50. TO THE HIGHLANDS
Morning came, and The Keep was bustling with movement.
Breakfast pastries and steaming cups of coffee were enjoyed in abundance as we all congregated and solidified our plans for the next few days.
Even Wrynn, Maeson’s beloved fox, was leaping across the furniture, playing a game of chase with Sorscha, who’d taken a particular liking to the energetic animal.
Morah and Fallon were leaving for Benmoor to finalize the takeover that had been enacted in their name.
They would secure the palace, deal with Ferhan, and crown Fallon as the new High Lord.
Aremis and Maeson would go with them to stand in place of Niall and me, in a show of full support from Calledan.
As for where the rest of us would be in the meantime, that would involve a much damper climate, lots of ale, and creatures I’d never seen before.
We were heading to Vahrenhall.
After we’d vacated our own party last night, Vanir had left a note with Aremis, instructing that those of us coming to his territory bring something festive to wear. We weren’t exactly sure what that meant, but I’d packed a few options that seemed fitting.
The topic of discussion had shifted to our travels, when, in unison, Remic and Silas turned their attention on the main doors to the patio. Niall’s head lifted next, noting something I couldn’t sense.
A moment later, a knock on the large double doors sounded, and Niall waved a hand to open them. To my surprise, Gareth entered.
“Just in time,” Niall casually said, as if it were one of the Trium entering the room instead of the Woodland Court’s tailor.
“I would have been here earlier, but things took a little longer than I’d planned for.” He noted my puzzled stare, and inclined his head to me. “Hello again.”
Niall glanced in my direction, then released a soft laugh. “You have a knack for impeccable timing, Folquin.”
Folq—Folquin?
Before my eyes, the tailor’s body shifted with a brief flash of light, and my mouth fell open as I beheld the familiar face and stature of the messenger I’d come to know.
Niall grinned. “He did tell you he was a shifter.”
“Yes, but he never said he was Gareth! And neither did you!” I exclaimed.
“You were going to find out eventually.”
I stared at Folquin, noting his changed features, his brassy hair, and . . . the ink quill he pulled from the pocket of what had just been Gareth’s robes.
That damned ink quill! I’d missed the small tale-tell sign before.
He’d possessed it in both his forms. Perhaps that was the thing that anchored him to himself and reminded him of who he really was.
I imagined it would be quite difficult after a while, to remember who you truly were when you lived your life taking on the forms of others.
“Congratulations on your bonding,” Folquin said. “I was very disappointed to have missed the ceremony, but I had to ensure things in Benmoor went smoothly.”
“Thank you.” Niall nodded. “I’m assuming all went well?”
“The palace is secure, Ferhan is in chains, and the rest of Ramil’s loyalists either surrendered or fought to the death.
Zofia’s father and a few other trusted generals have enacted a temporary council to delegate the restructure of the court’s inner workings and weed out anyone who might still hold allegiance to Ramil’s ideologies and agendas. ”
“Good.”
Morah led Fallon over to where we were standing. “Thank you for all you’ve done,” she said, placing a hand on Folquin’s arm.
“There needs to be a crowning before the war,” the spy insisted, tipping his head toward Fallon.
“He received the last of his treatments early this morning. We leave for Benmoor shortly, and he’ll be crowned within a few days,” she assured him.
He nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
Indeed, it was. Fallon had achieved a recovery that seemed nearly impossible. And now, he would take his rightful place on Benmoor’s throne.
I smiled at the new High Lord. Although he couldn’t see it, I was almost positive he could somehow feel it.
“You did well,” Niall told Folquin. “And you caught us just in time too. We’re about to leave for the highlands.”
“Oh, yes. That reminds me . . .” Folquin snapped his fingers, and a garment bag appeared on the table. “As requested. I had some extra bolts of leather lying around, so these should do nicely for the trip.”
I took the liberty of leaning forward and unzipping the bag, finding several pairs of jackets, pants, even some finely embroidered tunics, all emblazoned with Calledan-gold stitching.
“For the Dionachs you spoke of in your missive,” Folquin explained, lifting his eyes to the two winged figures in the room.
I looked at Niall for confirmation of what he meant.
“Seeing as how Silas doesn’t have much in his arsenal besides everyday leathers .
. . and Remic”—he tossed a pointed look in Remic’s direction—“has a bad habit of purging anything that he can’t wear on a weekly basis, I sent a message late last night to see if something could be made for them.
” He turned back to Folquin and grinned.
“Though I wasn’t expecting such a selection, given the short notice. ”
“A ridiculously short notice if I may say so,” Folquin said, laughing.
He gestured for me to lift the fabric from the bag.
“The jackets are woven much like your first Lumeri dress was. The wearer simply needs to command the garment and it will fit itself to their exact anatomy—wings and all.” He gave me a wink.
Silas and Remic shifted closer as I laid the pieces of clothing out on the table for their viewing.
“You truly are a master at your craft,” Niall said.
“One of my many talents.” He bowed. “Enjoy yourselves in Vahrenhall.”
“The highlands are always a good time,” Roirdan said, clapping Remic on his back as he, too, leaned over the table and surveyed the new articles of clothing. “And for once, everyone will be in style.”
Remic rolled his eyes and shrugged the commander’s arm off his shoulder, then nodded at Folquin in what I assumed was his own gesture of thanks.
Folquin nodded toward the bag once more. “There is something for the lady as well.” He flicked his gaze over to Nivelle, who sat, sipping her cup of tea, looking completely content to not be included in this conversation.
When she became aware of everyone’s stare, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What?” she asked over the rim of her mug.
I reached under the hefty leathers and unfolded a slender, black dress with a thin trimming of gray fur along the bottom hem.
“I believe this is for you,” I said as I walked over and placed it in her lap.
She stared down at it, and a blush crept over her cheeks as her fingers touched the fabric and stroked the fur. Her mouth opened, then closed, further confirming my theory that the words “thank you” were not part of the common tongue for witches.
“Thank you, Folquin,” I said rather pointedly on Nivelle’s behalf.
“Shall we prepare to make the journey then?” Niall asked, coming to my side and planting a kiss on my temple.
“Ugh.” Roirdan rolled his eyes. “Can you save the mushy stuff for your private bedchambers?”
Niall lifted his head. “No,” he drew out the word. “I quite prefer to love on my mate whenever and wherever I choose. If you don’t want to see it, avert your eyes.”
“You’re one to talk, Roir,” Aremis chimed in. “I, for one, have lost count of the number of females I’ve witnessed you showing certain affections to in public.”
The commander clenched his jaw, but smiled through it as he placed his fists on the table in front of him. “Thanks, Aremis.”
“Anytime,” he replied with a sarcastic smile of his own.
When I glanced around, I caught Nivelle staring up through her lashes at the commander’s back, and I couldn’t decide if she looked like she was contemplating his death, or fighting some other sort of urge.
Interesting.
The awkward silence was enough to prompt Morah and Fallon into their goodbyes, with Morah promising to return with Aremis and Maeson in a few days—once they’d secured the throne and her brother had taken his place as heir.
When Maeson linked her arm in Aremis’s, I tossed her a cheeky grin that she quickly gave me a reprimanding look for. And then, they were off.
Niall tugged Folquin to the side, sliding an arm around his shoulder as he spoke low and led him to the front door. When he finished, Folquin nodded sternly, then vanished.
The five of us who remained waited for an explanation as Niall joined our group again.
“He’s going to be making a trip to Salterra while we’re gone.”
Roirdan stiffened. “You sure that’s a good idea? Last time he was there, Lyceius manifested. Even shifters run out of luck eventually.”
“It’s the best chance we’ve got at getting an inside look at what’s going on. And we need eyes on Skadi.”
None of us objected further. It was necessary.
Risky. But necessary.
“He’ll be fine,” Niall said, his voice a little too deep for reassurance.
He gathered the pile of new clothes and slid them into his pocket in space, then reached his arms out.
“Now, the highlands await. And I’m more than curious to see how the two of you take to them. ” He nodded toward Silas and Nivelle.
“Why is that?” Silas asked.
“You’ll see.”
We all clasped onto Niall’s arms, and ported.
Vahrenhall always smelled like earth and rain. The balmy mid-morning air was thick with a humidity that Calledan didn’t have, and as always, the sky looked like it would open up at any moment and unleash its deluge.
The stone arch at which we arrived garnered Silas and Nivelle’s attention straight away. The witch’s brows pinched, recognizing the symbols carved into the gateway. She glanced back at Niall, then touched a hand to the stone. “These markings . . .”
“Are the Old language,” Niall said. “Vahrenhall has very close ties to your kind. It was in this territory that your goddess descended, and it was here that your ancestors dwelled with ours for a time.”