Chapter Twenty-Five
Xandril
“Brightstar?” I echo after Ingrid’s introduction to the ifrak calf. “Who told you its name?”
With all the other issues facing the reach, I haven’t kept up with news about the castle’s newest resident, but last I heard, the babe still hadn’t bonded. If that’s changed, it’s cause for a celebration.
“Well… No one did,” Ingrid says sheepishly, intently focusing on the calf’s wool, slowly beginning to lose its adolescent spots. “I just sort of…started calling it that one day? It felt right.”
I’m not sure what to think. On the one hand, anything that prevents losing the calf to the wild herd is a boon. On the other, Ingrid’s disregard for the rituals and customs surrounding our most sacred beasts might ruin any hope she has of being accepted by the reach or its throne.
In the end, she looks so happy nuzzling the calf and feeding it treats that I can’t bear to tell her she’s doing anything wrong.
Is she though?
I look at Ingrid with the calf, the ease they have together, and remember how calm the mother was while separated from her baby—when Ingrid was present. How Ingrid was the one who kept her calm during the labor. And the one who brought breath to the calf’s lungs.
Can a human soulbond an ifrak?
I’m not sure it’s a question that’s ever been posed. I know there are many who will balk at the idea of a human intruding on such hallowed ground, but she isn’t only a human.
She’s my flower. My bride.
And Emerald’s queen.
Across the dining table, Ingrid dusts crumbs of pie crust from her inviting lips, oblivious to how enthralling it is to spend these moments with her. Making my travel arrangements is still ongoing, and in the meantime, Ingrid and I have begun to share our evening meals together.
Very quickly, it’s become my favorite part of the day.
In meetings, in sparring matches, whether I’m busy or at rest, I find myself looking forward to it.
Wondering what story from the stables or knitting puzzle she’ll tell me about, daydreaming about how her face transforms into sunlight itself when she talks about the things she enjoys.
“Now I understand why Visri always asks for gliidberry tarts,” she says, licking a bit of jam off her thumb.
How sure am I that she’s unaware of the effect she has on me?
“It’s a reminder of summer, for many,” I say, my own dessert mostly untouched.
There’s nothing wrong with it. Cook has done an excellent job as always—with the tools available, that is.
Preserved gliidberries are a dim shadow compared to the bright, tart flavor of the fresh fruit.
There are few things better than a sun-warmed gliidberry picked fresh on a summer’s day.
Gorging myself after hauling and herding are some of my fondest memories from childhood.
Like with so many other things, Ingrid doesn’t even realize what she’s missing.
She has no idea how vast and incredible Emerald’s beauty is.
She has no idea the depth of love and respect we have for our land.
And how could she without having seen it in its glory?
How can she be expected to adopt this land as her own when it’s in such a sorry state?
“Do you not like it?” Ingrid asks, frowning at my plate.
“I prefer fresh. They’re worth the wait for me.”
She studies me, her expression unreadable for a moment. Even spending more time together lately, Ingrid’s thoughts are as inscrutable as ever.
“I know we are all looking forward to spring,” she says. An innocent enough statement, but it brings an ache to my chest that steals half my breath. The same fear I have had since the first frost blooms anew: what if spring never comes?
What if the fields are never green again? The trees never bear another fruit?
She has to know it’s a possibility. She deserves to know.
“Ingrid, there’s something I need to explain about the reach.” Far more words than needed. None of them useful.
How am I going to do this?
How can I possibly bring myself to dim her sunbeam with the dark clouds of reality? Her hope has brought life back to the castle in ways I never anticipated. What will happen when that hope is shattered?
“Is it where to find the best gliidberries?” she teases, lightening my burden in her own way. But there’s only so much she can do. Only so far I can let her in.
“It’s about Crownwood.” I hate that my solemn answer wipes the smile from her face. I hate that I’m the reason for her sober expression when she was only moments ago lost in the pleasure of a good pastry.
“The castle?” she asks, cocking her head to one side.
“And the throne tree. It’s…” I make a sound of frustration, my thoughts all jumbled and tangled. “It would be simpler to explain there, I think.”
Ingrid’s confusion doesn’t change, nor does the tilt of her head, but she places her napkin next to her plate and pushes back from the table.
“Let’s go.”
It’s not the response I expected of her, but then again, nothing with my bride has been.
Even the castle is able to sense my urgency, routing us in a shortcut that empties into the throne room in a matter of minutes.
It shouldn’t be possible, but one of Crownwood’s powers is controlling who is able to roam its halls, and where those halls go.
It’s why our coup would have never been possible without Farandir’s sickness, and why I knew I was out of options when the Dealmaker’s fog brought him to my dais.
“I haven’t been in here since that night,” Ingrid says, looking around the massive space with her mouth open in wonder.
That night. The night of her Presentation.
When I abandoned her.
“I should never have left you to—”
“Stop,” she says, holding up a hand, the corners of her mouth quirking up. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here to apologize for being surprised by the Dealmaker’s trick.”
Now it’s my turn to stare in open-mouthed wonder.
“I— No, you’re right. Though an apology is still warranted.”
She shrugs, smirk firmly in place. “I’m still waiting on the ‘thank you’ for being your sicknurse.”
Gods, I have been an insufferable oaf.
“Thank you,” I say, closing the distance between us so that there can be no mistaking my sincerity. “For that and everything else you have done here. The castle—the reach—is better for having you in it.”
Ingrid’s eyes widen and the color drains from her face as she retreats a step.
Too close, I realize. Just because she doesn’t flinch at the sight of me doesn’t mean she wants to be physically near me.
“Wh-what was it you wanted to explain?” she asks, voice shaking. She’s turned away from me now, facing the throne tree, her arms wrapped around her sides.
Just like that, I’ve lost any ground gained with her. I curse myself, clenching and unclenching my fists before I answer.
“Crownwood is… That is, the throne—”
Ingrid’s taking one slow step after another toward the throne as I stumble over words. She tilts her head curiously, then with one halting hand, reaches out to touch one of the branches.
“It’s sick, isn’t it?” she asks. “That’s what you wanted to tell me.
No one’s come outright and told me, but I think I’ve got most of it.
The former king was terrible and didn’t take care of it properly, and now it’s up to us to fix his mess.
Am I close?” She looks back over her shoulder, the spark in her eyes daring me to contradict her.
“Not far,” I confirm, my heart still trapped in a clenched fist.
“Farandir wasn’t simply a terrible ruler, he was…sick. There is a rot that’s attacking Crownwood, choking the life out of it. Right now, we are doing everything we can to preserve what health it has in the hopes that it might recover, but…”
“That’s why you took the throne,” she says, a statement, not a question. “I asked Duke Calessevan, but he dodged answering.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say, fighting to keep a growl out of my voice. “His mate was humiliated when the infestation was discovered. The Emerald Blade couldn’t even realize her Sacred Grove was dying under her watch.”
“The duchess?” Ingrid asks with a gasp, her eyes unfocused like she’s replaying an earlier event. “That…actually explains a few things,” she says, dropping down into the throne like it’s any other chair.
My whole body tenses, instincts still making me feel like a naughty child loitering where he doesn’t belong. But I’m not. Neither is Ingrid.
In fact, she looks like she’s right where she belongs.
I sit on the edge of the dais at her feet, both of us gazing out into the distant dark at the far recesses of the room.
“The humiliation wasn’t hers to bear alone, though,” I say, shoulders bowed.
“There were hundreds of years of decline. Increasingly erratic behavior. Trade deals that made no sense. But the Wardens serve at the pleasure of the Crown. It wasn’t our place to question what he did.
We should have anyway. Illegal and immoral orders, turning us from a respected regiment to plundering marauders, robbing the countryside to stuff his coffers, which were always mysteriously empty…
” I sigh, dropping my head to my hands. It’s not something I’ve ever had to explain.
Everyone else knows what happened with Farandir. We all lived the nightmare together.
“That should have been the worst of it. That should have been enough for us to turn our arms against him.”
“Your loyalty isn’t a weakness,” Ingrid says from behind me. “It was misplaced, but it shouldn’t be discarded.”
She doesn’t know.
“We learned through our intelligence network that he was planning to swear fealty to the Shadow King.” No one outside Valenar and my other co-conspirators in the coup know about that final straw.
Tarnished as Farandir’s legacy is, it would do more harm to Emerald’s reputation if anyone realized how close we were to being a vassal state.
“Everyone knew he liked stem. It was a problem. No one realized how much of a problem it was. His demand for it was making the reach destitute, that we could tell, but no one realized it was poisoning us, too. Soulstem is invasive and toxic. Once it takes root, getting rid of it is near impossible.”
“Wait, the ‘stem’ the king was addicted to was soulstem?” Ingrid asks, her voice moving closer as she joins me sitting on the dais. “That’s what destroyed all the halemercy meadows, right?”
“More things you learned in your classroom?” I ask, arching a brow.
She shrugs. “Not exactly. More like I noticed how quickly my tutors like to change the subject when it’s brought up.”
“Mm,” I grunt. “It’s destroyed a lot more than some flowers now. We’ll be heroes if we’re able to stop it spreading into the other reaches, nevermind saving ourselves.”
“How are we supposed to…?” Her question trails off as she looks back toward the barren throne, her thigh brushing against mine when she turns.
I want nothing more than to wrap her in my arms, pull her against my chest, and forget all the things we’ve just talked about. Nothing sounds more appealing than her soft curves and sweet scent enveloping me.
“Valenar and I hoped a new king would help Crownwood find the strength to fight back. We never considered it would be so reluctant to accept the new king. The Dealmaker suggested it might also like a queen.”
Ingrid’s quiet for a long time, and I don’t dare look her way.
“Me?” she squeaks out finally, incredulous. “I’m supposed to be what fixes this?”
“In part,” I admit, only now realizing what an enormous burden that puts on her. “Emerald has never faced anything like this. What—if anything—can fix it, is anyone’s guess.”
“Well,” she says, some of her composure regained as she pulls herself up to her feet.
“I think the first thing you have to do is stop speaking about the problem as if you’ve already failed to solve it.
If nothing can fix this, then anything we do is inconsequential.
That possibility bears no weight in our choices because neither of us are content to be idly helpless.
So we only have to decide which course of action is most likely to yield results. ”
I look to my bride, standing above me with her hand extended, and my heart swells.
We.
Our.
Us.
Small words. Weightless in other contexts.
Solid enough to anchor me in this one. I’ve felt uprooted for so long, but when I take Ingrid’s offered hand, I’m not drifting anymore.
“What do you feel?” Ingrid asks.
“I— What?”
“Here,” she says, taking our hands to the throne and flattening her palm against the bark. “What do you feel?”
All I can think about is her. Her bronze eyes, her warm heart, her stability no matter the storm…
She’s waiting for me to give her an answer about the tree, though, not about how I’m falling for her.
I close my eyes, focusing on the feel of the smooth bark under my rough hand. It’s cold as ice, and I’m afraid if I grip too tight, it’ll splinter and shatter between my fingers.
“I don’t—”
“Shh,” Ingrid whispers. “There, deep down. Don’t you feel it?”
Faint, so weak I originally mistook it for my own pulse, I feel the power of the reach feeding the roots and the roots feeding the reach in turn. The flow should be a raging river, but it’s a slow trickle, nearly still enough to escape notice entirely.
“You do,” she says, convinced.
Her hand slides over the back of mine and my eyes open, every other part of me frozen in place.
“The reach hasn’t given up the fight yet,” she says, soft like she’s saying a prayer. “You shouldn’t either.”