Lugh leans over me, his eyes crinkled with worry and his lower lip swollen from how much he’s been chewing on it. I grunt and reach out for him, using him as a touchstone of
what I haven’t yet lost. He smiles and his fingers tangle with mine atop the blankets.
“Easy,” he warns. “You’ve been out for a while.”
We’re in my room. A fire’s going and Lugh’s wrapped me up to combat the chills rattling through me. There’s no sign of the Hunt; he must have sent them off once I was settled. He doesn’t release my hand, but he does reach to the nearby table to collect the waiting cup. I struggle to sit up and manage a few sips when he holds it to my lips. The sensation of cool water slipping down my throat cuts through the last of the memories and wets my mouth enough I can manage to croak out, “How long?”
He makes a face and sets the cup aside. “Almost a day. We weren’t sure when you were going to wake up, but after you started twitching in your sleep, I figured you’d finally started dreaming and I might be able to get you out of it.”
“Thank you.”
His thumb skims over my skin. “The village again?”
“Yes.”
My eyes burn. I blink a few times, but it does little to relieve the heated pressure. Not tears then. Exhaustion.
Lugh notices. “Go back to sleep,” he urges. “A lot’s happened already and we’ll be here for a while longer before Mother makes a decision.”
“Something happened?”
“Several somethings. I’ll tell you later. Right now, you need to sleep and get better.” He doesn’t pull his hand away to lean back in his chair. Instead, he scoots closer to the bed and settles in more comfortably. “I’ll stay here for now. If you start dreaming again, I’ll wake you up, okay?”
The blankets are soft, the fire is warm, and Lugh will be here when I wake up again. “Okay, Lugh,” I agree. “Okay.”
Chapter Four
Lugh
The ambush in the Wylds destroys any hope I had of our Hunt escaping the sídhe quickly. Days later, I’m sitting in Mother’s chambers, listening to her and Roark plan an invasion of the Summer Court. They’ve been at it for three hours and I’ve been a silent observer the entire time. All I have to show for my efforts is a cold cup of tea and a headache from keeping Mother’s shades out of my mind.
My efforts to share information about the lands surrounding the Seelie sídhe failed. Mother thanked me for the offer, then handed me a delicate bone china cup filled with fragrant tea and asked me to sit down and wait for her and Roark to finish with their discussion. Roark gave our Hunt’s detailed maps—with messy, scrawled notes in the margins—a cursory glance and dismissed them in favor of his clean, neatly organized columns and pages of notes he spends most afternoons writing and rewriting. Roark’s buried himself in his work, though I think it’s in an effort to distract himself. He’s running from something.
I learned from Cybel that Roark’s abrupt departure from the sídhe was the reason Mother cut our audience short, and Roark’s equally abrupt return and private audience with Mother after led to him moving back into the sídhe. He refuses to discuss his reasons for abandoning Mather’s. He refuses to talk to me about how I can help him better balance the resettled power of the Triumvirate; the only cryptic answer I’ve received is that I won’t need to worry about it after Samhain, and if I press him further, he’ll simply walk away.
I don’t know how to help him. All the times he helped me during our childhood—reading our lessons to me so I could understand, bringing my mundane interests into conversations at functions so I wasn’t left out, and helping me deal with nightmares before Keiran arrived and stepped in—weigh on my conscience, especially when I can’t help him with the war planning. He and Mother have found their equilibrium and attack all problems with the same furious intensity.
Which is why my sitting here is a waste of time. I could be back with Keiran and the Hunt, planning our first stops once we escape this place. I could be in the stables, brushing Liath and Dubh and checking that they’re being exercised regularly. Herne and the hunters, at this point I’d be willing to read and answer written missives from concerned fae if it meant I didn’t have to sit here, pretending to be invisible with my family. My tea’s long since gone cold and Mother hasn’t offered to refill my cup; she’s been too focused on Roark, who holds his injured shoulder with more care than he would if it were fully healed. With little else to do, I dip my fingertips into the cold brew and flick droplets toward the nearby fire while Roark and Mother murmur back and forth about strategies and the division of troops.
And then Roark says, “Without Sláine’s power to bolster our magick, we aren’t strong enough to march into the Summer Court,” and I’m suddenly interested again.
“Our numbers are that low even with the Hunt?” I ask. I can’t remember hearing the Sluagh warning about increased numbers of Seelie troops. The border towns nearest the sídhe may not be visited by Oberon’s people, but the Sluagh living there are still aware of any Seelie movements through the land. They’d have said something if a huge army were being raised.
“Even with the Hunt,” Roark confirms.
How many Seelie did we fight a few days ago on that failed rescue mission? There were only six of us, yet we took down an entire platoon... Keiran in bear form alone could have wiped out twice as many soldiers, though we’d have to plan for his retreat after using the belt’s power. “Did you count Keiran as two? He fights well enough.”
My brother gives me an irritated look. “He counts as one. If he dies it’s one casualty.”
If he dies. As if I needed another reminder of Keiran’s mortality. Why does he keep bringing up the grim reality of our future? If he thinks he’ll convince me to step away from the Hunt, from my best friend, he’s sorely mistaken.
Roark ignores my glare in favor of thanking Mother when she places a fresh cup of tea on the planning table. He’s lost to me again, so focused on his data he can’t begin to think outside the box. If we intend to win this war, he’ll have to start thinking creatively.
Mother claimed victory in the first Faerie Civil War with little more than guts and desperation. The Seelie had never faced attacks from a group who was more willing to die than live without freedom or respect any longer. The humiliating defeat and subsequent attention from the Pantheons as the Accords were created made them raise a greater army, guard their borders jealously, and refuse help to any fae not affiliated with their Court. The Unseelie Court is supposed to be different, but Mother is just as unwilling to recognize the untapped potential of all the fae living in the Wylds.
I’ve spent centuries living among the Sluagh, fighting to help them preserve their neutrality and avoid picking sides with either Court. I need to warn their thegn of the coming dangers, but he’ll want to know all the options before deciding on a course of action for his people. I can’t wait too long. If a second war breaks out, the Sluagh will become collateral damage again and could fall back into civil war. Though the seidhr is as much a symbol of the gods’ destruction as of their aid, I have no desire to watch the Sluagh suffer, or to lose my place if a new thegn rises to power. Surely I can coax some details about the war plans from Roark without arousing his suspicion.
“What are the numbers with the Sluagh?” I ask. Hopefully if he runs those calculations and thinks it could lead to our victory, he’ll say so.