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Lord Armel fell in the late afternoon, three months after the battle began. It was a glorious fall; an enemy charge had scattered his men, and he'd met them singlehanded. Dozens of warriors had fallen before him, and in the end it was impossible to say which sword or arrow had dealt the final blow. He had died well, but he had died.
Oh, thought Rahim, as Lord Armel's horse cantered back to the Garnian line, dragging its master's body by one foot still caught in the stirrup. We're going to lose.
The certainty brought more relief than the knowledge brought dread. There had been too much uncertainty when Armel first arrived with fresh reinforcements for Garn's battered forces. Hope could be such a cruel curse.
Their defenses had once flared two miles out from the city; now Rahim could turn around, throw a stone, and hit the palace wall with ease. The city was empty and sacked, their forces a pitiful fraction of what they had once been, while the advancing Orany line never seemed to run out of fresh-faced new fighters. Their only saving grace was that the palace sat at the top of a hill, forcing invaders to climb as they fought. It was not enough to save them.
As the bereaved horse continued to unintentionally parade its dead master before what remained of Garn's forces, the fighters from Orany withdrew. It was mercy on their part, or a cruel sort of cleverness: their best hope, Lord Armel with his troops and his skills and his many victories, was dead. Instead of letting desperation make them fierce, the enemy was now giving them time to think.
"Rahim." Larkin gripped his arm. He'd lost an eye a month in, forcing the remaining one to work twice as hard to convey his despair. "What do we do?"
Rahim stared back at him dully. A brave man, an honorable man, would stand and fight to the last breath for his king. Rahim was tired. His body ached in ways that told him most of the pains would never truly go away. His badly healed broken leg would never carry him straight again. He was King Etien's least favorite vassal lord.
"If the city is lost," he said, "best let him know right away."
Word spread quickly. Lord Armel had been their last hope. King Etien's vassals had drained their lands of soldiers and resources alike. There was nothing left but the hope that the king of Orany would accept a surrender.
No one else stepped forward to pass the word back to the king. Eyes lowered to the ground as Rahim squared his shoulders and trudged back to carry out the task himself.
Stepping inside the palace, he knew in an instant that something was wrong. Servants had a way of avoiding notice, but Rahim could hear the difference between quiet and silence. He checked the throne room, the great hall, the royal bedchambers, and the king's solar, before resorting to the servants' stairs and scullery.
A layer of dust lay over neatly made beds. Food rotted in the kitchens. In the wine cellar, a trapdoor lay wide open, leading down a ladder to cool, dank tunnels.
When he returned, the sun was beginning to set. Uneasy peace lay across the battlefield. Larkin watched for him, tense and alert.
"The king is gone," Rahim told him. Around them, a listening silence fell. "He's been gone for a while. Lord Armel died for an empty house."
Two other vassal lords went to investigate. They must have found the tunnel, because they did not return.
The few who remained gathered in the night to talk. Three other vassal knights were left, all of them beaten down and limping. When Rahim spoke, they listened, because listening to Rahim was the reason they were still alive now.
(Lord Armel had not listened to Rahim.)
"There was a tunnel in the cellars," he said. "It must be how the king and his household escaped." He paused. "And Sir Roul, and Lord Oswin."
"You want to run?" Sir Edric was the least wounded of the lot; his arm had healed straighter than Rahim's leg. "We swore oaths—"
"Etien cut and run," Larkin snapped. "The oath's broken, and it's not on our end."
"The king of Orany may show mercy," Sir Warin said, hands shaking. "He's the stronger ruler—he may be worth following instead."
"Or he may wipe us out as a show of his strength," said Larkin. Sir Warin flinched.
"There is nothing for us here," Rahim told them all. "Only a tunnel."
The other vassals exchanged glances.
"…To where?" Sir Edric asked at last. "My land's in Orany's hands by now."
"Mine will be soon," said Sir Warin. "Once they take the city, they'll claim every blade of grass from here to Halderon."
Despair hung in a heavy pall over the pitiful little gathering. Rahim pursed his lips, letting his words sit on the back of his tongue. Larkin's eyes were on him, as if he already knew what they were.
At last he spoke, cupping a hand over hope's sputtering candle flame.
"He won't claim mine."
The story went that Rahim's grandfather had been a young man when he got the idea in his head: cross the Opal Sea to the prosperous kingdom of Beorna, establish new trade routes for the caliphate, and rise in riches and esteem. He'd gotten three friends involved, and they'd packed up their families and belongings and made the journey by ship and caravan. The king of Beorna had welcomed them with open arms, eager for the spices and dyes they sold.
They had enjoyed just under five years of prosperity before the king passed, his son took the throne, and Beorna promptly crumbled. Neighboring kings and warlords pounced on the easy riches, and the merchants' families escaped with their lives, the clothes on their backs, and no money to make the journey back to Asran.
Rahim, who spent most of his early life with his nose in a book, could have told them this would happen. These lands had no unifying name, because there were so many kingdoms and would-be empires scattered from one coast to another, and none of them ever lasted long enough for any one to stick. The only permanent fixtures were the temples to the Patron, and the warlords only left them alone because the high priests were the ones going around decideing which heads to put crowns on. Resting their fortunes on the patronage of a single king had been the height of foolishness.
Luckily, the rest of Rahim's relatives had kept their wits about them, dodging both the instability of royal service and the desperation of serfdom. His father was a tinsmith, his mother a dressmaker; there was always work for them, beneath the notice of warlords and aspiring empire-builders. Rahim himself might have found happiness as a scribe and scholar, if he hadn't been dragged off by one of the warlord Etien's press gangs.
When the weary survivors of the once-kingdom of Garn stepped across the border into Greymare, every one of them felt it. The prickling hairs on their necks, the buzz in their teeth, the colored specks dancing in the corners of their eyes. Before them, the road stretched into the trees. To the left, the forest seemed to shine, bright vivid green and dotted with azalea buds, sunlight trickling through the foliage like liquid gold. To the right, the forest stood shrouded in shadows and rot, branches twisting into so thick a lattice that no light reached the moist, loamy ground.
At their head, Rahim felt their eyes on him. He looked back over the sea of people in his wake. He had expected the former knights to retrieve their families, and they had. What he had not expected was that Larkin had been a generous landlord, and that Warin had ingratiated himself to his castle staff, to such a degree that a small army of farmers, servants, and cooks had quietly packed up their lives and followed. Further surprises came in the form of a shame-faced and defeated Lord Oswin, his wife and children, and not far behind them, Lord Armel's hollow-eyed widow.
Word had spread of their flight to Greymare. It must have reached the king of Orany as well.
"It is safe," he called out so they all could hear. Better to tell them all at once than let the message warp as it passed from one mouth to the next. "The fairies are tolerant of our presence. Don't mind the trees that walk across the road."
The procession moved down the road, pace quickening. Within a few hours Rahim could see smoke rising from the kilns of a nearby potters' village. The trees gave way to meadows turned to farms and pastures, to bare rock carved into quarries, and in the distance, to the town surrounding Castle Greymare.
Rahim smelled smoke, and saw the gray haze hovering low over the distant cluster of roofs. His heart plummeted to his feet.
"Sir Rahim! Thank the Patron!"
He hadn't seen the slender dark-haired boy keeping watch from off the road—Hob the Hunter's eldest son. No wonder he hadn't seen him—when Randel stood still enough, he might as well be invisible.
"Randel, what's happened?" he asked. "Is the town on fire?"
"Just a few houses burned, and they're out now," the boy reported solemnly. "Three hundred came up the road yesterday, in Orany colors. Lady Asha was ready for 'em—they're all dead now, I think. She's set a watch on the road and in the woods, in case more come."
"She's alright?" The strangling feeling loosened around Rahim's throat.
"Yes, sir. About ready to pop any day now, but it hasn't stopped her."
Somewhere behind him, Lord Armel's widow gasped. Sir Warin snorted, and Larkin stifled a laugh. Rahim barely heard any of them.
"Good boy," said Rahim.
"Old Kellan's dead, sir," Randel told him. "Miss Matilda's telling the town what to do now, and everyone's listening."
"I see." Rahim steadied himself against the pang of grief. "Thank you, Randel. Return to your post." The boy dipped his head and darted to obey, and Rahim led his people onward.
True to Randel's word, the town still stood, but a few houses had burned beyond repair. Rahim saw the first bodies halfway through—soldiers wearing Orany colors.The townspeople had piled them up on the side of the road where they wouldn't leak on anything important. Rahim spotted Matilda, younger sister of the late headman, barking orders while helping to right an overturned cart. He ought to speak with her, if she was taking over the town's affairs. Later.
With every step the bloodstains on the road grew thicker, until at last Rahim stood at the foot of the castle walls, staring agape at the bodies piled around the gate, and the woman standing with her back to him, directing every able-bodied member of the castle staff from the steward to the scullery maids to clear away the dead.
Rahim caught his breath. Took in the linen gown in her favorite shade of crimson, the sleeves rolled up over arms as strong and dark as rosewood, and the waterfall of braids cascading over her unbowed shoulders.
A sob slipped from his lips before he could stop it. Asha turned around with a sharp expression, as if ready to snap at him to help instead of standing there and weeping. Her dark eyes met his, and her face went blank. One hand strayed to her swollen belly.
Rahim's leg nearly gave out as he ran the last few steps to reach her.
"You're alive," she said. Her voice was steady, confirming a fact more than expressing surprise or relief. "King Etien—"
"There's no King Etien," Rahim told her. "No Garn. There's just us. Are you—when did—why—" He stopped, despair squeezing off his words. "I hoped Orany wouldn't want this place."
Asha pulled back, holding his shoulders at arm's length. "I'm not certain they do—the force they sent was insulting. Nothing some arrows and a few cauldrons of hot oil couldn't fix. Is Etien dead?"
"I don't know," Rahim admitted. "I don't care. He abandoned us at the palace." He turned back to the procession he'd led. "Whatever Garn was worth, this is all that's left. They had nowhere else to go."
"We'll manage, as long as they mind their manners." Asha squeezed his hands, and he brought hers to his mouth.
"What about you?" he asked. "Are you alright? And the baby? I didn't see any damage to the farms, but is our food alright? Are you eating enough?"
"We're alright," she said. "Rahim, we're alright. Put that to rest in your mind." Her eyes flickered toward the waiting crowd. "We have a duty."
Someone coughed politely. Alam, his steward, had survived the skirmish. Now his eyes roved over the crowd as if performing a rapid head count. "I can speak with Matilda about finding space for them," he said.
"She won't be hard to find," Rahim assured him. He turned back to his companions, still clutching his wife's hand, and stopped short.
Larkin, Warin, Edric, and Oswin stood before him. They were no longer knights or lords, and likely never would be again—Rahim had no lands to offer them, only Greymare, so full to the brim with hidden fairies that he doubted it was his to give away. But still they stood before him, awaiting a command.
A weight settled in the center of Rahim's chest, sticking there stubbornly no matter how steadily he forced himself to breathe. "Alam—my steward—will get you settled," he said. "Between the castle, the town, and the surrounding hamlets, there should be room. There are certain customs here, ways to keep safe and appease our neighbors. Learn them. Teach them to others."
"Yes, sire," said Larkin. Carefully. Deliberately. Warin and Edric echoed him. Oswin's lips moved inaudibly as he inclined his head.
Rahim squeezed his wife's hand, painfully relieved when she returned it. Oh, beloved, forgive me.
Asha's father was a wiser man than Rahim's grandfather had been. Rather than resting his fate on the patronage of one of the continent's fair-weather kings, he'd kept his business to himself, constantly on the move whenever another warlord crested the horizon. A lack of permanent roots had been a small price to pay for deep pockets. Rahim had been a scholar with a decent mind for numbers when Asha married him.
And now here he was, another fair-weather ruler with a storm on the horizon.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
He wasn't sure who he was addressing—Asha reading a letter in her favorite chair, Mama with her needle letting out one of Asha's gowns, Baba lightly napping by the window, or Freda, the midwife's daughter, humming as she swept.
Baba stirred out of his doze. "We all knew this wasn't forever," he mumbled.
"We hoped it would be longer," said Mama, clucking her tongue. "Didn't I tell you we should leave when we had enough money to sail to Asran?"
Baba sighed. It was their longest-lived argument. "We have enough to sail and nothing else. Better to own land here than be destitute in Irazad."
Rahim found his eyes drawn to Freda. Her mouth was tight, her lips pale. She had money to eat, to live, to buy medicine when she was sick, to buy warm clothes for winter and toys for her nieces and nephews. She did not have the money to sail anywhere.
"There's still enough money to escape, if it's needed," he said. "There's enough for all of you to reach Asran. And if I don't come, there's a little more to live once you arrive."
Three sets of eyes turned to him sharply; Freda kept hers on her work. "Why in Patron's name would you not come?" Mama demanded.
"These people need me—" he began.
"These people? Orany has a king. When he comes and takes this place, these people will be his problem, not yours!"
"I walked here from the Garnian palace, I have seen what people look like when they are Orany's problem!" Rahim snapped. "All the worst parts of Etien—the press gangs, the looting—and at least Etien knew not to take so much in taxes that the laborers starved while fancy food rotted on his table!"
"And you think you can do better than either of them?" Mama demanded. "When war comes to our doorstep and we grow desperate?"
Rahim thought of the tunnel, of the palace that stood empty while Lord Armel's corpse was dragged through the mud. "I already have."
"It is not so simple, habibi," said Baba. "Your mother is right. If you stay, if you hope to defend against invaders, you will need soldiers. Not everyone who needs to fight will want to. There is a reason Etien resorted to press gangs."
He would need soldiers, and he would need to feed his soldiers. He was already running the numbers in his head, how much the farms produced each year, how much one person would need to eat, multiplied by how many he needed in a fighting force large enough to have any hope against Orany.
With a sigh, he collapsed back into his chair with his face in his hands. "I don't know what to do," he admitted. "But I can't leave. Even if I weren't…" The word king stuck stubbornly in his throat. "Even if everyone didn't need me, Asha can't travel like this."
"The baby is due soon," said Asha.
"You can't travel right after, either."
"What if we don't go to Asran?" Baba asked. "Asha, your family—would they take us in?"
"Yes," she replied. "But they wouldn't walk through an active war to fetch us. We would have to meet somewhere safe. And in order to meet, our letters would need to reach us and them." She held up the one in her hand. "I'm lucky to have this one at all. We'd have to be lucky at least twice more."
Mama returned to her stitching, her mouth a tight line. She could tell Rahim to abandon Greymare and the people living there. She could not tell him to abandon his wife and unborn child.
Rahim threaded his fingers together and squeezed until his knuckles ached.
"Freda," he said. "You've grown up here. What do you think?"
Freda squared her shoulders, gripping the broom handle tightly. Nearly a full minute passed before she replied.
"D'you know how Greymare got its name, sire?" she asked.
"King—ah, Etien told me that one of the kings who held it the longest named it after his favorite horse," said Rahim. "I always wondered how the name outlasted him and all the kings that came after."
"I was told that a grey mare appeared out of the woods and led him to it," said Asha.
A sardonic smile flickered across the girls face, before she ducked her head and hid it behind her brown hair. "That's the story we tell outsiders, ma'am," she said to Asha. "The mare didn't lead him to this place and let him rule it. She came out of the woods when he was clear-cutting it to build his castle. She ate him."
"Ha," Mama said dryly.
"There's stories come out of Orany," Freda went on. "They say King Coram latches on to the land and its people like a tick, drains 'em dry and moves on when there's nought left. He's the sort to clear-cut a fairy's woods to build himself a castle." She paused. "I dunno if the people'll fight, sire. I think most are hoping we won't have to."
"The fairies did not intervene before," Asha said, but she looked thoughtful.
"They weren't clear cutting the forest," Baba said quietly. "Just burning one human town. Why should they care for one human town?"
"Perhaps," Asha began, and paused.
Rahim was at her side in an instant, because Asha was not the sort of woman who spoke unless she knew exactly what she wanted to say and how to say it. Rahim's parents stared intently at them both. Freda went still, as if bracing herself to dash for the midwife.
After a moment, the thoughtful tension left Asha's face, and she sat back with a shaky sigh. "Not yet," she said. "But soon, very soon."
Mama slumped in her chair, muttering half to herself. "Patron protect her, protect us all."
"I will speak to Afra," Baba said quietly. "Lambing season was good to her. Her herd has swelled. We will need a sheep to slaughter for the child."
Asha sat up, one hand bracing her belly. "Perhaps more than one. We will need a party."
All eyes turned to stare at her again, this time with confusion. "How can you think of such a thing at a time like this?" Mama asked.
"How can you not?" Asha shot back. "The people are scared. War may be on our doorstep—it is already around us, trapping us here, keeping us from leaving. They need—they need levity, and joy, and fun, or they will run mad and tear themselves and each other apart." She took Rahim's hand and squeezed. "The birth of a new prince or princess is the perfect excuse, is it not?"
"I'm not a king," Rahim said, not for the first time. "The town priest isn't high enough to crown me, and if he tried, I'd duck."
"Garn and Etien are gone," said Asha. "You are no one's vassal, and you hold Greymare alone. What else would you be, in these lands?"
Rahim's flight from Garn had nearly doubled Greymare's population. Still, they made sure to invite them all. Matilda, now secure in her place as the town headwoman, accepted her invitation with cool grace. Etien's former vassals, Rahim's brothers in arms, had not officially sworn themselves to him, but were seemingly content to behave as if they had, and answered their summons with gravitas. Johanne, Lord Armel's widow, came to thank him personally.
The effect was immediate. The deathly quiet of fear eased, just a little. People talked amongst themselves, eager for the festivities. Many even smiled.
"How long will it last?" he wondered aloud. They were alone in Asha's solar—the first moment alone they'd caught since announcing the baby's welcoming party, aside from when they slept.
"A full day of festivities," said Asha, without looking up from her writing. "Will the kitchens and great hall accommodate the feast, do you think? We have a lot more people than we used to, and if need be we can set it up out of doors."
"I mean how long will one party keep their spirits up?" Rahim asked. "For all we know, Orany might launch an attack in the middle of it."
"We ought to start a spy network," Asha mused. "How does one do that, I wonder? It sounds like an interesting skill to learn."
"Matilda suggested the town square," Rahim said, belatedly. "It has the space, and plenty of kitchens in the village nearby. The bakery and the inn, and such."
"They'll be happy for the business." Asha said. "We should invite the fairies."
Rahim went still. "Pardon?"
Asha put her quill down and turned to him, with some difficulty. "The idea entered into my head the moment I thought of having a party," she admitted. "It's only right. They are our neighbors."
Pulling a chair closer, Rahim sat beside her. "They're dangerous neighbors."
"Dangerous enemies," said Asha, with a gleam in her eye. "Let us become friends, then, so that our enemies become theirs."
"You're suggesting…" Rahim broke off. She was doing more than suggesting, and he wasn't about to insult her by repeating what she'd already said. "That is a dangerous game, beloved."
"We live on their land," Asha pointed out. "They are more than neighbors. It seems far more dangerous not to do the polite thing and invite them."
"I suppose…"
"We already have enemies in Orany."
"The greenwood is a pleasant enough place," Rahim conceded. He glanced at her desk and realized that she hadn't just been writing; they were invitations, written in Asha's lovely calligraphy. Two of them, he realized with a sinking heart. "The Stained Glass Queen sounds… reasonable, as fairies go. I'm not sure I like the stories I've heard of Lady Eisendusk. I don't suppose we could just invite—"
Asha's hand shot out like a striking snake, seized the front of his tunic, and yanked him down until they were eye to eye. "Rahim," his wife said, calm and cool as a very thin patch on a frozen river. "Heart of mine. Beloved. We have had one war forced upon us. May the Patron leave me penniless in the cold before I willingly step into another. We are inviting both good and hospitable ladies to our party."
"I see," said Rahim, even as fear grasped his throat with ice-cold claws. "We will invite both, then."
The next time she gripped him with such ferocity was the following night, when she startled him out of the beginnings of sleep with the words he had been most anticipating and dreading.
"The baby is coming."
She did not let go of him for the rest of the night. He was forced to shout for Freda so that she could run to fetch her mother. Upon their return, Asha snarled at the suggestion that Rahim leave the room. Rahim, well out of his element, simply did whatever the stern-faced old woman told him while letting his wife grind the bones in his hand to a fine powder.
Their daughter raced the sunrise and won.
Rahim had been little more than a boy, the first time he laid eyes upon a fairy. He'd been sitting beneath his favorite tree, an elm with ample shade not far from the home where his parents raised him. From early childhood to later youth, he had sat beneath it to read and write, until the day a deer with leaves and blossoms growing from its antlers stepped out from behind it, gazed at him for a moment, and began to walk deeper into the woods
Rahim had followed it, fool that he was, until a chorus of chittering laughter reached his ears. A crowd of fairies had crawled and slithered from the carpet of loam, grasped his clothes, and pulled him deeper into the darkness. A mortal! they had laughed. Come, come with us and serve, our lady has use for your long legs and strong back. Then one unlucky fairy had reached his hand, and found the cold iron rings on his fingers. Rahim had stumbled back onto the road in a daze, to find that night had fallen and he was very hungry.
He was not that foolish boy anymore. Against his own will, he was both a warrior and a king, with hundreds of subjects turning out to celebrate the birth of his first child. But as he watched Lady Eisendusk step into the town square like a shadow to join them, he felt suddenly very small and cold and hungry again.
Little Azalea, lying in her cradle on a place of honor at the center of the celebration, wore no iron rings on her tiny fingers. With fairies coming as guests of honor, they could not risk such an insult.
Rahim was not the only one to notice. A hush fell over the festivities, and those at the crowd's scattered edges parted to let her through. Baba, who was playing the part of unofficial herald, braced himself and stepped forward, only for a smaller, brighter shape to dart in and head off the fairy before she could reach him.
A second fairy stood before Baba, beaming brightly as she curtsied. She was small, barely reaching Baba's elbow with the top of her head. Her skin was the color of lichen, shot through with threads of daisy-yellow. What looked at first to be a thickly-woven crown of flowers was not a crown at all; green leaves and blossoms of every shape and color grew from her head in place of hair.
Lady Eisendusk wore the face of someone who had just bitten into a lemon.
"My lady the Stained-Glass Queen sends her compliments and her apologies," she declared, her voice pealing like a bell to reach every ear in attendance. "She sends this one in her place, so as not to give insult to such a generous invitation. You may call me Thimbleweed."
Baba shot a baffled look at Rahim for a split second before obliging. "Lady Thimbleweed, representing the Stained-Glass Queen," he called out.
Lady Eisendusk stepped forward. She was as gnarled and bent as any of the skeletal snags of her deadwood forest, her gray-brown skin lined and patterned like old wood. Her gown was dark gray and edged with lace so fine it could have been spun by spiders. When she turned toward Rahim, his throat seized; what he'd thought was a patch of jet-black over her clavicle and chest was in fact a hollow, empty space. For a moment he was half-sure he saw eyes glowing within, but he blinked and they were gone. Baba finished announcing the great lady, and she glided among the other guests with smooth, unnatural grace.
"So like a Seelie queen," Rahim heard her murmur. Her soft voice carried as if buoyed on the wind. "Far too good for the rest of the world."
Thimbleweed's head whipped around like an owl's, leaves and flowers flaring outward from the speed. "So like an Unseelie, to think herself the end-all and be-all of the world. Can anyone blame my queen for being busy, when you and yours linger so close to her woods that her creations crumble long before their time?"
"All things return to me," Lady Eisendusk retorted, eyes flashing with ire. "Perhaps if your queen put more care into her labors, they would not do so as quickly."
The smile froze on Thimbleweed's face. "I do not bandy words with thiev—"
"Good ladies!" Asha's voice rang out, and Rahim tried not to gasp over the breath he'd accidentally been holding. "We are honored to receive you, and humbled that you would deign to answer our invitations." She had been on bed rest in the days following their daughter's birth, but to see her striding through the gathering to stand between the quarreling fairies, you would never guess. Rahim's heart swelled at the sight, and he moved to stand at his wife's side.
For a split second the fairies leaned away from each other and averted their gazes, like children caught quarreling by a stern parent. In the next moment they were the picture of ethereal poise once more.
"The honor is mine," said Lady Eisendusk, inclining her head.
"Ours, of course," Thimbleweed added with a deep curtsy.
"I have heard tales of the legendary hospitality of fairies," Asha went on, meeting the eyes of both of them. "We, of course, have great admiration for your ancient and sacred rules, and we hope you find our behavior as hosts equal to yours as our honored guests."
Rahim pursed his lips to keep from grinning when Thimbleweed shuffled further away from Lady Eisendusk. Nearby, someone was bold enough to laugh. For a split second Rahim thought the voice was Mama's, but he spotted her in the corner of his vision, looking on with a tight and distinctly unamused expression.
"Please," Rahim added, heart fortified by Asha's frosty smile. "Enjoy the festivities."
Garlands and colorful banners decorated the town square. Every cook and baker in town had come together to fill several long tables with food—cakes, pies, fruit and nuts crystallized in honey, soups and stews and cured meat and several types of cheese. A roasting fire had been lit at the center of the square, carefully arranged to keep the flames contained. Children played through the square, fingers sticky from treats. Skillful hands dyed pictures and patterns on revelers' faces. Flowers were woven and braided into bracelets and crowns.
Afra, as promised, had brought out the fattest lamb in her flock. Mama had the steadiest hands, and so took on the task of slaughtering it. The town had not had a butcher before, but one had followed Larkin from his lands, and skillfully divided it into cuts. Old Isa the midwife stood goggle-eyed as Rahim presented her with a quarter of the meat.
"We'll salt and cure it for you," he assured her under his breath. "You brought my daughter into the world—I'm not about to thank you with more work."
Isa was a widow, and Freda her only child. With the threat of war and lean days ahead, a gift of meat was no small thing. Rahim brushed aside her thanks, but much later, when Isa sought him out with a freshly-woven wreath of flowers, he smiled and stooped to let her place it on his head.
He was keeping an eye on his guests, like any good host should, which was why he noticed the woman at all. Greymare was a small fiefdom, and in spite of the influx of new arrivals, Rahim had always had a good memory for faces. The woman sitting off to the side with a gnarled elderwood walking stick resting between her knees was not one he had ever seen before. Her face was one on which age had settled with gentle elegance; her wrinkles betrayed frequent smiles, and her silver-streaked hair hung gracefully over one shawl-wrapped shoulder. She was not joining in on the celebration, only sitting and watching with keen, smiling eyes.
Asha was minding the fairies' manners at the moment. Trusting her to handle herself, Rahim approached the stranger.
"Good lady," he said. "Are you enjoying the festivities?"
"Not as well as I might." The woman did not rise, but inclined her head at him. "A thousand pardons, sir. I'm afraid I was not invited. But when I heard, I had to come and see it for myself."
She shifted in her seat to face him, and Rahim caught the briefest glimpse of her back before it vanished from view. Below her shoulder blades, the fabric of her shawl—clumsily knitted, a novice's first attempt in colors a child would pick—did not curve with the bones of a relaxed spine, but fell oddly flat, like a handkerchief over a bowl. As if, in the middle of her back, there simply weren't any bones, or anything at all.
Movement drew his eyes lower, and he glanced down just in time to see the tail of a fox flick out of view.
"Forgive me," Rahim said faintly. "That was our oversight—we didn't know there were three of you good ladies to invite."
The woman laughed. It was the same laugh that had rung out when Asha scolded the other fairies. "Oh, sweet boy, don't fret. Only those two rule and squabble over these woods. You owe me nothing. But it's been many an age since the girls have stood within sight of each other without going for the eyes, and I had to see the party that brought them a moment's peace. Well done, you. Give my compliments to your fierce queen." She paused. "I'll take my leave, if I've worn out my welcome."
Rahim hesitated. Two fairies were trouble enough without a third, who he knew nothing about.
But stories were full of old women knocking on doors asking for hospitality, and cursing those who turned them away. Rahim would rather risk polite chaos than a wrathful curse. She was fae, and bound to the same rules as the rest.
"There is plenty to go around, for now," he said. "Enjoy the festivities. I hope you find my conduct as host equal to yours as a guest."
The woman gripped his hand with a smile, then swung herself up on her elderwood stick and strode in to join the party, in the direction opposite to her fellow fairies. Rahim turned away before he could be tempted to look for her tail, and went to find Asha again.
Before he could reach her, Lady Eisendusk's dry whisper curled around his ears. "I must know," she said. "You look different from most of the kings I've encountered, and you mortals are such insular folk. How came you to be one?"
"I am not a king, by the customs of these lands," Rahim replied. "Only the Patron has the authority to make me one, and no high priest has come forward to crown me yet."
"You have lands, a castle, and no one to command you," Lady Eisendusk said with a dismissive flick of her hand. 'Fine, then. How came you to be a lord?"
"It is… not so heroic a story," Rahim admitted. "I did not slay any terrible monster or save any princess. I was simply lucky—or unlucky."
"I am fond of stories," said Lady Eisendusk. "I would hear it, if you would tell it."
"Telling tales?" Thimbleweed's cheery voice rang out. "Let's hear one! It isn't a party without a good story!"
The fairy's shout gathered an audience, and Rahim nearly balked—but a warm look from Asha fortified him.
Someone very old and very powerful had asked him for a story. He could not falter now.
"My grandfather was foolish," he began. "He crossed the sea to make his fortune, but the wars destroyed all he built, and left him with so little that he could not even return to the lands of his birth. His children learned humbler trades, and I had my heart set upon being a scribe and scholar before the pressgangs came for me.
"I was never supposed to survive. The warlord Etien valued strength above all else, and impressed the same upon his generals. They saved the strongest fighters for battles they considered important. The rest of us were thrown into hopeless fights to keep the more valuable warriors fresh. This served him well enough against scattered towns and villages, weaker rulers without numbers, without resources. But when he began to batter us against kingdoms and strongholds, the brute strength of his favored troops failed.
"I don't remember the name of the man who commanded me. I don't feel guilty for this because I doubt he ever learned mine. He commanded us to attack the forces of an enemy warlord, and the counterattack was so ferocious that it reached his tent. We were shattered, cut off from the rest of Etien's army, all our commanders dead, fleeing from forces that had no interest in taking prisoners.
"But I had spent my youth with my nose buried in books, and some of those books were histories, war cycles, writings on military tactics. It was all very complicated and fantastical when I first read it, but once I'd seen war myself, I realized how simple a lot of it was.
"Fight from the high ground. Defend positions until you can advance. Change plans that don't work. Gather information. Keep your soldiers fed.
"I was lucky enough to make a friend—Larkin had been a favored soldier, but he'd insulted one commander too many. The others—the survivors—liked him. He was the first to listen to me, and the rest followed. Weaker, quicker soldiers who would have been thrown against enemy spears to shield the strong, became spies and scouts. We discovered which roads were used to move supplies, and rather than waste our strength against soldiers, we took their wagons and destroyed whatever we did not eat or use ourselves. We worried at them from the shadows, until the other warlord was forced to withdraw, and leave his stronghold empty. By the time Etien swept in with his proud, prized warriors, the war was won and there was nothing for them to do."
Rahim paused with a wry smile. "Such a travesty, that a soft-handed foreigner's brat had made himself so useful, in a way that the new king could not deny without looking foolish. So he fulfilled his obligation, by giving me land that no one else dared claim."
"Simple indeed!" Lady Eisendusk laughed once his story was done. "It would be a shame to have to trade pleasantries with a fool."
"You have to admit some fools are fun to play with," Thimbleweed said cheerily. "You can do a lot with a head full of dandelion fluff."
Larkin, who had sidled closer during the story, pressed a cup of wine into Rahim's hand, which Rahim used to soothe his dry throat. When he turned to hand it back, he found Lady Eisendusk looming over him.
"I have seen a great many rulers pass through this place," the gnarled old fairy said. "I bless their short lives, that I need not bother with their petty arrogance and greed. But you… you I don't mind so much."
"I am not a—"
"Yes, yes, you say you are not a king," said Thimbleweed from behind him, and he tried not to jump. "What was it again? A high priest must crown you?" She giggled, lightly clipping the edge of the wreath of flowers on his head with a delicate, slender fingertip. "The hands that placed this crown have carried countless fragile mortal lives into this world. What could be holier than that?"
Rahim was no holy man, but he had never seen a midwife hold authority in any church or temple. But Isa certainly held authority here, from the hunters to the headwoman. And for the people of Greymare, now cut off from help with war looming on the horizon, that had to count for something.
Now was not the time to argue over words and their meanings.
"I… I don't know about that," Rahim replied after a moment. "But these people have put their trust in me. I will be what they need me to be."
Lady Eisendusk chuckled, and Thimbleweed beamed and clapped. For the first time since Asha's pointed chiding, the two seemed almost in agreement.
"You have been a gracious host," Lady Eisendusk said with a crooked, lined smile. "And an even more gracious guest, I should say."
Rahim swallowed hard. "Yes, well, the other reason I am hesitant to call myself king—"
"So modest," said Thimbleweed. "So humble. I like that."
"As I was saying," Lady Eisendusk went on. "Since you have invited me to a celebration of your child, your little princess, I would offer a gift. A blessing, if I may."
"As would I!" Thimbleweed piped up. "On behalf of my queen, of course. It is tradition, after all."
"You honor us," said Asha. She exchanged a split-second glance with Rahim, long enough for him to wordlessly concede to her judgment. "We accept."
Thimbleweed beamed, then curtsied to her counterpart and gestured her forth. "Please, go first, my Lady. Age before beauty, as they say."
On the edge of his periphery, Rahim saw Asha tighten her control over the corners of her mouth.
"Very well," said Lady Eisendusk, visibly unfazed. Then she stepped past Rahim and Asha, and loomed over Azalea's cradle. "This party is for the child, is it not? Then any gifts given today ought to be hers."
Rahim drew in a sharp breath. Beside him, for the first time, he saw Asha freeze in alarm. But it was far too late to halt whatever came next.
"My gift to her is power." Lady Eisendusk's gnarled hand hovered over the cradle. "A portion of my mine will be hers to command. May she grow to wield magic the likes of which few mortals have ever dared."
"So like you, Lady Eisendusk!" Thimbleweed laughed. "Flashy and impressive, but useless at best and deadly at worst in the hands of an infant in the cradle."
One of Lady Eisendusk's hooded eyelids twitched. "…Very well, then," she said, teeth flashing behind her lips. "Upon her sixteenth birthday, she will receive this gift. Does that satisfy your worries?"
Thimbleweed flapped a dismissive hand at her and gently nudged between her and the cradle. "I suppose it falls to my queen to hand out sensible gifts," she teased. "Very well. My gift to her is wisdom, and all that comes with it—cleverness and insight, brains to go with her beauty. She is a princess, is she not? And I have seen the lot of princesses. Friend and foe alike will smile sweetly at her. May she smile back with teeth."
Before Rahim had time to breathe a sigh of relief, a third throat cleared.
Thimblewood stood up straight, face blank. Lady Eisendusk's scowl deepened. The crowd parted, and the lovely old stranger whose messy shawl hid the hole in her back stepped through, leaning on her elderwood stick.
"Oh, you must excuse me," she said blithely. "Gracious and wise hosts, I came uninvited in a time of fear and uncertainty, but still you welcomed me to join in your merry-making." She inclined her head to Rahim and Asha. "Will you grant me one more honor, and allow me to pay my respects to the child?"
Rahim exchanged a glance with Asha, and for the first time saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, before her expression firmed. "To whom do we owe this honor?"
"Elder Mother," Lady Eisendusk said dryly, before the third fairy could answer for herself. "I rarely see you away from your gaggle of urchins."
"You aren't here to spoil the fun, are you?" Thimbleweed pouted.
"If that's what you silly girls wish to call it, then perhaps." Elder Mother laughed, light and warm with a hint of a rasp. She approached the cradle and, to Rahim's surprise, gently knocked both Thimbleweed and Lady Eisendusk out of the way with her hip. "Oh, sweet girl, look at what they've done to you." The smile was audible in her voice as she spoke. "I know the lot of princesses, too, little blossom. My gift to you is freedom. No matter what befalls you, come storm or fair weather, should your kingdom rise to new heights or crumble to the earth—may you be exactly what you choose to be, no more and no less."
She fluttered her fingers playfully over the cradle, and Azalea's giggle rang out for all those gathered to hear. With that, she turned from the cradle and began striding away, back the way she had come. "Well! That ought to do it. Good day to you, little king and queen. Take care of your child. I've got plenty of my own to return to."
Without another word, she left the town square and vanished into the woods.
King Rahim of Greymare stood on the wall and peered over the parapet. It had been constructed quickly around the main town, but constructed well; the wood had seemed almost eager to join together, sturdier and stronger than it had been apart. His daughter, the infant Princess Azalea, slept peacefully in one arm. His free hand clutched one of Asha's.
They watched silently as Orany's troops advanced from a distance, both along the road and around it, heedless of the trees. They dared not look away, even as the trees—and the things dwelling within them—converged upon the conquering soldiers. Screams rang out, ragged at first, then building to a howling cacophony. The sleeping princess never stirred.
Not a single Oranian boot landed beyond the wall.
Only in the silence that followed did Rahim dare let out a shuddering breath. Beside him, Asha's face held a grayish tinge, and her lips were tight.
"Well, you were right," Rahim said softly.
Asha turned to him, meeting his eyes for a moment before her gaze settled on their daughter. Greymare—his kingdom, now—was saved. And because of that, he could stand beneath the sun holding all that he held dear in the world.
"I hope so," she replied. "I hope so."