The Crown of Oaths and Curses (The Mortal Fates #1)

by J. Bree

She doesn't react except to send me a sidelong look, distrust woven into her features as she readies herself for an attack.

The cold and empty smile that stretches across her lips is very different to the one she gave him. “I don't know why you ask, Prince Soren, when you have every intention of dismissing my words as lies.”

“He asked me who I was and where I came from, and I told him. The goblins haven’t forgotten the way of this world, and my name means something to him, enough that he offered me sanctuary in Goblin City.” My head snaps toward her, but she ignores my reaction, her tone unchanging with her calm delivery. “I told him that it’s my fate to stay with you and that I wished to take the milk thistle.

I have no doubt of her protectiveness toward Airlie and the baby. She wants them alive. My concerns are her motives behind that desire, but for now, I’ll use her knowledge and skills to ensure their safety.

“He offered me some marriage advice as well, but I told him it wouldn't apply in our case.” My gut clenches, my tone harsh as I snap, “You truly believe I'm going to marry you?” She huffs out a chuckle,

No matter what else she does, whatever acts of service and loyalty she shows, I can’t trust her for this reason. Her motives will always be her own, while mine must always consider my people, my hands tied from birth.

“He told me the Fates know better than we do, and if they placed us together, then we can trust in that. He’s sure that someday, we will find our way to one another, not just in our physical forms but in our hearts as well.” She turns to me, her silver eyes flashing in the icy, white depths of winter’s hold. “I don't see any danger of that happening here, do you, Prince Soren?”

“The lands aren't dying because the witches are poisoning them. The lands are dying because no one is caring for them anymore.”

There’s a determined set to her face, a stern expression that leaves no room for arguing. Whatever her life was before her return, she’s not accustomed to being told no.

“You asked what I was doing in the dungeon and how I sustained myself? I gave a blood offering to the earth and, in return, it sustained me. It doesn’t want to take from us without giving something in return, so why should it give to us if we don’t offer the same?”

I don't understand this practice, but none of it appears dangerous to Airlie or the baby. Still, I watch it all.

Have the high fae forgotten everything?”

The skin at the back of my neck itches as a snarl curls my lip. I hate the way she says that, the superior tone of her voice…and I hate the way it's true. We have forgotten what it means to take care of anything but our own affairs, starting with our magic.

The high fae forgot how to use it long ago—long enough that my father didn't have access to his own magic, nor his father before him—generations of high fae with a p...

Three Unseelie high-fae princes hover around my seat at Airlie’s side, glaring and savage, as they watch the princess drink the tea I brewed for her.

There's a tug in my heart at the sweet and gentle noises he makes, a small reminder of the other babies I’ve seen into the world and honored in this way.

No one has asked her in my presence, either, so I take their lead and leave such things for later.

I haven't slept, but I have more training than most in going several days in a row without a moment of sleep.

His gaze follows me as I go through the routines of early child care and tending to a new mother, his presence impossible to fully ignore no matter how focused on the tasks as I am.

He doesn't say a word or interrupt in any way as the night goes on in a blur of tasks and it makes the work easier for me. The baby wakes, his diaper is changed, his mother feeds and burps him, smiling at his grunting as he works through his wind, then settles him back in the crib for a few hours only to start all over again.

When I find that he’s wet all the way through, a fantastic sign of the princess’s milk supply, I do a full inspection of him as I get him changed into clean and dry clothing once more.

I check his reflexes, his breathing, the pallor of his skin, and the small section of the cord still left on his belly from where he'd been connected to his mother.

There's no sign of infection; his limbs are strong and his temperature is perfect. By all accounts, he's perfectly healthy, just a little bit small. By the time I have him dressed once more, happily bundled up, his grunts and whimpers have turned...

Airlie wakes, her eyes popping open as she sits up in the bed in a rush. The same moment of panic is on her face every time she wakes, so terrified it's all been nothing but a dream. When she spots him in my arms, a sigh of relief expels from her lip...

She never questions my critiques or adjustments, simply listens to me and nods. She's not at all what I was expecting her to be as a patient. I assumed the moment the baby was born alive and well, she would throw me back into the dungeon, refuse my help, and spurn any suggestions I might have. Instead, she soaks up every bit of the knowledge I give her, steady and confident ...

I murmur a quiet thanks to the Fates in the old language, a custom of the Ravenswyrd Coven, and the princess’s eyebrows rise.

I stand and walk to the window to pull back the heavy drapes, letting in some light and freshness to chase away the last remnants of the long night. I’m aware that Prince Soren is listening to our every word, weighing up my actions and my truths for his own assessments of my character and motives, but in this I have nothing to hide.

I'm sure she trusts me with him only because Prince Soren is sitting in the corner watching us both, his gaze like a hot brand across my skin that I can’t truly ignore, but it feels like the smallest of victories. A tiny step toward a less

tumultuous path to my fate, and relief warms my chest.

If I have to be here with these people, I might as wel...

I'm woken by a rough hand on my shoulder. My magic flares to life, snapping out in protection as I’m caught unaware, and it reaches out to grasp whoever is attacking me. Only at the last moment do I see a maid staring down at me, terrified as she feels the tendrils of power wrapping around her arm.

This is Princess Airlie’s mother. I met her when I was dragged before the Unseelie Court. She didn’t make a great impression on me then, and the drivel pouring from her mouth now only makes matters worse.

calls his orders to me, “The castle is on lockdown, no one in or out. You will tend to Airlie in my absence.”

the maid steps up to stand at my side. She’s been assigned to me, clearly, and I turn back to watch the disastrous scene play out before us.

Let this all be nothing more than a precaution, and keep any harm from coming to the prince. Send Roan home to his son.

She has no right to come to Yregar and question her daughter's decisions, and she’s certainly in no position to demand we remove Airlie from a healer’s care, no matter how loath we all are that the healer is a witch.

We’re expecting retaliation for the witches’ curse breaking, sure that Kharl will lead an attack on Yregar now that his most deadly defense against my people has been unraveled.

Whether the witches have spies other than my uncle and my Fates-cursed mate living amongst the high fae I don’t know for sure, but their newfound fixation on the Outlands is suspicious.

We can lose ourselves in the Fates' whims once we have Roan back at Yregar safely, naming his son and talking some sense back into his stubborn wife.”

the Outland soldier shoots a few strays running from the battle, picking them off even as his horse gallops beneath him with ease. Whoever this soldier is, I’d like to keep him amongst my own forces for such skill and loyalty to his prince.

I begin to pray to the Fates once more. I promise them endless submission if Roan survives this ride home, that I’ll marry the witch and become the King of the Southern Lands.

I’ll do it all if she's able to save Roan's life with no supplies, no tinctures, no herbs, nothing that the healers of old used, nothing but her bare hands. It’s an impossible task; even someone as uneducated in such things as I am knows it, but I promise the Fates I’ll follow through with their desires if they save Roan’s life even with her at my side.

If the witch can break a kingdom-wide curse, surely she can fix a few simp...

At the last moment I turn back and snap, “No one tells the princess about this, not a word or it’s your death.” If anyone is to tell my cousin of her husband's death, it’ll be me. Not a maid or soldier gossiping within her hearing—I’ll be the one to look her in the eyes and explain that I failed her.

She glances at me for the briefest of moments before gesturing a hand at his legs. “Hold him down. This is going to hurt.” Her eyes begin to glow, the silver coming alive with power, and every high fae in the room tenses as we ready for her attack. Her hand hovers by the arrows, and a purple-black liquid begins to bleed from around the punctures, the poison drawn out by the witch.

Her magic presses around his body as visible to me as the blood itself in its white glow, a sight that freezes the blood in my own veins as I fight my reaction to it. Though the tug of the Fates is still insistent in my chest at her presence, centuries of violence and war have primed my reflexes for my own survival and a cold drop of sweat rolls down my spine.

Every muscle, nerve, and sinew is pulled taut to stop myself from shoving her away from Roan and drawing my sword, the pull between us both and my skepticism warring in my mind until my teeth ...

Three days in the snow, battling witches and hacking their way slowly toward us—it's a wonder any of them survived.

Reed’s eyes widen, and he straightens as the witch lifts the blade over Roan's chest, tensing as though he’s about to dive at her and rip it from her hands. I hold up a hand to stop him before I take hold of Roan’s ankles once more.

The shafts are lined with rows of barbs, designed to do the most damage to the target, and the only way to remove them is to cut them out. The work requires a steady hand, one that can't be distracted by the suspicions of those around her, and when the realization finally hits Reed, he cringes, his forehead breaking out in sweat.