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The first letter comes amidst a sheaf of other papers, nearly forgotten in the growing clutter on Dorian’s desk. The green wax seal bears Terrassen’s stag, but the looping, elegant script of the address isn’t Aelin’s and it’s not marked as time-sensitive, so Dorian passes it off for more urgent matters.
He remembers it days later when a different missive from Terrassen finds its way to him. He opens the missive first, then the letter, quickly realizing that the unfamiliar handwriting must be Rowan’s. The letter itself is from both royals, however, and it’s long.
Majesties Dorian II Havilliard and Yaiya Ra’Kokum,
Aelin asked that I begin this letter with “His Magnanimous Holiness Dorian Havilliard.” I politely refused.
Dorian feels his lips quirk upwards. Abed next to him, Yaiya’s dark gaze slides from the pages of her book to eye him with curiosity. “Aelin,” is all he says in response, and she nods, returning her attention to her novel without another word.
The first half is simply personal matters, old friends spending time in the inky scrawl of each others’ letters because they’re far too busy to see each other more than a handful of times in a decade. Admittedly, they don’t write as often as they used to, making their sporadic correspondence all the more verbose as they catch each other up on months of their lives rather than weeks.
We don’t just write to inquire about your well-being or bore you with the daily drama of our lives, reads Rowan’s perfectly-inked cursive. We have a proposal for you; one of marriage, not politics, though in our world those are really one and the same. Our second-eldest, Aevanna, recently celebrated her 19th nameday… just weeks short of your eldest child’s, as fate would have it.
Relations between Terrassen and Adarlan are peaceful and we intend to keep them that way. Neither of us has any wish to see harm come to your kingdom or your family, all of whom have suffered greatly in the wake of your father’s reign, but peace can be fragile. Marriage once united the Galathynius and Havilliard lineages, their shared bloodline maintaining accord between kingdoms from the time of Adarlan’s creation until less than a half-century ago. The altar is not the only place from which strained relations can be mended, but it has proven one of the most resilient.
We are sure you can guess where our thoughts are going, but for the sake of clarity: We, Majesties Aelin Ashryver Galathynius and Rowan Whitehorn of Terrassen, propose a marriage between Princess Aevanna Galathynius and Crown Prince Gavin IV Havilliard.
It is a matter we don’t take lightly, and have discussed it at length with Aevanna — please take time to do the same with your own family and councillors. The unification of our Houses will be glorious.
At the very bottom, in a barely-neat scrawl, Aelin puts in a final word of her own.
…Do give Yaiya our best regards, and tell her we miss those skilled musician’s hands when the long northern nights grow quiet.
Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, High Queen
Rowan Whitehorn Galathynius, King Consort
Dorian puts the letter down and rubs at his eyes as though he can scrub everything he’s read from his mind, fruitless hopes for a calm night’s sleep shattered by a page’s worth of words.
Yaiya closes her novel around her thumb as she looks over, but something in his face makes her abandon it all together. She tosses the book to the foot of the bed where it lands nestled in the thick blue quilt. “I have never seen a friend’s words trouble you so, Dorian, not in a long while.”
Instead of answering immediately he reaches for her hand, linking his fingers between her own and admiring the way the low light from the braziers plays off the gold band around her wrist: Melisandi wedding tradition to match the gold ring on his own left hand. Two stones of Havilliard crimson are now set into the band with two decades of marriage behind them.
Their own marriage, now full of love, was once one of politics and peace, Yaiya being the eldest surviving daughter of the Ra’Kokum royal family. In the wake of Adarlan’s brutal conquest Dorian had felt the need to mend relations among the kingdoms of the former empire, but the Ytger family of Eyllwe had only a young son who survived the slaughter. Melisand was the obvious choice, and its own amicable relationship with its eastern neighbor meant Eyllwe was still brought into the fold despite their political isolation from the rest of the continent.
“They want a marriage,” Dorian says slowly, careful to keep his tone neutral. He doesn’t want Yaiya’s opinion to be influenced by his own, though gods know she’s too headstrong for that.
“Gavin and Aevanna,” she surmises, equally as neutral, and a small furrow appears upon her brow. Dorian nods, holding out the letter for her to read, but she waves it away. “Did they make any demands?”
“No, nothing. They simply want unification and assurances of peace.”
It’s far from an unreasonable ask, especially given Adarlan’s bloody recent history, and there’s certainly historical precedent for a Galathynius-Havilliard union… involving Gavin’s namesake, no less, though that love story met a tragic, abrupt end with Elena’s sacrifice to seal Erawan away. With the Valg king dead, Dorian’s concerns lie less in dark magic dealings as they do in political matters.
While the Lock may have stripped a substantial piece of his magic away, the potential for such power lingers in his blood, and the Ra’Kokum royals possess magic of their own. Mostly latent, Yaiya is the first in generations to hold substantial control over her abilities, though it’s a closely guarded secret among the family.
Two magically-gifted royal bloodlines whose origins predate Erilea’s monarchies, two strains of magic so drastically different that they could cancel each other out… or create a mix so volatile that it would be impossible to wield. Two legacies that stand to be subsumed by the cleansing fire of Mala’s bloodline.
For all their strength, for all the might of Melisand and Adarlan combined, they are still human. Mortal. Gavin could retain control of Adarlan’s throne for decades, but death is inevitable, and then what? By law, Gavin’s spouse would have the rightful claim to Adarlan’s throne. Marriage to Aevanna means placing Adarlan in Galathynius hands for centuries ; millennia, even, if he knows anything about the Fae’s long lives. His son and daughter, their sons and daughters, all the way down the line…how many generations of Havilliard and Ra’Kokum royals would live and die while the same two immortal queens lorded over the top half of the continent
Dorian can feel his magic rising in response to the turmoil in his head but Yaiya’s grip on his hand only tightens, warm and soft, and his magic soothes in response. She always has such an effect, though he’s never quite sure how much of it is her calming presence versus her power, that formidable ability to sense and smother others’ magic as effectively as iron.
“You are uncomfortable with the prospect of marriage,” she says, not a question so much as a statement.
Dorian nods, keeping his gaze on their interlocked hands where his own pale skin practically glows against her deep complexion. “It’s not marriage as a whole that I oppose,” he says, “But this particular one.”
Yaiya is silent for long enough that he wonders if she’s finding a tactful way to disagree. “I feel much the same,” she finally says, and he almost lets out a long, relieved breath. “I don’t like the idea of putting such an immortal on our family’s throne.” She smoothes one thumb over his wedding band with a thoughtful frown, pausing with a lungful of air that tells him she has more to say. “You know as well as I who the final decision must rest with, however. He’s a grown man, Dorian, and it will be his kingdom one day.”
Aye, it will, and Yaiya is right as always. “I’ll bring the letter to him tomorrow.”
Gavin is finally making progress, pushing his sparring partner back step-by-step before the man abruptly lowers his sword. “Excuse me, Majesty” he says with a curt bow, then he’s turning on his heel with military precision and walking away before Gavin can get a word in edgewise.
“Lieutenant—”
“Let him go. We should speak in private.”
Whirling, Gavin finds his father behind him. He’d snuck up, still lithe and graceful as a jungle cat even as the years pass him by. Though Gavin stands almost a head taller than him (with his mother’s impressive height to thank for that), he’d never quite mastered the same physicality or penchant for swordplay that seems to come so naturally to his sister P’lia.
Intrigued but patient enough not to badger, Gavin follows Father to his study without a word. He takes the proffered letter and reads it in pensive silence, absorbing the contents with growing curiosity.
“What did you decide?” he asks at last, setting the paper down on the desk with care. He’s…neutral on the matter, he supposes. He doesn’t know Aevanna very well, but she inherited more of her mother’s humor than her father’s grave seriousness, and the few times they’ve met, they got along well enough.
“We decided to leave the choice with you.”
Unable to help the way his eyes fly wide, Gavin gapes. “What? You and mother don’t want a say in the matter?”
“We’ve formed our own opinions.” His father leans forward onto his elbows, fingers steepled in front of his face. “Ultimately, this is your marriage, and it will be your kingdom one day. It’s long past time you had a real say in its future.”
That is how Gavin ends up on his back atop his covers, whiling away the long hours of the night while his gaze stays fixed on the red velvet canopy of his bed. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lift a single limb even as the pink light of dawn begins to creep through the gap in the curtains.
The advantage of such a union is obvious — lasting peace between Adarlan and Terrassen. And yet, the longer he thinks, the more he wonders why it is necessary. After all, Aelin Galathynius will rule Terrassen for centuries to come. She and Rowan are loyal to Dorian in a way that extends beyond politics: they’re friends, bonded by genuine love and shared hardship, and in a world where Gavin’s grandfather never tried to subjugate the continent, they might have even been betrothed.
To ensure peace via marriage…Does she truly not trust Adarlan not to turn on their northern neighbors again, or is she just being overly cautious? If she doesn’t believe in Adarlan’s benevolence, what lengths might she go in order to secure peace? Even more disturbing… Does her own loyalty to the Havilliard line extend beyond Dorian, or will his death ring in a new era of tension between the kingdoms?
In the wan light of dawn Gavin finally rolls out of bed, eyes sticky with sleeplessness. He beelines for his desk, not even bothering to light a candle as he writes, scribbles out, throws out the paper and tries again and again until his stomach is growling, the sun’s fully risen, and he has a letter he feels comfortable sending.
Uncle Chaol,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to exchange pleasantries, as I bring to your attention a matter of grave importance. We have received a letter from Aelin inquiring about a marriage between myself and Aevanna Galathynius.
The benefit such a marriage would reap is obvious: the peaceful, long-term unification of Houses Havilliard and Galathynius. However, I have some concerns. I know Aelin is your friend, and it’s because of this fact, with a heavy heart, that I must ask you to consider her true motives.
If I agree to this marriage, could the near-unlimited power of the Galathynius line mean the end of the Havilliards? If I do not bend to their wishes, might Aelin take that as a slight, or a declaration of less-than-peaceful intentions?
Please, take your time with your reply. I know this is not an easy matter to address.
With love,
Gavin
The reply comes less than two weeks later, its delivery expedited by the unmatchable speed of Ruhkin mail carriers.
Dear Gavin,
For the sake of brevity, I will not mince words. I believe Aelin’s intentions are good, that she has no more wish for war than anybody else and that refusing her marriage proposal should not instigate violence between Terrassen and Adarlan. Instead, I urge you to consider another facet to this complex issue.
I have long been wary of magic (yes, even despite my own marriage to a magic wielder). When magic was first restored to the continent, I worried what it might mean for non-magic wielders, for normal people like me who have little to no defense against a power like Aelin’s or your father’s. Forcibly suppressing magic across the continent did more harm than good and I am glad to see rightful order restored to Erilea, but my fears have not been fully assuaged. If a ruler with a magical gift like Aelin’s, Rowan’s, even yours, decided to turn conqueror… There would be very few checks against that kind of power. Already I worry what it means for Terrassen, a country populated by mortals, to be ruled by an immortal.
Adarlan, Melisand, Terrassen — All kingdoms have seen benevolent kings, cruel kings, lazy kings and ambitious kings and useless kings, on and on. The one thing commoners could ever rely on was that, loved or hated, those kings would die one day. Their sons would take their throne and rule as they wish, and they too would die one day. All the royal bloodlines of Erilea have been graced with a touch of magic (Terrassen and Adarlan more than most), but they’ve always been mortal. Consider what it could mean to have a godly heir and near full-blooded Fae ruling a country of humans, because Aevanna will rule alone once old age claims you.
Morbid, I know, but just some food for thought. As I said before, I trust Aelin’s intentions but she is only one piece of the puzzle.
Warm regards,
(Uncle) Chaol
Food for thought, indeed.
Father rarely speaks of the war with Gavin and P’lia, but in the endless inquisitiveness of youth they always found other sources to sate their curiosity. Gavin holds a particularly fond memory of Lord Ashryver from one childhood trip to Terrassen; him in an armchair, his sister still young enough to sit at the general’s knee. Hours past their bedtime Aedion had regaled them with stories both horrifying and fascinating, full of magic and sorrow and strange beasts and warriors from across the seas, but what had stuck in Gavin’s young mind the most was the Fae Queen Maeve.
King Rowan, Aedion’s lord father Gavriel, and Elide Lochan’s former paramour had all been bound to her service, along with others whose names and stories escape Gavin. Immortals, all of them, and more gifted than most of their kind, yet they were powerless against her, their combined centuries comprising a mere drop in the ocean of her unfathomably ancient lifespan. What Maeve was to the Fae…that is what Aelin’s family is to the mortals of Erilea. Perhaps not as cruel, nor as oppressive, but just as ageless and unreachable in their power.
Aevanna may have her father’s silver hair but the wildfire in her veins is all Aelin. Her skin often runs hot to the touch and if Mother and Father speak true, she could burn a city to ash without even a thought of burnout. The only person who could truly match the Galathynius gift was Father, before the Lock took a piece of his power, and even a Ra’Kokum’s iron touch could not smother that much flame. If Gavin, progeny of two mighty bloodlines, could not hope to oppose Aevanna, what odds might his mortal subjects face?
P’lia would laugh at him, he knows. She would give him that rakish grin that always means trouble and say, cajoling, Afraid of a little fire?
No, he’d reply, mulish, but it would be a lie.
P’lia has their mother’s magic; Gavin, their father’s, though wrangling his raw magic into any form beyond ice and snow is a skill that has thus far escaped him. Ra’Kokum and Havilliard. Iron and ice. Strong magics, to be sure, but what are iron and ice against fire? What are a few decades, an entire mortal lifetime , to the Fae?
No.
Aevanna Galathynius will almost certainly make a fine queen. She will rule with her canny wit and forgiving heart and enforce centuries of peace with the flames at her fingertips, but it will not be Adarlan’s throne she sits upon, nor will Gavin cede his ancestral seat just to rule a frozen north.
He drafts a letter of refusal, apologetic yet firm, that very day.
The General and his lady wife may be the most imposing couple Gavin has had the pleasure of meeting. Even with crows-feet around his eyes, Aedion’s spine remains unbent by age or labor — a draft horse of a man with a resting expression that falls between serious and downright severe. Lysandra is nearly of a height with him, as tall as most men, and she walks with the unfaltering surety of a woman who fears no man… after all, she lives what seems to be half her life in the skin of beasts.
At this precise moment, however, the esteemed Queen’s General is carting a laughing, squirming toddler out of the room, the girl tucked under one huge arm like a common parcel while the lady Lysandra of Carravere rolls her eyes and slumps, undignified, onto a sofa.
“I refuse to believe that infernal thing is truly Evangeline’s child. She was such a sweet, quiet girl.” Despite her harsh words, Gavin can see Lysandra’s fond smile behind the hand she drags down her face.
“At least she and Aedion appear to keep one another occupied,” Gavin supplies with a shrug, adding in jest, “I can only imagine what a hellion his own spawn would be. I can see now why you never had children of your own.”
The look Lysandra sends him is bemused. “In fairness, it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying.”
Her meaning sinks in a second later than it should, and Gavin drops his head into his hands with a groan. “Please refrain from saying things like that.”
“What, did your mother never teach you about such things? You know, when a man and a woman love each other very mu—”
“Eugh. Enough, please. I will walk home to Rifthold if that is what it takes to escape this conversation.”
Lysandra’s laughter rings loud in the small room. “And miss the Crown Princess’ birthday festivities? That would be a slight upon Terrassen not to be ignored.” Gavin lifts his head in time to catch the way her green eyes grow sharp. “Speaking of Galathynius royals…I hear you turned down a marriage proposal. May I ask why?”
Abruptly uncomfortable, he shifts in his seat and turns his gaze to a wall hanging so he doesn’t have to look at the Lady. Lysandra and Aedion are deeply loyal to Aelin’s family: though her tone holds no judgment, Gavin cannot quite parse out if his refusal has caused offense.
“I suppose I saw little merit in a peace-pact marriage when war between our kingdoms seems so unlikely an occurrence. After all, war with Terrassen would mean war among friends.” In the silence that meets his declaration, Gavin finally meets Lysandra’s discerning gaze. “Do you think I made the right decision?”
Her short bark of laughter is met with a flat expression. She sits up, leans forward with her elbows on her knees. “You really believe I have an answer for you?” At Gavin’s pitiful shrug, she shakes her head. “That is a road I have no knowledge of. Somebody else must set you on the right path here.” Seeing something in his face, her amusement melts away into curiosity. “You already had such a guide, didn’t you?”
Lysandra’s ability to read his every expression would always be eerie. “I corresponded with Chaol Westfall on the matter. He spent many years within Adarlan’s courts and he knows Aelin well.”
“And you heeded what he had to tell you?”
“His concerns were eye-opening,” Gavin replies, “and I considered his insight carefully.”
Lysandra’s eyes drift shut for a long moment — when she opens them again, she suddenly looks ten years older. “I am about to tell you a story very few people know. It must not leave this room.”
Gavin’s heart skips a beat at her words, her tired tone, the weight that seemed to settle on her shoulders between one second and the next. Her eyes are on him but her sight is fixed on something long past, lost in the middle-distance between reality and memory.
“As men like my husband can tell you, the war with Terrassen began the day Adarlan murdered the royal family. Outright war, however, war as history will define it, lasted only months, and it was in the volatile time leading up to this invasion that Aelin learned just what it would cost to seal the Valg away.” Nameless is my price , Gavin recalls. The Lock is a story he knows well.
“Aelin worried that her death would spell disaster for the rebellion, for the war against Maeve, so she came up with a plan.” Lysandra’s mouth twists up. Not a grimace, not quite a smile either. “She asked me to take her face and name. In all the time she was held captive by Maeve, I masqueraded as a queen, and Gavin… you must understand that this was not intended to be a temporary solution.”
“But how—”
“Not well,” Lysandra interrupts, anticipating his question. “I was a poor substitute for the real thing. I cannot fight with sword or flame as she can, I do not have Galathynius blood or a royal upbringing or an education in politics and history. Tell me…” When Lysandra’s face ripples, bones shifting underneath stretching skin, Gavin recoils. He doesn’t mean to, truly, but sight is jarring, made all the worse when Aelin’s voice asks from Aelin’s face, “...Is this all it takes to be a queen?”
“No,” he whispers, the syllable strangled by shock.
“No,” Lysandra says, her own face and voice restored to her just as quickly. “I would have done it, for her , but the plan was a foolish one and anybody could have told her so. Unfortunately I was sworn to secrecy, and even Aedion did not hear a whisper of the deception until after Aelin was taken. If you wish to hear the details of such a plan, you can ask him — it is a betrayal not quite forgiven even after all these years and I am sure he would welcome the chance to regale you with that favorite tirade.” The humorous glint in her eyes does nothing to lessen the steel in her voice, and Gavin is taken aback by the thought of such a rift running unseen below their friendship with the queen, cracks in the ice hidden by layers of fallen snow.
“Aelin concocted this plan with only the best intentions for Terrassen, but her kingdom would have been better served had she heeded the advice of others.” Lysandra clasps her hands in her lap, leaning back into the sofa with a long, heavy sigh, silent for several seconds. Then, “Only time will tell if turning down the proposal was the best course of action for Adarlan, but you were wise enough to realize that the answer to your conflict did not lie solely within yourself. In that, you made the right decision.”
“Are you sure you would not have made a good queen?” Gavin asks, only partially in jest. “You certainly do not lack for wisdom.”
“I am more than content with the duties inflicted upon me by my little slice of land,” she laughs. “And a word of warning…”
He waits with bated breath for another priceless piece of wisdom. Instead, Lysandra says, “If you plan to ask Aedion about that old plan, be sure to clear your evening schedule first.”