Eris's lips purse, and she looks down at the map-table in the center of the room. She doesn’t want me here, that’s clear, though I swear I’ve never done a cursed thing to make her hate me so much.
"If you’re speaking of war, then yes, it’s my concern,” I tell them. “I have my people to think of too. And I may be able to convince my mother the threat is real if I know more of what’s going on."
I can’t allow my people to suffer if my mother decides to abstain from this coming war from pure spite.
I circle the map-table. It’s extraordinary. All blues and greens and browns. Valleys carved into the timber, and rivers snaking their way through the grassy plains of the Horde to the North-west, with snow-capped mountains rising out of the map, tipped with white. Little gold castles stand up from the map where the main cities lie. I see Hawthorne Castle ringed with thorns, and Ceres gleams by the sea. To the north, Valerian stands like a bastion of strength, a far cry from its current state. I’ve never seen a map like it.
Little red flags mark the wilderness in the north, beyond the mountains. The Unseelie kingdoms. A chill runs through me. There are considerably more flags there than I'd expected. "There’s so many of them.”
“The Unseelie have always bred like rabbits,” Eris says.
“Some say they’re not as pure blooded as we are,” Finn adds, “and their mixed blood makes them more fertile.”
“These are Blaedwyn’s lands,” Thiago says, gesturing to the eastern side of the map, where the flags have a ravaging white wolf printed on them. “And these are Angharad’s.” He points to the larger swathe of flags in the center. “And far to the west lies Morwenna’s kingdom.”
Those flags are black.
“What are the silver circles?” I ask. They look a little like coins.
“The Hallows.”
You can almost see the path of the ley lines. A Hallow can only be built along one of them, though the nexus point where they meet provides the most magical energy. The origin Hallows—the ones that trapped the Old Ones—stand at each nexus point. It’s where the Veil thins between worlds at each equinox and solstice, where creatures from other realms can step through into ours, even if it’s only for one night.
There are significantly more of them in the Unseelie kingdoms.
“The Unseelie worshipped the Old Ones more than we ever did,” Thiago says. “Most of their Hallows have been used as places of worship for centuries. They brought tributes there, and gave sacrifices, and over the years the power in the Hallows began to grow in response.” He points to one of the silver coins in Blaedwyn’s territories. A golden pair of antlers is stamped onto the face of it. “This is where the Erlking stepped from his realm into ours, leading the Wild Hunt with him. This is where he’s trapped.” His finger moves to the far north, where a horned skull replaces the antlers. “This represents the Horned One and his prison.” On toward a hound. “The Grimm.” To an icy crown. “The Frost Giant.” South toward a ghostly, howling face. “The Wraithenwold.” Toward Morwenna’s lands. “Red Mag. The Raven King. Bloody Mara.” He’s turning south now, toward our own lands. Toward Mistmere. “The Mother of Night.” Into the forests that adorn my mother’s kingdom. “The Green Man.” South to the Isle of Stormhaven. “The Father of Storms.”
There are only two origin Hallows left.
One in Queen Maren’s kingdom, and one in Queen Lucidia’s.
I finish for him, “The Dreamthief. And Mrog the Warmonger.”
“Do we know whether they’ll sustain the powers they had if they reenter this world?” Thalia muses. “They were once worshipped as gods, and belief in a god is a power of its own. After all these years, surely their powers are dying with so few left who make sacrifices to them?”
“It’s not just the sacrifices,” Baylor says, scratching at his stubble. “What do we leave on our window sills on Samhain?”
“Salt,” Thalia replies.
Eris shrugs. “Iron shavings.”
“Why?” Baylor asks.
I’ve never truly thought of it. It’s simply tradition. “To stop the Wild Hunt from entering your home.”
“We hang mistletoe in the entrance of our doors,” he says, “because mistletoe is fatal to the Erlking. Some peasants in the western marshes prefer to hang horseshoes there for good luck, and they forget that once upon a time, it was to repel the Hunt.”
“What do you hang above your bed to prevent the Dreamthief from stealing your soul away to the realm of dreams?” Thiago asks.
“Webs woven with iron beads to trap him,” I whisper, starting to realize what they’re both suggesting. “It’s not worship, but it is belief. We believe in the Old Ones’ powers every time we take steps to counter them. We’re granting them strength as we do it.”
Eris snorts. “And if they find themselves weak, then they’ll simply tap into the ley lines’ powers and drink up all that delicious magic until they look like Finn at a banquet.”
Finn lobs a blueberry at her head. “Elegant and exceptionally handsome?”
“Bloated with enough mead to drown a ship.”
“So they’ll retain all their old powers.” Thalia circles the map, sliding a silver Hallow from its nexus point. It’s stamped with the trident that the Father of Storms wields. Flipping it in the air, she stares at the picture grimly. “I do not want to meet the Father of Storms. They say he shackles his saltkissed and sends them to hunt at his edict. They were his hounds of the sea, and while my bloodlines are diluted, I would very much not care to test the theory that anyone with salt in their blood must answer his call.”
“We all have certain ghosts of the past we don’t want to see again.” Thiago stares through the map, and I wonder which Old One he’s picturing. “The Alliance will take its time ascertaining the truth of what Angharad’s doing at Mistmere, but I don’t intend to sit here, twiddling my thumbs.” He rubs a silver Hallow coin between his thumb and forefinger. “Baylor and Eris, I want two companies of warriors standing at the ready. The second I give the command, they need to be prepared to take Mistmere.”
“Of course,” Baylor rumbles, and Eris simply nods.
“Thalia, my sweet, sweet Thalia,” Thiago says, capturing her hand and lifting it to his lips. “Evernight must be prepared to face a war. I want more grain shipments coming in, and instruct the armory to increase production—”
“I do know what I’m doing, Thi,” she drawls. “Any spies in the city will know what we’re preparing for, but at least we’ll be ready.”
“Finn.” Thiago turns to the affable rogue.
“I know,” Finn sighs. “I lost the trail near Vervain Forest, but he has to be out there somewhere. I’ll find him. I promise.”
Every inch of me stills.
“This isn’t like him,” Baylor says gruffly. “If it was Finn, I’d say he was led astray by a particularly handsome widow or a grape festival. But Lysander knew the risks. He knew the importance of his mission. He wouldn’t just vanish without due cause. And it’s been a year now.”