Chapter 25
The following afternoon, Aeryn sat in the estate’s sitting room, a book of elven poetry open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in the last half hour.
The words blurred together, meaningless arrangements of letters that refused to form coherent meaning.
Her mind kept circling back to the Council chamber, to the Queen’s icy stare, to the endless hours of waiting.
Khaeric stood by the window, his massive frame backlit by the afternoon sun.
He’d been there since they’d finished breakfast, watching the street below with the patience of stone.
Every so often, a passerby would glance up at the window, their steps faltering when they caught sight of him.
Some hurried past with averted eyes. Others lingered, staring openly before moving on.
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
Aeryn’s head snapped up from the book, her pulse jumping. She forced herself to take a slow breath before calling out, “Enter.”
Eliara appeared in the doorway. “Princess,” she said, stepping into the room. “A message from the palace.”
Aeryn crossed the room and took the parchment, her fingers trembling as they broke the seal. The wax crumbled under her touch, scattering fragments onto the carpet. She unfolded the heavy paper.
Princess Aeryn of the Silver Bough and the Unified Crown,
Her Majesty Queen Elindra requests your presence, along with that of your consort, at the Silver Bough Palace at the fourth hour past noon this day.
She read the line again. Consort. Not husband.
“What does it say?” Khaeric’s voice rumbled from across the room.
“The Queen requests our presence at the palace this afternoon.” Aeryn looked up from the parchment, meeting his gaze.
Khaeric moved away from the window, his footfalls heavy against the floorboards. “Then we go.”
“We should change,” she said, though the thought of donning another formal gown made her want to tear at her hair. “The Queen expects—”
“I ken what she expects.” Khaeric’s voice held an edge she rarely heard from him. “But I’m tired of dressin’ like a doll for their approval.”
“I know.” Aeryn set the parchment down on a side table. “But it will all be over soon. We can go home.”
If the Queen denied their petition, they would return with nothing.
No entry in the lineage records. No acknowledgment of their marriage in elven law.
No heritage secured for their child beyond what Khaeric could provide through his own bloodline.
And no access to the Hall of Memories. Serathen’s memories locked away forever.
And if Aeryn had truly pushed the Queen to strike her name from the records—she shoved the thought aside.
The carriage ride to the Silver Bough Palace felt simultaneously too long and too short. Aeryn’s fingers worried at the silk of her gown, smoothing and re-smoothing a crease that had formed near her knee. The fabric kept bunching no matter how many times she tried to flatten it.
Khaeric sat across from her, his bulk filling most of the bench.
He’d relented on the formal attire, though Aeryn suspected it had more to do with practicality than any desire to placate the Queen.
The deep blue tunic he wore was finely made but simpler than the elaborate garments from yesterday.
The gemstones still glinted in his braided hair, catching the light each time the carriage swayed.
Through the window, Béalimhe passed in a blur of white stone and ancient trees. Aeryn tried to focus on individual details—a fountain carved in the shape of a leaping stag, a merchant’s stall displaying bolts of dyed wool, a child chasing a rolling hoop down a side street.
The palace loomed ahead, its white towers stark against the afternoon sky. The carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones, then smoothed as they passed through the gates into the palace grounds. Aeryn’s stomach clenched.
The carriage rolled to a stop. A servant in silver livery opened the door. Khaeric ducked through the opening. Aeryn accepted the servant’s offered hand, stepping down onto pristine gravel that crunched under her slippers.
The entrance hall stretched before them, all soaring ceilings and marble columns. Their footsteps echoed as they followed a different attendant this time, a woman with pale silver hair bound in an elaborate knot, through corridors.
The attendant stopped before an arched doorway carved with intricate spirals. She knocked twice, waited, then pushed the door open. “Princess Aeryn and Lord Khaeric, Your Majesty.”
The Queen’s private study bore no resemblance to the austere Council room. Warm light spilled from lamps, casting gold over furnishings that blended elven artistry with unexpected comfort. Books lined one wall, and fire burned in a hearth of pale stone, flames reflecting in the polished floor.
Queen Elindra sat near the hearth. The chamber felt too small for Khaeric’s massive frame, though nothing in the Queen’s expression betrayed discomfort. She studied them. “Niece. Lord Khaeric.” She gestured toward the seats. “Please sit.”
Aeryn eyed the chair dubiously, glancing at Khaeric.
“Thank ye, Yer Majesty. I prefer to stand,” Khaeric said, inclining his head.
The Queen nodded. “As you wish.” She turned to Aeryn. “Though I insist you sit, niece. In your condition.”
Aeryn lowered herself into the chair, silk rustling against the cushioned seat. Khaeric stood beside her.
Queen Elindra folded her hands in her lap. “I asked you here because I believe we may have allowed emotion to cloud what should be a practical discussion.”
Aeryn’s fingers tightened on the armrest. “I wasn’t aware the Council had reached any decision to discuss.”
“The Council has not.” The Queen’s voice remained level, betraying nothing. “Which is precisely why I thought it prudent to speak with you privately.” She paused, her gaze shifting briefly to Khaeric before returning to Aeryn. “There may be a path forward that satisfies both parties.”
This wasn’t a capitulation. This was a negotiation—the Queen offering terms before the Council could issue a formal ruling that might prove more difficult to navigate around.
“What sort of path?” Aeryn kept her voice measured despite the quickening of her pulse.
Queen Elindra rose from her chair, moving toward the window that overlooked the palace gardens.
Her profile remained composed, elegant, untouchable.
“The Council is troubled by the precedent your request would set. To record an orc in the sacred lineage of the Silver Bough...” She paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the window frame.
“You must understand, niece, these records have remained unblemished for millennia.”
Unblemished. As if acknowledging Khaeric would stain something pure, corrupt something sacred. Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to remain silent.
“However,” Queen Elindra continued, “I am not unsympathetic to your situation. You are my sister’s daughter, and despite your... choices... I do not wish to see you cast adrift from your mother’s heritage.”
“What compromise did you have in mind, Your Majesty?”
The Queen turned from the window, her expression carefully arranged into something that might have passed for sympathy in better light.
“The Council would be willing to acknowledge your marriage in a supplementary record. Not the primary lineage rolls, you understand, but a separate document that would note the union for historical purposes.”
Aeryn’s throat tightened. A supplementary record. A footnote. Exactly what Councilor Thalindor had suggested yesterday, dressed up in prettier language.
“And our child?” Aeryn’s hand moved to her belly. “Would they be recorded in this... supplementary document as well?”
Queen Elindra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That is where the matter becomes more complex.” She moved away from the window. “I misspoke yesterday when I referred to your child as being of mixed blood.”
“Misspoke,” Aeryn repeated, her fingers digging into the armrest hard enough that the carved wood pressed painfully into her palm.
“Yes.” Queen Elindra’s gaze remained steady, unflinching. “It would be more accurate to say the child carries cursed blood. Given the nature of the orcs’ origin.”
“Cursed,” she heard herself say, though her voice sounded distant, detached, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.
“You know the histories as well as any daughter of the Silver Bough. What happened during the War of Division.”
“The orcs were exiled after the war,” Aeryn managed. “For their betrayal—”
“They were exiled because they became something other than what they had been. The histories are quite clear on this point. The beings you call orcs were once elves. Our kin.”
“That’s a lie.” Khaeric’s voice came out low. “My people have their own histories. Their own origin stories.”
“Stories.” The Queen’s tone suggested she was addressing a child who’d confused a bedtime tale with recorded history.
“The truth is preserved in our most ancient memories. The orcs, the beings who would become orcs, were corrupted during the war. Twisted by forbidden magic into something... lesser.”
“Stop.” The word tore from Aeryn’s throat. She pushed herself up from the chair, her legs unsteady beneath her. “My child is not cursed.”
Pity flashed across the Queen’s features before settling back into cool neutrality. “Nevertheless, it is the truth preserved in our oldest records. The beings who became orcs were once our kin, corrupted by magic they should never have touched. Their descendants carry that corruption still.”
Aeryn’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint, the edges going dark and fuzzy. Her hand found the back of the chair, gripping it hard enough that her knuckles went white.