Chapter 617: The Rose of Coldwind Ridge
Iffy sat still and listened as Tilly laid out the whole history of the Bloodfang Association—how it had been founded, what Heidi Morgan had actually been building toward, the machinery of manipulation beneath the surface of it. When Tilly reached the part about Skyflare, about Annie being handed to the noble, something tightened around Iffy’s chest and stayed there.
“Heidi,” she said. “Where is she now?”
“She received what she deserved.” Ashes was standing behind Tilly, arms folded. “Skyflare tried to resist during the arrest. She ended up on the same path.”
“Oh.” Iffy let out a breath. “Thank you.”
Her hands unclenched on their own.
She had expected to feel something larger—relief, or justice, or closure. What she felt instead was a sudden emptiness where purpose had been. The people who had set everything in motion were gone. The shape revenge would have taken no longer had an object. She was left only with the fact of Annie’s absence and the specific, aching uselessness of surviving someone you couldn’t protect.
Worse: she was the only person directly involved who had not been punished. That pressed on her in a way she didn’t entirely have words for.
“I want to ask something of you,” Tilly said, after a moment of silence. “The surviving members of the Bloodfang Association were deceived by Heidi just as you were. They should not carry her crimes. But the relationship between combat and assistant witches on Sleeping Island has been fractured—it would be wrong to solve one injury by creating another. I need someone who can speak honestly to both sides.”
Iffy nodded before Tilly had finished. “I’ll do it.”
Tilly looked almost surprised. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. What should I do?”
“Tell the others your story with Annie,” Tilly said. “The truth of it. I’ll tell everyone about Heidi’s crimes—what she actually did, what she intended. When the church is finally finished, I’ll send people to Wolfheart to find the witches that noble is holding. If any of them are still alive, Roland will see to their rescue.”
“I understand.” She was determined to take any weight she could from this. That much, at least, was clear.
Tilly leaned forward and cupped Iffy’s face in both hands. The warmth of it spread unexpectedly across Iffy’s cheeks.
“Are you all right?” Tilly asked quietly.
“I’m fine.” She blinked a few times. “Just a little tired.”
Tilly held her gaze for a long moment, searching. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Rest.”
Iffy sat still until she could no longer hear their footsteps.
Then she lay down.
She didn’t cry. She told herself: this is only the body’s response. It was not grief, not weakness. It was simply proof that she missed Annie—that missing someone left a physical mark, the way a bruise is just the body recording what it was struck by.
But the tears ran faster regardless.
Roland read the evacuation reports under lamplight and felt the mild foreignness of it—how long had it been since he’d worked by candlelight? City of Neverwinter had pushed him so close to a modern standard of living that returning to tallow and shadow felt like a step backward in time.
That was, in a way, what this was.
The kingdom was unevenly industrialized: chimneys and boilers existed in the Western Region, but out here, even the simplest comforts were absent. No showers. No scented soap. No electrical light. He had set things in motion from Border Town and watched them extend outward, but the extension was slow. There was still so much to do before any of it reached people like the ones in these reports.
He set down the papers and rubbed his eyes. Before he could complete the motion, two invisible hands found his temples and began to work at them in small, patient circles.
“Thanks,” he mouthed—tilting his head slightly toward the pressure without looking—and went back to reading.
When Barov wasn’t present, Sir Eltek filled the role of office assistant with surprising competence. His statistical summaries were clean and organized, nearly up to the standard of the trained city-hall staff in Neverwinter.
“What percentage of Coldwind Ridge’s residents are willing to relocate to the Western Region?” Roland asked without looking up.
“At least seventy percent, Your Majesty.” Eltek set down his pen. “I put the question to the duke as well. He confirmed that Coldwind Ridge was never a desirable place to live—without the strategic requirement to monitor the church’s movements, no town would have developed there at all. The remaining thirty percent are primarily those with farmland or established businesses in the Northern Region.”
“Good. Begin the planning. Every ship should carry passengers on both legs—no returning empty. Move people west in as large batches as the capacity allows.”
“But Duke Calvin may have concerns about—”
“I’ll address them personally.” Roland drank a swallow of tea. He paused, then said: “After this war ends, whether we win—” Nightingale’s hand covered his mouth lightly. He stopped. Don’t say it. He started again. “After the war, there’ll be no strategic reason to maintain a settlement at Coldwind Ridge. You can factor that into your long-term planning.”
Eltek considered this carefully. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He was gathering his papers when the bodyguard Sean opened the study door.
“There’s a woman at the gate, Your Majesty. She came after dark and refuses to leave. She says she is Mrs. Wimbledon.”
Roland looked up from the report. “Mrs. Wimbledon.”
“Yes. I’ve seen her twice near the castle during the day. She seemed to be watching for the right moment. And—she’s not claiming to be your wife, Your Majesty. I should clarify that.”
“Then which Wimbledon?”
Sean didn’t answer, just held the door open.
The woman who entered was not what Roland expected. Her face was not particularly striking but had an unusual quality of balance to it—something in the set of the features that held a person’s attention longer than it should. She was small and slim, with the kind of steadiness that didn’t require size. Her dress was muddy at the hem. She had clearly been waiting outside in it for some time.
She curtsied. “Olivia of Coldwind Ridge, Your Majesty.”
“You claimed to be Mrs. Wimbledon,” Roland said. “That’s a serious accusation to level if it isn’t true. Why wait until night to present yourself?”
She lifted her chin slightly. “Because during daylight, I wouldn’t have gotten past the gate.” She held his gaze. “I can’t call myself your elder brother’s true wife. But we were in love.”
“Elder brother.” Roland went still. “Timothy?”
She shook her head.
“Gerald?”
Color rose in her face. She dropped to her knees. “I know Gerald had designs on the throne. I know he’s dead now. But please—” Her voice stayed controlled even while her knees hit the stone floor. “Please help me. For his sake. I’m begging you.”