The Evergreen Heir, page 1
Dedication
Dedicated to everyone brave enough to be their true selves in a world that feels like it wasn’t made for them. Keep being brave xx
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Content Warning
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Dramatis Personae
Acknowledgments
Announcement A River of Golden Bones
About the Author
Also by A.K. Mulford
Copyright
About the Publisher
Content Warning
This book contains themes of violence, death, loss, fire, misgendering, ableism, and addiction, as well as sexually explicit scenes.
Map
Chapter One
Neelo’s fingers trembled as they traced down the spines of the old tomes. They took a slow breath, and then another, letting the old book smell steady them.
They couldn’t marry him.
The thought came as fast as the engagement had: their mother inciting another brawl to win the title of Neelo’s betrothed, the instant, blundering chaos, and somehow Talhan Catullus getting pulled into the fray. The look on Talhan’s face flashed through Neelo’s mind again. When it was over, he’d just stared at them—shocked. The cavalier smirk he normally wore was wiped clean and something deeper, something that burned into Neelo, had filled Talhan’s gaze instead.
Why did it have to be him?
Of all the people Neelo could’ve easily dismissed . . . why did it have to be the Golden Eagle himself? He was one of the few people in Neelo’s life who didn’t make them feel like a thorn amongst the roses, and now their mother had ruined that for them too.
Queen Emberspear’s increasingly desperate bids to play matchmaker were growing weary already, but this time, she’d really messed up. She’d chosen Neelo’s friend. Their mother had pushed for Neelo’s coronation the moment they came of age, citing her waning health from the witching brew that addled her mind, but Neelo knew the Queen simply wanted all of the revelry of a Southern Court royal without any more of the responsibility. Life was already a party to her, the least the Queen could do was deign to rule her people from time to time too.
It was a constant battle to convince the Queen to remain on her throne, one that Neelo felt constantly teetering on the precipice of losing, which meant their head would soon be next to bear the crown. Neelo hated imagining it; standing all alone in front of the masses, feeling the needling scrutiny of a thousand eyes upon them, and the inevitable disappointment that an introverted bookworm was now the ruler of their court of debauchery. No, Neelo refused to allow their mother to give up so easily. It wasn’t her time to go.
Neelo paused, fingers lingering on a title they’d never read before: The Witch of Haastmouth. A tingle shot through them as they selected the midnight-blue book from the tall shelf and flicked through the pages. It was written in Mhenbic, the witches’ language. Most fae didn’t learn to read Mhenbic, thought it was beneath them, but Neelo had taught themself to read all three languages of human, witch, and fae before they could even speak. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Neelo could speak, they just chose not to for the first five years of their life . . . and mostly regretted starting ever since. The written word was their first language and stories had always made more sense to them. It was real life—and interacting with real people—that was confusing.
They glanced around the library of Murreneir. The shelves were only half filled and the further Neelo crept into the library, the sparser they became. The grand, circular room still smelled of fresh varnish and wood dust from its hasty construction. Neelo was impressed they’d managed to finish the build before the party at all. The old, worn carpets and dusty leather-bound tomes sat in stark juxtaposition to the fresh candlesticks and perfect blue satin chairs that looked as though they’d never been sat in. The library’s future beauty was clear, though, and Neelo planned to return when it was truly completed.
The momentary reprieve disappeared at the sound of the library door creaking open.
Neelo rushed down the stacks, hoping to disappear amongst the scant rows, but as they turned the corner, swift footsteps followed. They climbed up four steps on a rolling ladder before Talhan Catullus turned the corner and they froze.
“I knew I’d find you here.” His molten gold eyes landed upon them. Crossing his arms and leaning into the nearest shelf, he asked, “Were you about to hide from me on top of that bookshelf?”
Neelo’s voice dripped with sarcasm as they gave him a scornful look. “I was dusting.” They fought the urge to mention the fact that this library was too new to have collected dust.
“With your jacket?”
“No!” they said, though they looked down to check if they were covered in soot.
Talhan’s smile disappeared into something more contemplative, and Neelo’s pulse began to race.
“Neelo,” Talhan whispered, making their stomach clench at the sound of their name on his lips. “I—”
“She’ll forget in the morning,” Neelo cut him off. Bristling, they took a further step down the ladder and met Talhan’s eyes. Those eyes . . . like pools of amber—the sun just after dawn . . .
Neelo hated that look on Talhan’s face as his lips parted and he said, “Oh?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to let her tie you to me,” Neelo reassured him, gripping the rail of the ladder tighter. Its wheels wobbled, probably newly greased. “I won’t let her do that to you.”
Talhan took another step closer, his hand perching on the shelf beside Neelo’s waist. “And what if I want to be tied to you?”
Heart pounding, Neelo shook their head. “What you’d be getting yourself into . . . you don’t understand what that means.”
“Then show me what it means.” His low, gravelly voice made their toes curl in their boots. “What if I come visit Saxbridge? I could stay until the Solstice and—”
“In the heat?” Neelo scoffed. “You Easterners melt into a puddle in the Southern summer. It’s the worst time to—”
“Neelo.” Talhan said their name again, like a chant, like a prayer even as it chided.
“Okay, yes.” They sighed, folding their arms tightly across their chest. “Come visit. In the summer.” They rolled their eyes up to the blank ceiling they were certain would soon display beautiful frescoes. “Then you’ll understand why this is a bad idea.”
Talhan shuffled closer still. He lifted his hand and, for a moment, Neelo thought he might touch their black velvet jacket, but his hand dropped lower and he plucked the book from their hands.
“Have you found one you haven’t read yet?” he asked, smoothing his large, calloused hand over the linen-bound tome. Gods, the way he touched that cover, as if that little witch story was worthy of such reverence. It made Neelo’s own palms—and other parts—buzz. They could still feel the texture of the fabric rubbing beneath their own fingertips.
“We shall see.” Neelo blew out a soft breath. “Sometimes it’s a translated title from Ific or Yexshiri, and I’ve actually read the story before in another language.”
Talhan’s eyebrows shot up. “You can read in Yexshiri?”
“Of course.” Neelo’s lip curved to one side, the closest to a grin they seemed to be able to muster. “Can’t you?”
“I can barely read Ific,” Talhan said ruefully.
He passed the book back to Neelo, and, as they took it, Talhan’s long index finger grazed the back of their hand. Neelo’s breath hitched as his finger slowly trailed away. It was such a small, intimate gesture, like the tiniest bolt of lightning zinged straight through them, and yet it was almost too much.
Neelo’s eyes dropped back to the book and Talhan reached out again, his finger gently touching their chin and lifting their gaze.
“I—”
The door burst open, followed by the sound of heeled boots clicking across the polished wood. Talhan retreated a step as Rish turned the corner. Neelo’s personal attendant looked harried. Sweeping her black locks off her face, the green witch adjusted her emerald gossamer shawl
Neelo’s face morphed back to its normal sharp countenance. “What’s she done this time?”
“Forgive me,” Rish panted, a sheen of sweat covering her flushed cheeks. “Do you remember that time in Southport?”
“Gods,” Neelo cursed, giving Talhan a quick, apologetic look. “I need to go.”
Talhan took a step toward Rish. “Where’s Rua? She’s the host. Why can’t she handle this?”
“She’s with Bri,” Rish said, already turning toward the door.
He quirked his brow. “And where’s Bri?”
Neelo stepped off the ladder and pushed past Talhan, the fabric of their sleeve brushing against his muscled torso. “I’m coming. Don’t worry.”
“Wait,” Talhan said, taking Neelo by the hand, his brows pinching together in concern.
Neelo looked down to where their hands touched and swallowed as the sensation made their whole body warm. “I’ll see you in Saxbridge,” they whispered, yanking their hand away and thundering off after their green witch, unsure if they were happy or distraught for this new crisis because it meant getting away from Talhan’s gaze.
Chapter Two
Neelo dusted the charcoal from the pencil stub onto their sleeve and flipped the letter over, studying each of the sentences as if they might’ve missed something the first hundred times they’d read it. Their mind whirred as they tried to grasp answers just beyond their reach. What was that violet witch, Adisa Monroe, planning for the Southern Court?
Condensation beaded down the windowpane beside them like droplets of sweat. The hatches to the tunnels below Saxbridge Palace had been opened, emitting cool air to combat the springtime heat. Soon it would be scorching—the season when gowns turned to sundresses, breeches crept shorter, and colorfully dyed veils were needed to protect from biting insects and the blinding summer sun . . .
But Neelo Emberspear remained in their black jacket, swapping only from velvet to satin, and long charcoal-gray trousers of a lighter blend. Practice kept them from overheating . . . that and a general lack of exertion.
Neelo had no idea why they were built like a workhorse, their stout muscular frame hiding under a layer of soft flesh. Along with their ever-present scowl, their size and breadth kept most people from pestering them and Neelo loved their body for it. Still, Neelo preferred loose clothing that didn’t hug their broadness—their shape more of an amorphous rectangle than a soldierly triangle or curving hourglass.
Lounging upon the bench seat in the vacant council chamber, Neelo wiped at the wet window and peered out at the vibrant gardens that stretched out to the forest beyond. To the right sat a large oak desk with drawers stuffed with parchment and quills. A tattered centuries-old map of the Southern Court hung on the wall and a beautiful round table was positioned in the center of the room. The table and chairs were constructed of pale wood, tinged in red, built from the amasa tree—the evergreen emblazoned on the Southern Court crest. The council chamber had a modest library, mostly filled with dusty old histories and long-winded manuscripts about court politics. Along the far wall by the windows was a gallery of oil paintings and marble statues of the Gods.
This was a stagnant part of the castle, infrequently visited apart from when the Queen bothered to attend a meeting. The servants would spend weeks afterward cleaning and scrubbing the marble statues—many precious pieces of art almost destroyed in the cloud of smoke their mother left in her wake.
She wasn’t here, now, though, and that meant Neelo could have some peace. There was one window in particular that Neelo liked to read under. It was originally a flaw in the design, a window in the middle of a neat line of oil paintings. But the designer dressed the window in a matching silver frame to hide the imperfection . . . turning the view of the balcony and lawns into an ever-changing painting.
A fluffy gray tabby cat purred loudly on Neelo’s lap, his fur covering the crumpled letter balanced on Neelo’s knee. Neelo stroked a hand over Indi’s tufted ears as he leaned into their scratches. After finding him as an abandoned kitten covered in dye outside of the weaver’s, Indigo—Indi—seemed like the perfect fit. Many people in Saxbridge favored names ending with “O” and, like many others, Neelo shortened it to a nickname. The stray kitten took quite nicely to royal life. Indi haunted the library during the daylight hours, keeping the lizards and mice at bay, and slept at the foot of Neelo’s bed at night. But occasionally on mornings such as this one, he would deign to venture beyond the library so long as there was a comfortable lap to cuddle in.
Neelo circled their charcoal pencil around the word “witches” again. The letter from the Northern Queen was stained with Neelo’s markings, blurring the ink into barely legible lines.
Neelo had asked Rua to send the letter after a chaotic conversation through the magical fae fires. Rua’s frantic voice still seemed to race off the page. Her words about the sickeningly sweet smoke and the cursed witches were unclear and rushed, warning Neelo of an impending threat to the Southern Court—a promise from the former prince of the Eastern Court, Augustus Norwood, but with little in the way of details. Whatever the Norwood prince had planned for the Southern Court, his intentions were vague, but Rua seemed convinced that those plans were already in motion.
Neelo’s mouth tightened as they circled the words in Rua’s letter another time, as if this act would divine the future: violet witches, curse, smoke, Adisa Monroe, Augustus Norwood, Cole Doledir. How were these all connected to the Southern Court and, specifically, how were these three players tied together? An ancient immortal violet witch, a bratty fae prince, and a brown witch healer who felt compelled to flee from a dinner table in Murreneir only a few moons ago. Their intentions felt completely out of reach to Neelo, if connected at all.
The hairs on their arm stood on end and they felt that static thread of fear. A faceless storm was coming for their court, and they needed to unmask it before the South befell the same fate as the assassinated Western Court Queen.
Mind whirling once more, they focused on the prince. Had Augustus Norwood perished with his fleet in the Southern storms as rumors would believe or was he still a part of the violet witch’s plans? The Eastern Court didn’t have enough guidance without a king to direct a full search of their court, maybe he was still hiding there, along with the traitor, Cole Doledir.
Neelo’s strained eyes trailed up to the long, white gravel road that wound through the palace gates and into the city of Saxbridge. They imagined an army of violet witches battering down their gates, a storm of violet smoke advancing with them. A few dawdling servants wandered the road, carrying baskets and leading pack mules, and there were no storms on the horizon, nor any fae warriors riding into town either.
But it was easy to see the attack. Too easy.
“He just sent word,” Rish said and Neelo jumped, catching the letter midair.
Indi flew off Neelo’s lap and landed with a mewling chirp. The tabby cat’s tail swished back and forth and he narrowed his eyes at Rish as if being awoken was a grave insult. He sauntered off, presumably back to hunt lizards in the library.
“Rish,” Neelo said, scowling as they took a calming breath. “Don’t do that.”
Neelo scooped the letter off the floor and set it back in their lap. They hadn’t reached any conclusions about the impending threat before the green witch snuck up on them, but it was no matter. Rua’s letter was a dead end. Neelo wouldn’t find the answer to save their court from that one charcoal-stained page.
“He is leaving Swifthill before the Western Court funerals,” Rish continued, unworried at Neelo’s surprise. The stout little witch adjusted her forest-green apron around her neck, her clothing dusted with corn flour.
She smelled of ginger and cinnamon, and Neelo wondered if she was making her sweet bean cakes. Their stomach grumbled and Neelo had to redirect their thoughts back to the conversation. Rish was still talking, and they hadn’t heard a word she’d said . . .
“. . . and for whatever reason, he believes it is important to get here with haste.” Rish cocked a slender black eyebrow at Neelo as a knowing smirk pulled at her lips.
“He will see this court through fresh eyes during his trip, I’m sure.” Neelo rubbed their fingers across the gold inlaid letters of the books on the shelf behind them. “He’ll probably turn tail and run when he realizes it’s more than drinking and partying.”
