Chapter 30 Wren #2
I don’t have time to worry about what might happen to me if they’re discovered on my person.
Evander’s knights have taken the fey behind the tavern, past the tree line where the forest swallows the light.
The captive kneels in the dirt, hands bound behind his back, his silver hair tangled and streaked with mud.
He doesn’t look at me, which is just as well.
It’s Garron. He’s a merchant, one who travels between fey lands and human cities. Over two hundred years old. He brought me peaches, once. Gave me a good price for them. He laughed with Grandma, flirted with Moira, told us stories about his years in Xaden.
He’s going to die tonight. All his stories will vanish.
“What was he doing?” Evander asks.
The knight beside him answers. “Trading without sanction.”
Evander exhales. “And?”
The knight hesitates. “Smuggling into the city.”
I stiffen. That’s a dangerous charge. Trading without sanction is one thing; smuggling is another entirely.
Not that it would matter anyway. He’s a fey outside of the forest. There’s only one sentence for that.
I step forward. Will he recognise me, I wonder? Will it bring him any comfort? Will he know what I’m doing here, that I’m trying to save us?
Will it matter if he doesn’t live to see it?
How would I feel, if I was about to die, and someone told me that they would carry on the fight, that it was nearing its end, that soon all our suffering would be worth it?
I don’t think I’d be comforted. I think I’d be furious. I don’t want to die. I want to live, to see what we’ve accomplished.
But there’s no fury in Garran’s eyes when his gaze lifts to mine. It’s tired, calm. He knows what’s coming.
I do, too.
Evander draws his sword. “Do you have anything to say in your defence, fey?”
Garron snorts. His eyes are tired. “Nothing that will mean anything to the likes of you.”
Something passes over Evander’s features. He looks almost as exhausted as Garron, all his boyishness gone in an instant. An hour ago, he was as bashful as a child. Now, he’s a murderer.
“Do you have any secrets that could harm me?” he asks.
That’s a good question. It makes sense to ask that of someone who can’t lie. Do they ask that of everyone, I wonder?
Did my father get the chance to answer?
I’ve never thought about it before, his last moments in the dungeon of the castle I now inhabit. Did he beg for mercy, fight until his last breath? Did he spit in the face of King Leonitus, bang at the bars, fight in his chains?
Did he look as resigned as Garron does know?
Garron shakes his head. “I’m a merchant, Your Highness. I’ve no secrets of any benefit to the Crown.”
Evander’s jaw tightens. I get the feeling he’d prefer it if Garron had done something horrible. “One more question,” he begins. “Do you know who’s responsible for blinding Prince Cassiel?”
Something in my stomach drops. It might just be the coldness in Evander’s voice. How many times has he asked this?
What would he do if the answer was yes?
But Garron just shakes his head once more. “I do not.”
I don’t know whether or not to feel relieved.
“Thank you for your answer,” Evander says. His voice sounds genuine, but it doesn’t stop him from lifting his sword.
I want to act, to say something, to do something. There was to be some way of getting Garron out of here, some way of avoiding this. I can’t just stand here and watch this man die in front of me.
But unless I’m willing to give myself up, to ruin the mission, I will have to.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my voice weak.
Evander’s grip tightens on his weapon. “Yes, I do.”
“He deserves a trial.”
Evander’s jaw locks. “No. He deserves not to rot in a dungeon for a forgone conclusion.”
I hate that he has a point. Garron is going to die one way or the other.
No one will be coming to spring him from a barrier they cannot cross.
Even I can’t risk it. If we take him back to the castle, he will rot in the dungeon for days, maybe weeks, and then the Queen will execute him. Maybe publicly.
“Have you anything else to say, fey?” Evander asks.
Garron smiles. “I hope you die like your father. I hope your whole family does.”
Steel flashes in Evander’s eyes. His sword falls with barely a sound. Garron’s head rolls off across the ground.
I don’t look away. Fey view death differently than humans do. It’s worse when the old die—there are fewer of them, and with every loss, more is forgotten.
The night air feels colder now, the ground feels unsteady beneath me. There are words I ought to be saying, prayers to the Fates, to the Stars to receive him. In my head should be enough, but I’ve forgotten all of them.
Evander cleans his sword before he sheaths it. When he looks at me, there’s no triumph in his eyes. No satisfaction.
“Would you rather I let him suffer first?” he asks, low and quiet.
I don’t answer.
I don’t know if there is an answer.
I stare at Garron’s body on the floor. Never forget, I tell myself. That’s what they’ll do to you if they find out what you are. You are not one of them.
You never will be.