A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 62: Price to be Paid

Chapter 62: Price to be Paid

Even though it was mid-spring and Velaris bloomed, the Wingshield camp, high in the north mountains of Illyria, still had the frigid bite of winter. A faint blush decorated her cheeks at the memory of admiring the rose bushes that blossomed in the garden beneath the bedroom window in the town house. Rhys had pressed up against her back, lips leaving a blazing trail from her shoulder to her neck.

"We did that," he had said, that charming pride tipping into arrogance.

One corner of her lips had tilted up. "Actually, I think that the garden is Nuala's work. I quite remember you telling me that you've never worked a garden in your life."

His hands had slid around her waist, settling linked over the low part of her stomach. "You could also credit the earth and the bees. The rain and sun. But if I recall correctly, we played an integral role in ensuring that spring came with full vigour. That enough magic replenished these lands."

She'd spun, her gaze as sharp as his grin. "I'm surprised you even remember Calanmai at all." As soon as the ritual had begun, the magic had taken him and only one thing had been on his mind. From what she understood, he didn't experience it as strongly as Tamlin would, the Night Court having the most distant relation from the spring season, but as a High Lord it was still a duty he was to perform. And she had been the most willing volunteer to assist.

The memory cracked and faded away with the slap of the bland reality before her, mud spraying through the air as a small unit of Illyrian males skidded to a stop from their descent. Scowling, Galadriel wiped the smudges off her cheeks, shrugging the coat tighter around her front.

Wingshield had no permanent buildings as Windhaven did and it was nothing more than a mess of tent and mud and training rings. As dreary as a home could be. It was no wonder the faces around her were foul. She espied Cassian near one of those training rings where younglings sparred with short staffs, their voices as high as the pitch of thin wood clanking. Leaning against a tree, he had one foot propped over the other, wings flexed outwards in a way that told her he was thinking. He had, for a few months now, been trying to restrict the hours younglings under the age of ten could train.

"They're too young," he explained to her. "Injury too easily and too bad." Illyrians aged faster most fae, their bones thickening and their muscles strengthening at a rate quicker than even mortals but there were still too many reports of children injuring themselves too greatly to properly return to training at all. But Illyrians were a stubborn breed and no amount of reason had convinced them that it was for the better. The camp leader, a brutish-looking man with a thick beard had told Cassian, "If they can't fix themselves at that age, they aren't worthy of seeing battle. Better we figure that out now so the runts can get on with chores with the mothers and daughters."

Galadriel didn't think seeing battle was something someone had to be found worthy of, but she was wise enough to not say that aloud.

Making her way underneath the belly of the tree, she handed Cassian a sandwich stuffed with thin slices of lamb, tomato and cheese. "Have they been listening to you?"

He took a hungry bite into the bread, only half-swallowing as he replied. "The youngest are." He gestured to a ring where boys that looked no older than seven knocked those thin poles at each other. She snorted quietly, wondering if she had looked just as clumsy when Cassian had begun training her. He motioned to another group. "The older ones aren't."

These boys, a group of fifteen or so that looked to be a few years older, hovered around one ring. They jeered and shouted at the two young males wrestling with their bare hands, both of them bruised and bloody-lipped. "I thought they'd enjoy having longer breaks," she said.