Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
THE ARROWS
B astian sat at the hand-hewn table and listened.
Sage filled her second in on everything that had transpired with Gideon. From his unexpected arrival in her chamber and his sick surprise with the Prince of Gerra, to their former comrade’s capture. She explained Calian’s plans for injecting his people. And Windsong’s preparation for war.
Bastian watched as Wilkes processed all of it. And then he related his encounter with Gideon.
Gideon had intercepted Wilkes on the beach and told him his service was no longer required. When her second stood his ground, insisting he would only take those orders from his queen, Gideon promised to disclose their compound’s whereabouts to Calian. The rebels would have Windsong on their doorsteps come morning, if Wilkes did not stand down.
The male sitting across from Bastian had not faked relief at Sage’s arrival. He could not hide his weighted shame at heeding Gideon’s threat either. But there was a steadiness to the male, a pragmatic and diplomatic underlay to the warrior. Valuable assets in service to a queen .
Bastian studied her, scribbling down a message, her long braid caressing the oak table top with each stroke of her pen. He should have been shocked when she told him who she really was. Dismayed that the female Gideon had dragged into that ballroom was an impostor.
Astounded, dumbstruck, impressed–any adjective would do–as to how they’d pulled off such a deception. For so long.
He should have more questions.
And he did. Bastian had lots of questions he wanted answers to. But none stemmed from doubt or self-preservation. Not a single thing he needed to know came from a question about who she was.
His ring sat cold against his skin.
The one question for which he did have an answer: he couldn’t risk calling in his family. Not with the possibility of them entering here, caught unaware. It wasn’t safe until he knew for certain what alliances remained in this realm. Clearly not Windsong. But he couldn’t be sure of Hornhall at this point, either.
Sage finished what she’d been writing and picked up a knife. As Bastian watched, she pricked her finger, and a ruby droplet formed on the ivory tip.
The scent hit him like a lightning strike; the forest after a gentle rain, snow before the fall, an ocean breeze ahead of a storm… and her …
With it came a demand that surged up from a long quiet and dangerous place within him.
He suppressed it and looked out the window. It had been too long since he’d fed. That’s all this was. He just needed to regain his strength. Soon!
The drop of blood made contact with the paper, a dulled plink, then the faint crinkle of absorption. A personal insignia . He could practically see the veins spreading out from the impact, seeping into the porous material.
Bastian bit into his knuckle.
Sage stilled .
She folded the missive. “Put scouts on Spade’s territory,” she instructed. “If it’s determined safe, have Lark place this directly in Zeke’s hand. Get our fastest aerial shifters positioned on routes to Hornhall and Windsong. I want you updated regarding both kingdoms every eight hours. Dispatch the cadre to search for Eirik LaGoryen.”
Bastian looked back in time to see her hand Wilkes a second letter. “And send Kier to Earth, specifically Castello Albornoz. With this message for the Fire King. It details everything we know so far.”
Wilkes opened his mouth, hesitation written on his face.
Sage shook her head, as if she already suspected his objections. “I need you at Arrowren, overseeing all of this.” A pause. “Until I get there.”
Wilkes did protest now. “Until? You should be there now!”
“There is something I need to do here first.” She ignored the objection. Bastian had seen generals beaten senseless, and worse, for questioning direct orders. Sage stood, quietly signaling the conversation was over. “If I’m not there by midnight tomorrow–”
“I know where to find you.” Wilkes pushed back his chair, scraping the legs against the wide planks of the floor. He turned for the cottage’s back door.
At the threshold, he slowed and glanced back. “So help the gods,” the male warned, gaze pinning Bastian. “…you better be worth it.”
He was gone, banging the weather-beaten door in his wake.
“He seems… disciplined ,” Bastian supplied.
“Very.” Sage’s shoulders relaxed. “And more my family than my subordinate,” she explained, taking a seat across from him. “The majority of my court is young. We raised each other.”
“How old were you?” he dared ask, not entirely sure he wanted the answer. “When Arrowren fell?”
“Ten.” She focused on the tabletop. “Gideon was at least a century old at the time, and my only surviving blood-kin. He established himself at Woodlock castle, his family home, in the battle’s aftermath. It was the only stronghold still intact after the siege. I journeyed there to find him in the weeks that followed.”
A muscle in his neck tightened. She found him. Her adult cousin.
He forced his face to remain neutral. “How did you escape?”
“With the help of my friends.” She traced a swirling pattern in the wood with her ring finger. “We hid in the mountains until the soldiers cleared out.” Her voice grew distant. “I wanted to stay with them, but Gideon insisted I reside at Woodlock with him. Where he could oversee my training. Which, of course, made sense. We were only–”
“Children…” Bastian didn’t hide his disgust this time.
“And two servants,” she amended, as if it lessened the atrocity. “They stayed on, looking after them as best they could. But they were not equipped for that sort of life, either.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, suppressing the urge to flip it. “Is that when your cousin made you sign the bargain?”
A slight nod. “I agreed to his terms, and he provided me an allowance. With it, I purchased provisions to take back to Arrowren. I showed them what I was learning from my tutors and training at Woodlock, and they taught me what they had figured out on their own. Eventually, neighboring villagers took pity and offered up various instructions; everything from bread-making to trapping and woodwork.”
“No one suspected?”
Sage sighed. “Not for the first few years. But over time, others started to whisper about the children that lived in and around the abandoned castle. The second bargain between Gideon and myself was struck when I turned fifteen.”
Bastian tensed. “The second bargain?”
“He would permit me to return to Arrowren, and use his magic to cloak it from view, shielding my friends from outsiders. In return, I vowed to never rise against him.”
“But they call you their queen.” He would contemplate later the insane degree of magic her cousin must possess to conceal an entire castle and its surrounding territory.
“In name, yes. But in power”—her eyes met his—“I can never supplant him.”
“I don’t understand. If others recognize you as their rightful queen…”
“She can do nothing that he doesn’t consent to.” An aged voice, light as dandelion seeds and nuanced as the wind, answered from the front door.
In the time it took for his heart to beat twice, Bastian was on his feet, sword in hand.
The haggard old woman didn’t flinch. “Gideon has positioned himself as her keeper. For eternity.” She patted the air, as if petting a large invisible dog. “At ease, Your Highness. I’m not going to chop you up and add you to the stew.”
She hobbled past, sliding her milk-gray eyes over him. “Though, I bet you’d be tasty.” She stopped at Sage’s chair and placed a kiss atop her head. “Hello, dear. Are you hungry?”
Sage smiled. “Starving!”
“Good.” The old woman placed a basket of vegetables and herbs on the table and faced the cold hearth. With a flick of her wrist, it came to life, crackling and warm. Another hand gesture in the general direction and a cast iron pot suspended over the fire was set to boil.
She eased into a chair beside Sage, bones grinding, and gave Bastian the once over again. “You certainly are as pretty as they claim.” A bony elbow nudged Sage in the ribs, a grin stretching the wrinkles that lined her mouth. “Is the other one as comely?”
Slight color rose in Sage’s cheeks. She looked at Bastian, a telling smirk on her own lips. “Both are easy on the eyes.”
Never one to be lulled into comfort by disarming conversation or beguiling appearance, Bastian slowly sheathed his sword. Some of the most efficient killers came in pint-sized packages. But he trusted the affection between the two females .
Even if one of them could likely turn him into a toad if she were inclined.
As if she had read his mind, the old woman said, “Anyone the Queen of Arrowren deems a friend will come to no harm in my humble abode, Prince.”
He slowly settled back into his seat. Sage made introductions. “This is Bastian LaGoryen, as you have correctly guessed.” She smiled warmly at the elderly fae and continued, “And this is the Arch Sorceress of Ventus, Selene.”
Selene offered him a toothy smile. “Pleased to meet you, Your Highness.”
Bastian inclined his head. “Likewise.”
When his gaze again lifted, the sorceress’s sights were fixed intently on his forehead. “Very interesting…” she mused, more to herself than them.
Bastian knew his arched brow mirrored Sage’s, as they both focused on the old fae. “How long have you suspected, Your Highness?” Selene asked.
“Suspected what?” Bastian resisted the urge to touch his forehead.
The sorceress’s gaze lowered to meet his, an element of caution now residing in her wise gray eyes. “That the Crown of the Chosen sits on your head.”
S everal competing emotions raced across Bastian’s face. Shock, denial, guilt…
Then his sapphire-colored eyes snapped from Selene to Sage. “Did you bring me here for this…” His voice was sharp, full of storms. “… deception? ”
Sage felt each word exactly as he’d intended them. To wound. To push her away, as he had done in her room at Windsong.
She held his gaze, not backing down. “You know I did not. ”
His nostrils flared, but he didn’t respond, shifting his anger to Selene. “Who told you such lies?”
The sorceress merely manifested an ornately sculpted bronze hand mirror. “See for yourself.” She placed it on the tabletop face down. “It is a looking glass of truth. It cannot tell a lie. It only reveals what the eyes are blind to.”
He stared at the enchanted mirror. “Prophesy?”
“It’s not a predictor, Your Highness,” Selene said carefully. “It is an honest reflection of one’s true self. Do not gaze into it if you are not ready to accept what it shows you.”
Bastian balked. “Why not?”
“If the observer is not able to embrace what they see. If they look upon themselves with fear or doubt,” she explained, “they could alter their charted course.”
“I could change my future?”
The sorceress replied, “And that of everyone you know. For better, or worse.”
“Why would you offer me such a device?” he asked, not an ounce of condemnation in the question. Just a direct need for understanding.
The old fae’s next words were soft, kind. “Because Bastian LaGoryen, you won’t risk the ones you love.”
Throat muscles working as he swallowed, Bastian lowered his gaze to the mirror on the table. Slowly, as if reaching for a coiled viper, he picked it up. With the attention to detail that would make an art dealer proud, he inspected every inch of the backing design and the handle. Then turned it over in his hand.
His face yielded nothing as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Stared into it with the preternatural stillness only a vampire could achieve.
The environment around them seemed to take a collective breath. Even the pot of boiling water in the hearth quieted its bubbling .
Then Bastian took a deep, shuddering breath, and placed the looking glass back on the table.
Sage waited. All four realms with her. Waited as his eyes lifted.
There, amongst an undulating sea of depthless blue–blazed a fire.
Those piercing eyes focused on Selene. “Who else can see this?”
“Oracles. The gods.” She looked at his left hand, the band of metal on his finger. “Any other sorceress who has contained your blood within a ring.” Bastian’s eyes widened. Selene’s lips curled. “Let me guess, Stefen told you a mere witch forged it?”
He glanced at his hand, fingers flexing. “Sounds like you know him well.”
Selene smiled. “The archangel and I go way back.”
“ Former archangel,” Bastian corrected, protectiveness lacing his words.
“Stripping someone of a title doesn’t make them less than what they were born to be,” she countered. “Stefen Von Emmerich is one of the noblest archangels to ever grace Anu, blessed in more ways than most of us. A bunch of grumpy old council members can’t change that. Just as they couldn’t influence the wings of gold he now possesses.”
Considering the Chosen One, she added, “Same as no one can alter your destiny—except for you.”
She braced both withered hands on the table and pushed to her feet. “Now, let’s get you out of this magic contract. You’ll need every ounce of your power for what’s to come next.”