Winter of Traitors: House Woodthorne Book Three

Aislinn

“He’s not coming home, Aislinn.”

Those words buried into my chest like an axe each time they passed through Landyn’s lips. I tensed and then continued, lugging a basket of wheat stalks to the millhouse. He stayed on my tail, talking. Like usual.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone since we returned. Rest. Please. Working hard won’t make Daegyn appear.”

“There’s much to do around here,” I said, ignoring the sincerity in his voice.

Daegyn had been a workhorse, and his absence left Thornacre in struggle. But the added workload kept my mind busy, as well as my body.

Landyn caught up to me as I reached the door. The fresh scent of sandalwood enveloped my senses as he firmly lowered the basket in my hands. “Everyone is pulling their weight, Aislinn. You need to rest. You haven’t slept in six weeks. You look horrid.”

“Thanks for the concern,” I snipped, yanking the basket from his hand. I entered the millhouse, calling over my shoulder, “But it’s been five weeks and four days. Not six weeks.”

I wouldn’t forget the day my husband disappeared.

Patrick’s sable brown curls bounced over his pointed ears as he ground wheat. His shirt clung to his small-framed body with perspiration, his sleeves rolled at the elbows. It was autumn, but it was still warm in Thornacre.

I’d used most of the house’s flour reserve. It had been three long weeks of mindless toiling and stress-baking since Landyn forced me to leave the wreckage of Isolde’s island.

Landyn’s words were true—I needed rest—but I didn’t stop. My tendons ached, and the hot sensation of exhaustion watered my eyes. But I couldn’t rest when my heart hurt so profusely, and I couldn’t accept that his brother was gone.

I wouldn’t.

Isolde had reigned victorious in her battle for the crown, but at what cost? Many men had died, and the kingdoms of Mudkeep and the Hellish Atoll had been left in utter disrepair. Wildmouth Woods, Angeltide Reef, and Orcville reportedly sat vacant, with the majority of their inhabitants left dead in the wake of Morgan Joss. The heartless human hadn’t managed to take over the realm, but he had left Carafye in need of a complete restoration.

I didn’t doubt Isolde, but I held inexplicable resentment towards her. Daegyn hadn’t wanted to be a part of her cause. I’d skipped her coronation and ignored her letters and payments. It couldn’t bring back Daegyn, no matter how generous, and I couldn’t fathom leaving his cottage.

I sighed as I plopped the basket down on the worktable. I pitied Patrick, working in the stuffy millhouse all day. His limbs trembled from the repetitive movement. “Thank you, Patrick.”

Patrick gave me a nod as he continued, a sheen of sweat glazing his fair skin. “Of course, Lady Woodthorne.”

Hearing my new last name gave me chills, but not the good kind. It was a constant, hollow reminder of who I’d been so eager to become. Daegyn’s wife. I was a fool, having been made a widow once before already.

Two husbands lost and a child under a different roof, in a different kingdom, left me hopeless. I turned to the only thing I could—baking. There was a relaxing rhythm in the simplicity of measuring, mixing, and kneading.

“Perhaps scones and pear jam for tea this afternoon,” I said, wiping my palms against my apron. I faced Landyn with a smile so fake it hurt, but he only glared at me down the bridge of his wide nose.

“Perhaps you should return to your cottage and catch some shut-eye. Please. The circles around your eyes are alarming.” Landyn crossed his arms over his chest. “Daegyn would want you to mourn, rest, and heal. Not stay stuck in this useless cycle of denial.”

“Me? Denial? No.” I shook my head as I exited the millhouse, stepping into the sunny garden. “I’m Daegyn’s wife. And I will wait for him, no matter how long it takes.”

Landyn followed. “Where do you suppose he is, Aislinn? We’ve been through this a dozen times. If he had survived, he would have come home to you. He loved you.”

Loved. The past tense always choked me up. I focused on the incoming flock of black birds overhead. They reminded me of Daegyn’s missing falcons. Thornacre was an ever-present reminder of him—something that made me sick yet comforted me at the same time.

“I’ve got to get going.” I shielded my eyes from the sun. “Time to prepare for the Black Carriers.”

Landyn sighed. “Daegyn was their only master. They’ve turned feral and will not return. Don’t waste your energy.”

I lifted my chin, my eyes raking up and down his form. Concern etched across his gilt face, but I wouldn’t abandon Daegyn’s legacy. “I’ve got to try. It’s what Daegyn would want.”

Landyn quieted, his lips twisting into a look reminiscent of a faint smile. It had been so long since I’d seen a true one. “Very well, then. I admire your perseverance. Daegyn would, too.”

This warmed me, made me feel as though I weren’t entirely numb. Landyn looked so much like his brother, yet so different. Warm, honey-toned skin, beard and head full of long, golden curls. Landyn was joy personified, where my Daegyn had always been the melancholy moon. Lonesome yet beautiful.

They shared the same hellfire eyes, broad shoulders, and shimmering skin, though. I supposed those were Gallien’s features—their father—as they had different mothers. Landyn told me the truth, that Daegyn’s mother had not been his own. I wondered how Daegyn had felt about it, as he never had the chance to tell me.

“I miss him, too, you know.” Landyn’s words were earnest and soft, almost lost in the trickling of the nearby creek as we emerged from the edge of the Thornacre forest and headed into the walled-in courtyard.

“I know.”

He had helped me scour the remains of unidentifiable, charred, dismembered soldiers and search through the concrete debris of the demolished fortress for weeks. He’d hardly slept or eaten until we returned home, and then, he retired to his chambers for an entire week. He put a gravestone in the west garden in memory of his brother. I couldn’t bear to look at it.

Landyn hadn’t been the same since it happened, but he persisted with me, attempting to lighten my mood and trying his best to persuade me to eat and sleep. I didn’t, but I appreciated the gesture, nonetheless.

“Be careful, Aislinn,” he said, his voice strained with sorrow.

I nodded over my shoulder, hardly giving him my attention.

* * *

The falcon house was a painful reminder of the chemistry between Daegyn and me. Many moments we’d shared there, pining for one another before we were wed. I smiled as I recalled our banter, stepping through the once noisy doorway of the stone building.

Now, it was quiet and reeked of old shit. Dust covered the mews, and I thought perhaps the birds had abandoned their home long before Daegyn’s disappearance. We’d been gone for months, rallying Isolde’s troops and training at the Hellish Atoll.

Before we left, Daegyn instructed Patrick and Osbert to look after the birds, but the Black Carriers were fickle when it came to their handlers. I imagined they didn’t like their new guardians and left.

Daegyn had been their trusted handler. They meant a lot to him, more than he would have ever admitted, and I had to at least try to bring them back home. What if he returned to his rare, beloved birds gone?

An empty sensation churned in my gut, and I wondered if indeed he would ever return home. I shook away the seed of doubt and fetched the broom from the corner. Once the place was decent, I reached for a hefty sack of birdseed on a shelf. It was tied shut, but little pecks at the burlap told me a winged thief had taken what they needed.

I lined the windowsill. I hadn’t seen the robin, either, but thought perhaps the birdseed would entice her. Her lack of presence hurt more than the falcons, for she’d been the tie between us. Daegyn’s familiar. At one point, I’d been annoyed by her constant birdsong, but I longed to hear her tune.

Perhaps she’s looking for Daegyn, too.

Remembering the horrible day he disappeared made me feel ill. It was now known across Carafye as the War of Salt and Flame, but to me, it was the beginning of a nightmare. Revolt nauseated me, and I doubled over, clutching my abdomen.

I tried tirelessly to suppress the pain, to forget, but it was there every time I shut my eyes. How I’d seen Daegyn and Morgan dueling moments before Taryn’s dragon breathed a firestorm over them. How I’d felt once I realized what had happened. The breathless sensation of defeat as I glanced down past the creature’s leathery wings to see nothing but the burned ground.

I wanted to kill Smallspark after that, but of course, my in-laws refused to let me. Taryn was traumatized by what had happened. He was terrified by the gory reality of the war-disfigured corpses lying in heaps around the island, and at what his own beloved pet had done. And who it had killed. He knew I cared for Daegyn, and he wouldn’t have ever wanted to hurt me. I knew that, truly, but I was furious with the fate of things.

After the tragedy, Taryn went back to the Cruxwing lands. His grandparents thought it was best I have some space and peace, and while the latter was impossible, I was glad to be alone for once. For the first time in my life, I knew I couldn’t be a proper mother.

Acid bubbled up my esophagus, and the few bites of scrambled eggs I’d gobbled down for breakfast threatened to come up.

I looked out the window, taking a deep breath. Close by, smoke rippled from Helisynt’s cottage. I was relieved she survived unscathed, but every time I thought of her, I remembered collapsing in the stillroom, a lifeless Brander in my arms. I’d felt it was my duty to protect him. And I’d failed.

Helisynt had healed my back nicely with a magic salve and an operation; it was incredibly painful at first, but it healed over the weeks. One couldn’t tell by looking that Morgan had whacked his spiked club into my spine. All that remained was an internal pain that plagued me if I lifted something too heavy.

Recalling the pain of Morgan’s poisoned club digging into my flesh made me extra sick. I held my breath, puffing out my cheeks. One, two, three, four, five, I counted silently.

The wave of sickness passed, and with a clear head, I refused to revisit the emotions that often consumed me. Grief had left me fatigued, and I thought perhaps I should take Landyn’s advice after all. A quick nap didn’t sound horrible; at night, my dreams were haunted by memories of Daegyn and the life we were so desperate to make.

I left the falcon house, heading home to Daegyn’s cottage. Staying there was a bittersweet embrace. His things were there. The only thing that gave me some semblance of peace was wrapping myself in the cotton sheets of his bed that still smelled faintly of him. It had been months since we’d lain there together, but if I inhaled the worn material, I could smell notes of wood smoke and earth.

The more I walked, the wearier I felt, and I could almost feel the too-soft, old bedding around me. I couldn’t wait to sink into it, my eyelids feeling like they were made of heavy iron. I came upon the clearing where the rubble stone cottage with its thatched roof sat.

Without Daegyn’s presence, the cottage wasn’t protected by his magic. An elven spell had disguised it behind rows of evergreens that shifted only for those who knew how to recite it. I didn’t know the elven language, nor was I certain I could perform their spells. But with Morgan being gone, as well as all traces of the Grimwoods, it seemed futile to have the overkill layer of protection.

Of course, if I’d studied any of the spell books in the library, I could’ve likely conjured a similar protection. I was a fire mage with witch blood running through my veins, but my newfound abilities didn’t matter much to me anymore. Upon learning of my true heritage, I’d planned on studying grimoires and practicing magic after the war; at Isolde’s camp, I’d only had time to hone my fire-wielding. I was unsure of what else I was capable of.

I hadn’t studied or practiced or done much of anything with my powers since returning. The fire-wielding came in useful when a hearth or oven needed to be lit, but that was all. No need had arisen, and I didn’t seek out any further practice with my gift.

I was simply hollow.

Hollow and completely exhausted. I unlocked the door, kicking my boots off as I made my way inside. The fuzz of the bearskin rug tickled my feet as I made my way to bed. The room was quiet, only the squawking of wild birds in the trees outside finding my ears. Underneath the warm bedding, in the still room, I felt like an animal myself. Like a small creature, burrowing itself in the earth and hibernating.

I wish I could sleep forever.

I closed my eyes, nausea revisiting me. Haven’t I suffered enough? I was no stranger to grief, but gods, it punished me thoroughly every time.

I placed a hand to my throat. Had it really been five weeks and four days since I’d last kissed my husband? Last spoke to him of my love?

A hot tear slid down my nose, a deep cramp wringing my insides. My menses regularly came like clockwork, but they’d been skewed since the tragedy. Stress did that, I knew. I’d experienced it before.

I clutched my gut, as if the pressure of my hand would stop the rolling of my insides. With a deep breath, I sat up and prepared to scrounge up some bog moss for the oncoming menses, but a wave of sickness hit me again. I hardly made it out the door before I vomited.

Shuddering, I wiped my chin with my sleeve and looked up at the old oak before me. The scarlet leaves had all turned crisp and brown, many of them fallen. A sign winter was on its way.

As I straightened my posture, standing before the puddle of my regurgitated breakfast, I knew what this sign meant, too.