To Carve a Fae Heart (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 1)

by Tessonja Odette

  “Perhaps.”

  He takes a step toward me, eyes locked on mine. “Maybe you should give me a kiss for luck. I am your mate, after all, about to go off to battle. You might never get the chance again.”

  I lift my chin, deepening my glare. “I’m counting on it.”

  With a laugh, Aspen turns and leaves the room.

  * * *

  The next morning, I watch from my window as a retinue gathers on the palace grounds, preparing to leave. They look so small from this high up in the palace, but I’m certain I see Aspen riding at the head of the group on a black puca, his antlers clear even from this distance. Even if he had no antlers, I’d be able to recognize his haughty posture anywhere.

  Cobalt must be down there too, and Foxglove. My heart sinks a little at the realization I’ll no longer have Foxglove’s company to entertain me for the next few days, just Lorelei.

  The retinue files into a line, then departs the grounds. With a wide false smile, I pin Aspen’s figure in my sight and give him a gracious wave. Never mind the fact he isn’t looking. “Good riddance,” I say in a singsong voice.

  Relief washes over me when I see the last figure disappear into the trees of the forest at the edge of the palace grounds. Freedom. For three days I’ll have no one to answer to but myself. I throw open the doors of my room, my joy fading as I see a pair of guards posted outside. Of course Aspen left guards. Or more likely spies.

  No matter. I won’t let it interfere with my plans. “Will one of you be a dear and have wine brought to me at once?” Then I close the door.

  I dress quickly, not bothering to wait for Lorelei, then take a seat on the couch at the far end of the room, next to a round stump-like table.

  When the knock comes, I sit upright. “Come in.”

  A servant enters bearing a tray. His slender legs end in dainty hooves, but disappointment flutters through me when I see his face. He’s beautiful and youthful, like most of the fae living in the palace, but he’s not the one I was hoping for. Still, I wave him forward, and he sets the tray on the table next to me.

  “Will that be all?” he asks.

  I look from him to the open door. The guards remain on each side, but their backs are to me. Not that it matters; for all I know, fae have superior hearing. I lower my voice anyway. “There is something else. First, tell me your name.”

  “My name is Ocher.”

  “Ocher, I hope you don’t mind me asking…did you ever serve my sister?”

  His brows knit together. “Yes,” he says, hesitantly.

  “Did you ever serve her while she was meeting privately with the king?”

  “A time or two.”

  “Were you the one who served the wine the night she went missing?” I can’t bring myself to say the truth. The night she died.

  “No. That was Vane, I believe.”

  “Vane,” I echo. My voice is still just above a whisper. “Do you think you could do something for me? Could you send him here?”

  “I suppose so,” he says, then blushes. “I mean, yes, of course.”

  “Very good.” I smile, then raise my voice. “This is not the wine I wanted. I want the red wine that was served with breakfast yesterday morning. Why would I want this violet wine so early in the day?”

  Ocher shifts from foot to foot. “Violet and red are merely different in flavor. Either can be consumed morning or—”

  I turn my nose to the air, summoning the snobbery of Maddie Coleman, cringing at how uncomfortable it feels. “I can tell a difference. Now get on with it, or I’ll tell the king you didn’t listen to me.”

  He looks perplexed.

  “And for your insolence, be sure you send another servant in your stead. I can’t abide by this.” I give him an exaggerated wink.

  “Ah.” He flashes me a knowing smile. “Understood. I’m so sorry. My mistake.” He bows low, then backs out of the room, tray in hand.

  I pace the room until my doors open once again. This time, I recognize the face of the fae. It’s the handsome male, the one who thanked me for my mercy. As he approaches, I ask, “Are you Vane?”

  “I am,” he says in a whisper as he sets down the tray. “Ocher said you asked for me.”

  “I did, and I thank you for coming.” One of the guards shifts outside my door but remains facing away from me. “I’ll make this fast. Was anything amiss when you served my sister the night she disappeared?”

  Color rises to his beautifully pale cheeks, and a flash of guilt crosses his face. “I brought honey pyrus wine. King Aspen was furious. But it was an accident, I swear—”

  “Never mind that,” I say. “What was she like when you saw her? Did she seem…troubled?”

  He looks taken aback for a moment. “No, she looked serene. Smiling. Laughing. She seemed to think me bringing the wrong kind of wine was nothing more than a silly joke.”

  I chew my bottom lip. “Did anything else happen? You said Aspen was furious. What exactly did he do?”

  “The king realized what kind of wine I’d brought almost as soon as I’d set it down. He stopped Amelie just before she went to pour herself a glass. Then he took the tray and said he’d get the wine himself. Made me take him to the kitchen and show him our wine stores, explain the mishap. He scolded me but nothing more. Then he left with a bottle of Bloodberry wine.”

  “Is that a…normal kind of wine?”

  He shrugs, then points at the tray. “It’s what I brought you here. It’s served at most common meals. And it doesn’t cause dangerous hallucinations in humans, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What about when Aspen left you? Did he seem angry still? In any kind of rage?”

  “No,” Vane says. “I apologized so many times, he had to order me to stop. Once he left, he seemed perfectly forgiving, which is why I was so surprised when he ordered our execution the next day.”

  I press my lips tight together, wondering how much he knows about my responsibility for that predicament. “There’s nothing else you can think of? Nothing that seemed strange?”

  “After what you did to make the king find mercy, I wish there was something I could say to help you, but there isn’t.”

  I sigh, all my hopes for potential answers dashed like waves upon jagged rocks. Then one more question comes to mind. “Were any of the servants overly friendly with Amelie? Was she intimate with any of them?” At another blush from Vane, I add, “That includes you.”

  “We all found her to be fair, for a human,” he says, “but no one dared take her to bed or do more than look at her. No one would be so stupid to court the king’s betrothed. In fact,” he casts an anxious glance behind him at the guards outside the door, “I’ve likely overstayed my welcome.”

  I want to drill him with more questions, but he’s probably right. Besides, I’m not sure what else to ask. All further questions I’d prepared hinged on him having something of value to tell me. “Very well. Thank you for speaking with me.”

  Once he’s gone, I’m left alone to ponder the conversation. It leaves me just as frustrated as I was before. Speaking to Vane had been my one great idea, my one way to possibly gain some sense of control over the questions that continue to plague me. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. The longer I’ve been in Faerwyvae, the less control I seem to have. Nothing makes any more sense than it did when I arrived. There’s no explanation for much of the fae’s supposed magic, no clues to what happened the night Amelie died, and no evidence anything will ever make sense again.

  There’s only one thing left to do. I pour myself a glass of wine and sprinkle a pinch of salt into it. With a raise of my glass to no one, I mutter, “Might as well enjoy my freedom.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dread settles over me as the third day dawns since Aspen left, and I realize he’ll be returning any time now. My days without him have been peaceful and uneventful. Then again, I suppose that’s what they were like the few days leading up to his departure as well. Still, I can’t
help but think all that will eventually change. He’ll hassle me to join his bed. Or try and get me to submit to the fae Bonding ritual. He’ll stir my anger and I’ll stir his, I just know it.

  I freeze, noticing my inexplicable flush of excitement at the thought.

  Well, I must be more bored than I thought.

  The day comes and goes. Then another.

  A new dread begins to emerge, one that has me pacing the open expanse in the dining room after breakfast while Lorelei watches with concern.

  “What if something happened?” I mutter.

  “The king will be fine, I’m sure of it,” Lorelei says.

  I roll my eyes. “Not to him. To the treaty or something.”

  “Give Foxglove some credit. He spins truces even better than he spins that pretty hair of yours. If they aren’t back yet, it’s likely only because they are negotiating the finer details.”

  “What if Mr. Holstrom refuses? I mean, anything could happen.” In fact, I’ve spent the best part of two days analyzing every possible logical outcome. Most end in war. “Blazing iron, if my marriage to Aspen ends up being for nothing, I’ll be livid. And if it turns out he’s to blame for breaking the treaty, I’ll kill him my—”

  Shouts ring out somewhere inside the palace.

  Lorelei rises to her feet. “What the bloody oak and ivy?”

  I dart out of the dining room, then pause, listening for more sound. Another shout comes, then muffled, frantic voices.

  Lorelei puts a hand on my arm to keep me from pursuing the source. “Don’t. It might not be safe.”

  She’s probably right, but I have to know what’s going on. My eyes flash to the guards in the hall, the same two who guard my room. They’ve been following me at a distance everywhere I go since Aspen left, and I’ve given up trying to persuade them not to. Finally, they might be useful for once. “You,” I point to one, a female with bright blue eyes and a distinctly feline face, “see what’s going on and report back to me at once.”

  She stands at attention but doesn’t move. Her expression is querulous as she ponders my request.

  I square my shoulders, summoning the snobbery I feigned with the wine servant the other day. “As the king’s mate and lady of Bircharbor Palace, I demand it.”

  The guard finally moves to obey, and Lorelei nudges her shoulder into mine. “Look at you, acting like a queen,” she whispers.

  We remain in the hall, waiting anxious minutes on end for the guard to return. When she does, she brings Foxglove as well. The ambassador’s face is pale, expression troubled. Lorelei and I run to meet him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The king has been injured.” Foxglove says. “Gravely so.”

  A surge of emotion rushes through me, but I can’t identify what it is. Relief? Worry? Satisfaction? “What happened?”

  Foxglove wrings his hands. “I finally convinced the Holstrom father to agree to a bargain. The king would be unarmored and allow Mr. Holstrom to draw blood using a weapon of his choice. The man chose a bow as his weapon and aimed for the king’s heart.”

  At the look on Foxglove’s face, Lorelei gasps, bringing her hands to cover her mouth. “Tell me he isn’t dead.”

  “He isn’t, but…the arrowhead was iron, of course. It got lodged between his ribs just below his heart. Prince Cobalt tried to free it, but the shaft was ash and burned his hands. He was only able to snap the shaft and potentially drove the arrowhead deeper.”

  Lorelei spins toward me and takes me by the shoulders. “You can help him.”

  My eyes go wide. “What?”

  “You’re a—whatever you call it—a surger.”

  “A surgeon,” I correct, “and I, well, don’t you have a fae healer? Gildmar?”

  “Gildmar was summoned immediately,” Foxglove says. “She met us on our way back to the palace and has already done what she can, but she can’t get the arrowhead from between his ribs, especially with his blood becoming more and more poisoned with every minute the iron remains inside him. She can hardly go near the wound at this point, much less tend it.”

  A sense of purpose settles over me. This is exactly what I’m trained for. “I suppose I could help. Where is he?”

  “He’s in the east wing on the bottom floor.”

  “Let me get my things,” I say. “Then take me there.”

  * * *

  I can hear the king well before I see him. As we approach the east wing, moaning echoes from wall to wall, a guttural sound like a wounded animal. We reach the door at the end of the main hall and pause just inside. Aspen lies on a stone table and Cobalt paces the length of it, face twisted with worry. Next to the table stands a short fae with bark-like skin and branches of leafy hair, hand covering her mouth as if protecting herself from a foul smell.

  I take a step inside, drawing Cobalt’s attention. “Evelyn, what are you doing here?”

  “I think I can help him.”

  Cobalt’s brow furrows, either with concern or confusion. His voice comes out small. “You think you…can?”

  I wonder if he meant to say want to. With a nod, I approach the table, Foxglove and Lorelei hovering just behind me. I note the smell of blood filling the air, something I am intimately familiar with. But another pungent odor assaults my senses as well. Tangy. Sharp. Dangerous.

  “I can almost taste the iron in the air,” Lorelei says with a cough. “Oak and ivy, that’s strong.”

  Foxglove covers his mouth with his sleeve and takes a step back. With a deep breath, I look over the king. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, teeth gritted, head lolling side to side as he moans in agony. His golden skin has faded so pale it’s almost white, with an unhealthy blue tinge beneath it. His lips are chapped and peeling, and his eyes look sunken, a bruise-like purple surrounding them.

  Cobalt faces the tiny fae. “Gildmar, show her the wound.”

  She eyes me for a moment, then reaches for the silk sheet covering Aspen’s body and pulls it away from his neck. With a gasp, she springs away and drops the sheet as if it burned her.

  “I’ll do it.” I take a cautious step forward, training my expression beneath my surgeon’s calm despite my racing heart. With quick, deliberate movements, I set down my surgery kit and pull the sheet down, exposing Aspen’s chest. The tang of blood and iron increase, and the fae step farther away. My hands tremble as I tuck the sheet around his waist and take in his damaged chest.

  A poultice covers the wound, which is on his left side, not far from his heart. If he has a heart, that is. The skin around it is every shade of black, purple, and blue, with blue-black streaks spreading out in every direction across his torso. His breathing is shallow, labored. I don’t need to know much about fae physiology to know Aspen is dying.

  “What can I use as antiseptic?” I call out.

  “Anti-what?” Gildmar asks, her voice like the creak of an old door.

  I close my eyes, realizing—of course—they don’t have antiseptic. Or know what it is. “Wine then. Someone get me wine. Now.”

  “I’ll get some,” I hear Cobalt say, followed by the sound of his feet tearing from the room.

  I reach for the poultice, lifting a corner. “Has this helped at all?”

  “It is slowing the iron poisoning his blood,” Gildmar says, “but with the arrowhead stuck inside him, there’s nothing I can use to stop it completely.”

  “I need clean cloth.” Gildmar hands me strips of red spider silk. I’ve never used silk for dressing wounds, so I can only hope it will suffice. I set the cloth next to Aspen, then open my surgery kit.

  Scalpel in hand, I return to Aspen.

  His eyes fly open, a roar escaping his lips. “No!”

  I look from his maniacal expression to the scalpel in my hand. Understanding dawns on me as I remember what Lorelei said about human metals—even weak ones—being unbearable to a fae with a current iron injury.

  As Aspen’s body begins to convulse, the scalpel slips from my shaking hands an
d clatters to the floor.

  “Close it!” I hear Lorelei shout behind me. “Close that box!”

  I sink to my knees, fumbling to replace the scalpel and shut the kit. Only when I secure the clasp does Aspen settle back down. I stand, finding the king once again listless. Fresh blood streaked with black oozes from his side beneath the poultice.

  I’m frozen in place, at a loss for both words and actions.

  “You can treat him,” Gildmar says. “He’s calm now.”

  “I can’t use my tools,” I whisper.

  “No, but you can use mine.” The little fae indicates a table strewn with herbs, poultices, shells, sticks, and sharp, white bones.

  “I was trained to use tools. These tools.” I point to my kit, lying useless on the floor.

  “Your hands will work too.”

  I shake my head, backing toward the door. My breaths grow faster, shallower. “No. I can’t do this.”

  Lorelei takes hold of my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  I meet her eyes, frantic. “I’m not trained for this. I have no idea what to do if I can’t use my tools.”

  “You don’t need your tools,” she says. “Just do what you did for me.”

  I sigh. It’s time to admit the truth. “I didn’t do anything for you, Lorelei. I merely inspected your wound, helped you stretch. The fact that you felt better afterward was negligible. A placebo, if anything.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” She lifts the hem of her skirt, revealing her leg. Her smooth, unmarred leg with its perfect brown skin. I look to the other, thinking there must be some mistake, but both look exactly alike.

  “It’s a coincidence,” I manage to say. “You were already on the mend.”

  She crosses her arms and lifts a brow. “Seriously? That’s your best explanation.”

  I admit, I have no way to explain how she could have healed that much in a matter of days. “All I know is that it wasn’t because of me.”

  Her eyes go steely, lips pressing into a tight line. “Don’t you dare let my king die. Don’t you dare give up right now, no matter how much you think his death might suit you.”