “I’ll do it.”
“No. We will do it. You and me. Therin, if we need him, but I’d rather not.” She pauses. “It needs to be quick and clean. They deserve that much.”
They deserve more than that. They deserve to have never been caged in the first place. They deserve the lives that were stolen from them, and the centuries they should have had.
But we don’t always get what we deserve. I know that better than most.
I nod slowly. The rage in my chest has turned cold. This is command. This is what it means to lead. Making decisions that keep you awake at night, that carve pieces out of you one at a time until there’s nothing left but the duty itself.
“Show me the list.”
The barracks is quiet when we enter.
Vel has marked the ones who won’t recover—small symbols on each pallet or cot. I memorize their faces as we move through the room. These are fae who will never see the hollow to the north, never feel grass beneath their feet again, and never know that they died free instead of caged.
The first is a male near the door. He’s lying on his side, eyes open but seeing nothing.
His chest rises and falls in a rhythm too slow to be natural, each breath a shudder that shakes his entire frame.
The collar wounds on his throat have festered—yellow pus crusted around edges that his magic should be working to heal.
The fact that it isn’t, tells me everything.
The magic inside him is dead. And without that, he won’t live anyway.
I crouch beside him and study his face.
“He was called Beanagh.” Vel’s voice comes from behind me. “He served under Fiacha.”
Fiacha. One of the generals sent by the Spring Court to join us in the battle to stop the human mages. He died at Therison Vale. I watched him fall, cut down by human blades while the mages still worked their ritual.
“Did you know Beanagh?”
“I knew of him. He had a reputation for steadiness. The kind who held the line when others broke.”
I reach out and touch his shoulder. His skin is cold, the muscle beneath wasted to nothing. He doesn’t respond to my touch.
“Beanagh. You served well. You held firm. The iron may have taken everything else, but it didn’t take that.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker behind those eyes.
I meet Vel’s gaze. She nods.
With a single thought, one of my blades forms in my hand.
My fingers curl around the hilt, stopping its growth at dagger length.
I place one hand on Beanagh’s head, and tilt it forward slightly.
He doesn’t resist. The blade goes in at the base of his skull, angled upward.
One precise thrust, the edge sliding between vertebrae and into the brain stem.
His body shudders once, then goes still.
I withdraw the blade and lower his head gently back to the pallet.
One.