A foreboding silence descends.
“Oh, is that all?” comes Jac’s sarcastic mutter.
“No,” Soren says, very serious. “It is not. They do not call it the Iron Isle without cause. The bedrock is thick with ore. It will weaken anyone with even a drop of fae blood running through their veins.”
The collective foreboding intensifies.
“A perfect maegical prison,” I murmur.
“Precisely.” Soren’s lips flatten into a frown. “Our powers will likely not be at full potential while we are ashore.” His attention shifts to Penn briefly. “Especially those of us who are not naturally at ease surrounded by water.”
Penn’s eyes smolder. “Worry about your own weaknesses. I will handle mine.”
For the next few moments, we all study the map as Soren lays out specifics of the plan. How best to conceal our initial approach,where he thinks he might be able to calm the roiling surf so we can row ashore, what time we will have the best chance at infiltration without tipping off the guards.
I stare at the faded parchment, wishing I felt half as confident as he sounds. The Iron Isle is a seven-day sail from Hylios with good wind. And the wind in the Endless Ocean is notoriously finicky. Ships can get stuck in the doldrums for days, even weeks, on end.
Arwen does not have weeks.
She may not even have days.
But none of us speak of that as we discuss ideas and walk through possible outcomes, laying out contingencies and exit strategies with the limited intel available to us. What little we know about the prison’s interior layout—painstakingly sourced by Soren’s best spies over the last half century—is outdated at best, inaccurate at worst.
“I want to make it clear, this is a voluntary mission.” Soren pauses to glance around at everyone gathered. “I cannot guarantee any of your safety should you choose to take part.”
“She’s my sister.” Vaughn sounds affronted. “I’m coming along.”
“Me, too,” Yara puts in. Her face is a portrait of fury. “Not just for Arwen. For Umyr. For Thisobei.”
“And for my Kazia.” Harpina’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she whispers the name of her lover.
Bretiax signs her agreement.
I clear my throat. “I’m in, too.”
Jac, Farley, Mabon, and Cadogan keep silent, their attention on their king. They cannot—will not—agree if he does not. But their expressions clearly communicate that they have no desire to stay behind while the rest of us sail straight into the jaws of danger.
Penn meets Soren’s eyes, holding them for a long time. No one seems to breathe as we wait for him to give his decision.
“Dyved sails with Llyr,” he says firmly. “We are allies in this war, whatever form it takes.”
I let out a long sigh, undeniably relieved.
“Besides…” The dark flames in Penn’s stare leap higher as he continues. “I would not squander a chance to introduce your stepbrother to the length of my blade, should the opportunity present itself.”
“You will have to beat me to him,” Vaughn cuts in, grinning wolfishly.
Soren expels a breath. “If we are all in agreement—”
“I shall sail with you.”
We all turn as one toward the archway where Melité stands watching us. Her eyes gleam solidly black as she glides into the kitchen, hips swaying with preternatural grace. Even from across the room, I hear Cadogan’s abrupt intake of air.
“Melité.” Soren’s lip curls with distaste at just the sight of her. “You are not trained for combat.”
“So? You expect me to stay behind, doing nothing? One of my sisters is in captivity,” she hisses, hostile. “Another is gravely injured.”
That is a bit of an exaggeration. I tended Tethys myself and, while the slice to her arm is deep, it closed easily with the help of a few stitches. She will heal quickly.