Chapter 25
We creep through the forest toward an orange glow that shifts and bends the shadows.
Taliesin’s steps are near silent, stealth as effortless for him as violence.
The murmur of voices grows louder. Soon, other sounds join it: wagon wheels creaking, steel scraping whetstone, spoons clinking against bowls.
I glance up at Taliesin, frowning. What I first took for a small camp is something far grander. And when we finally catch a glimpse of it through the trees, my suspicion is confirmed.
It’s not just one fire. They are half a dozen, scattered amongst rows of tents that sprout from the ground like drooping weeds.
A few wagons lurk nearby. Two elven women with rosy cheeks and healer robes perch on a seat, legs dangling, laughter bright in their red-rimmed eyes.
They clink their mugs together and drink deep before leaning in, murmuring conspiratorially.
I scan the others gathered here. Most wear leathers engraved with the king’s symbol: a dragon head, tongue flicking from its open jaws. Weapons sit on their laps as they’re polished, sharpened, and cleaned. A bard stands on a stump at the center of it all, plucking a lute.
Not the Order, then. This is a war camp. But why are they here?
Taliesin leans closer and points. I follow his line of sight, my gaze landing on a man whose portrait I’ve studied a thousand times.
King Cadog is a towering, broad-shouldered elven figure with a long, thin nose and hair the color of the onyx tomb we left behind.
With eyes just as black, he surveys the camp from the open flap of his tent, dragon pin clasping the cloak at his throat.
Despite allying his court with the Order, he refuses to take their symbols for himself.
He lifts his hand, beckoning someone just out of sight. A moment later, Seren emerges from a nearby tent, then vanishes into his. Her hair flashes amber in the darkness.
I inhale sharply. What the fuck is she doing here?
To our left, a crack snaps through the trees. Two soldiers move through the undergrowth. One holds a bow while the other carries a sword. They scan the forest, relaxed but clearly on watch.
Taliesin’s mouth brushes my ear. “We should go.”
I nod. I don’t understand what’s happening here, but if we stay, we’ll soon be discovered. Taliesin’s magic might protect us, but this is not the Order, and there are too many innocents here. The healers, the bards, the cooks travelling with the king’s army…they don’t deserve a brutal end.
We slip back through the trees, retreating from the camp as quickly as we can without drawing attention. Even when we reach the path, we don’t speak. We keep moving, pace quickening, like we’re both ready to escape this forest, where everything feels warped and wrong.
I rack my brain. Seren said nothing about joining the king’s army.
It’s the kind of news she’d share, even with me.
The few times she’s left Caer Draen, it’s always been with ceremony.
An evening ball in her honor, the halls dressed in banners and flowers for weeks afterwards.
Her assignments have taken her south to the king before, but for feasts and councils. Not for the actual war camp.
Which begs another question. Why are the king and his army so far north?
They should be in the borderlands, fighting the Kingdom of Gelyn.
At last, we reach the end of the path, and the ruins spread before us, their hazy silhouettes etched across the dark sky. In the distance, a figure glides through the night on wings spread wide. A firebird.
A shout rings out as we approach, and the gates groan open. Rhian jogs toward us with the firelight haloing her from behind. The hour must be late, but she wears her leathers and her sword all the same.
Relief shudders across her face. “You came back.”
“Not with good news, I’m afraid,” Taliesin says.
Her lips press into a grim line. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“A chair, a fire, and a warm bowl of stew for the Swynwraig first,” he answers in a voice that brooks no argument.
“Done.” Rhian nods. “Come inside at once.”
With every step, my exhaustion settles deeper into my bones until it feels as though I’m trudging through mud. The gates slam hard behind us, and suddenly Gethin is there. He takes my pack without a word and presses a hot, damp cloth into my hands. I lift it to my face.
The moment it touches my skin, the world loosens. Soothing heat curls through me, melting the ache in my forehead, the hours spent on the road, and the gritty feel of dust and wind-battered skin. I close my eyes and sigh.
Stars…there’s little else that’s ever felt like this.
A chair appears behind me. Someone gently pushes on my shoulders, guiding me down, then replaces the cloth in my hands with a steaming bowl.
I vaguely take in the braided brown hair, the scent of flour.
Arianell. With a word of thanks, I shovel the warm, rich food into my mouth and nearly moan as the potatoes melt on my tongue.
Rhian paces beside the fire, arms crossed. The moment I’ve finished, the questions start.
“What happened out there?” she barks. “What did you find?”
I look around. Taliesin sits across the fire, his eyes locked on me. He arches his brow, then dips his chin, as if to say, go on.
But where do I begin? From the empty tomb to the rogues, to the king’s army hidden in the forest…it feels like we’ve had enough discoveries to last a year.
So I start slowly—haltingly. Rhian balks when I describe the ruined sarcophagus, then turns thoughtful when I mention the empty depression in the wall. When I reach the rogues, Gethin and Brioc suddenly appear, along with another I’ve yet to meet.
She towers over the others, standing at least a head taller than any elf I’ve ever seen.
Her sleek brown hair is wound into a low knot at her nape, amplifying the severity of her hawkish features.
A rich green tunic hangs to mid-thigh, swirls of golden thread embroidered along the hem, and loose linen trousers flutter around her legs.
She carries a bow and quiver of arrows on her back, and something about the way she carries herself tells me her aim is near perfect.
“This is Gwenydd,” Rhian says, introducing the newcomer. “She’s our best scout and knows the rogues well. The wounds they inflict are sometimes…”
“Like wild animals,” Gwenydd answers in a voice that sounds like the murmur of water over stones. Her eyes sharpen on my face. “How many did you see?”
“Dozens. Maybe a hundred. They seemed—”
“Driven by a reckless rage,” Gwenydd finishes. “I’m assuming you know little of them.”
“All I know is what the High Swynwragedd have told me. That they were once members of the Order before they deserted.” I exchange an uneasy glance with Taliesin. “They rip out their talismans…among other things.”
Gwenydd laces her fingers together, nodding “You’re partially right. They do desert, but for a reason. Have you ever heard of the Order’s experiments?”
Heat crawls up the tips of my ears. I swallow once, then twice, hopelessly trying to steady the rapid beat of my heart. I incline my head, afraid that if I speak, the truth will spill out. That I don’t just know about the Order’s experiments but that they’re the reason I’m here.
I haven’t told Taliesin yet, and right now seems the worst possible moment for him to hear it—here, in front of all these strangers who fear him enough to trap his head in iron.
Rhian looks surprised. “You know about the experiments? And yet you’ve still worked for the Order all these years?”
I wince, dropping my gaze. “I didn’t like it, but what was I to do? They said they were necessary to save our sky.”
“And do you know what happens to those they experiment on?” Gwenydd asks, her voice hard. “They turn into rogues, lost and broken. Driven to rage. Hungry for flesh. No longer the person they once were, all because the Order pried apart their minds until they could no longer take it.”
I suck in a sharp breath. I did know the Order experimented, but I always thought they reserved that kind of punishment for the enemy—the rebels we caught. Have I felt guilt for it? Yes, but I let Seren and Lowri convince me their means were justified by the aims for a better world for all of us.
I see now how wrong I was. About all of it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish I’d done something to stop them.”
“The Order is the enemy. Not her,” Taliesin speaks up. “They’ve played with her mind as much as the rogues, and I won’t have you blame her for their actions.”
Gethin steps between me, Rhian, and Gwenydd. “He’s right. None of this is her fault, least of all what the Order did to the rogues.”
Gwenydd’s severe eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue.
Taliesin folds his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Now do you want to hear what else we found or not?”
He continues with our discoveries, filling the rebels in on the king’s war camp. I sag against the chair, grateful for the steady tenor of his voice and the break from their attention. But the guilt lingers, angering the wound that was torn open when I walked into that ring of sticks…
What was that even about? Why was I so upset? I can hardly remember now.
The meeting soon ends, and Gethin helps me from my seat. His smile is gentle when he says, “You should get some sleep. We’ll have a planning session in the morning.”
“I’m not so sure I’ll be invited to join.”
“Because of Gwenydd?” He glances over his shoulder, where she and Rhian stand closely together, murmuring. “Don’t worry about her. That’s just how she is.”
I give him a weak smile. “I understand why she’d blame me. Don’t you?”
“They lied to you.” He tightens his grip on my arm.
“Now I need you to listen carefully. The Order wants you to blame yourself. They want you to doubt your place outside their control. Because when you doubt and you blame, you’re more likely to end up in their grasp again.
And I can tell by the look on your face, the last thing you want is give up.
To let them win.” His voice drops into a fierce whisper.
“Don’t let them win, Angharad. You are stronger than you think. ”
My heart pounds. I barely know this man, but even so, I find myself flinging my arms around his neck and hugging him like he’s a long-lost friend I haven’t seen in years. He grunts in surprise, but then his arms come around me. Gentle yet firm, he holds me close.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his ear.
He nods and pulls back. “May the gods never be forgotten.”
I cock my head. It’s a twist on the Order’s words. May the stars never be forgotten. I’ve never heard anyone say it differently before, but I suppose the rebels would like to have as little in common with the Order as possible.
Brioc and Meurig escort us to the tower before taking up their positions at the foot of the stairs. I don’t question it as I pass. I’m far too tired to care if the rebels still insist on assigning guards to watch us.
On the landing, Taliesin and I hesitate outside his door. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t find the words. I should tell him why I came. He deserves to know, even though he already guessed parts of it.
But after everything that’s happened today, I can’t bear the thought of shattering the brief peace between us.
Our fragile, tender alliance. He’ll hate me again if he knows it all.
I came to kill him, to resurrect him, and turn him into another experiment for the Order.
I shudder involuntarily, hating myself a little despite what Gethin said.
And so when Taliesin stands before me in the corridor, concern in his eyes, and asks, “Is there something on your mind, Swynwraig?”
I smile and answer, “No, I’m just tired. It’s been one long fucking day.”
“You want to talk about any of it?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. Not right now.” I back away to my own door, a little more of a saunter to my steps than I intend. “But maybe I’ll see you in your dreams.”
His lips curl. “If I’m lucky.”