Misrule, page 27
Aurora pauses. “Elixirs?”
“That’s the whole reason I freed her from the Garden. I was worried that the curse lifting after you slept for so long would be too much of a shock to your body. That you might…” Shrivel and die overnight. “Well, Rose was supposed to be perfecting an elixir that would mitigate any negative effects.”
Her brow furrows. “I’ve not seen an elixir in a century.”
I step closer. Her appearance is exactly as it was when the Royal Graces were alive. “You’re sure Rose hadn’t been slipping it into your tea?”
“Is that what you told her to do?”
“No…it’s just strange. I would expect you to have Faded at least a little.”
“Let me Fade if I’m going to. I’m not interested in elixirs.” Aurora raises a magnifying glass to a page crammed with spidery script. “I told you before, I’ve always wondered what’s under this Grace magic.”
For perhaps the only time in my life, I miss Rose. The screw of her lips at hearing that remark would be deliciously satisfying.
“Anyway, here.” Aurora swivels her book toward me and taps a diagram. It’s a text about Vila magic. The illustration beneath her fingertip details a pair of joined hands encircled by light and dark magic, representing the ritual that transforms a Fae into Vila. Blood is shed, hands are clasped, and both parties must command the alteration to happen. “What is this part talking about?”
I lean closer and inhale her scent of apple blossom. My heart flutters.
Green and gold
Gold and green
A power which we’ve yet to see
Ah, but ne’er will come the day
When called a force unknown to Fae.
“Ah, that. It’s bothered me, too. At first, I thought it had something to do with Fae turning their magic into that of Vila. But it says, ‘a power which we’ve yet to see,’ so that doesn’t quite make sense. The Fae have always known about Vila power.”
She frowns, thumbing the corner of the page. “And you don’t have any other guesses?”
“I’m afraid not. So much of those old books remain a mystery to us. But maybe we’ll discover more when we go to the High Court. After we have Oryn’s staff, you can ask him anything you like.”
I toss a dried beetle to Callow, who gobbles it out of the air and fixes me with her golden stare, waiting for another.
“Yes.” Aurora sets the magnifying glass down. “About our mission. I want you to promise me that no matter what happens you’ll stick to our plan.”
The next beetle drops from my hand. Callow complains. “Is that your way of saying that you don’t trust me?”
“I’ve always trusted you, Alyce. And I can see that you’re genuinely trying to uphold the promise you made to me in the black tower. But when I was cursed the second time, you acted without me. For me. But without me. Please don’t leave me behind again.”
The fire crackles. “I never intended to leave you behind.”
“I know that.”
She catches my hand, thumb trailing along the hummingbird pulse at the underside of my wrist. The seconds tick by, punctuated by the bleary gibberish of the Imps. And I wait, breath held, hoping she will say something else—that she forgives me. That she’s finally ready to accept me for who I am.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she says instead, letting me go.
Disappointment swoops in my belly. I turn to gather Callow. But then, “Could I— Do you want company?” She stiffens. “Not like that. I just want to be here. With you. In case…”
It is the last time, I cannot bring myself to say.
She fusses with her sleeve.
“No,” she replies. “Maybe one day. But tonight, I’d prefer to be alone.”
I should just go. But I can’t help the surge of anger that simmers behind my breastbone. Callow senses it and mutters. “Then you still do not forgive me.”
It’s a long time before she answers. “No, Alyce. But…I do want to.”
My eyes sting. And I transfer Callow to my shoulder. She knocks her head against my cheek in what I gather is sympathy. Want—the word follows me down the corridor, heavy and loaded. It’s a fraction of an inch closer than where we were on the night of her party. But it is not nearly enough. And I’m not sure it will ever be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Roughly a hundred Goblins, Vila, and Demons make up our small army. Renard argued for triple the number, but that would slow us down, and we already run the risk of being spotted by Fae scouts. Derek tells us that, by winged steed, the High Court is a day’s journey from our own. But we have only about a dozen of those creatures ready. And so, amid a boisterous send-off of dancing Imps and pounding drums and trumpeting horns, our party sets out on foot.
It is the first time in years that I’m witnessing the damage our war has brought to the Etherian courts. We march through ambrosia groves that are nothing but skeletal trees and scorched earth. Pits steaming with foul miasma. Caves and wide hollowed-out tree trunks that might have been Etherian dwellings, shards of household trinkets stark against the charred debris. Fae corpses, their bodies decomposing as their latent magic vainly attempts to sprout silver-limbed saplings between their bones.
Regan is proud, pointing out various landmarks where her Vila triumphed in battle. Goblins, clad in skeletal armor with skulls serving as epaulettes, swap war stories and crow their ballads. Mortania’s presence swells in my body like an overinflated balloon. But this time it is an uncomfortable pressure. When we initially invaded Etherian lands, I was overwhelmingly convinced that they deserved to lose their home. That we deserved to take it. But here, among the wreckage our campaigns have wrought, all I feel is emptiness. I cannot say that I wholly regret the war—not with our blood-soaked history with the Etherians. But my restless thoughts keep circling back to what Torin said about hatred, passed down from generation to generation, neither side willing to let go. About the wounds we refuse to staunch. What will happen when the war is over and all of Etheria is a smoking ruin? Will it have been worth it? The cold wind, laced with the tang of sulfur, bites into my soul.
Aurora shares my disquiet. She rides Chaos, who is annoyed at being relegated to the ground, and nudges his sides whenever one of the Goblins’ tales reaches her ears. Now and then, she’ll look at me. And I see in her eyes the pledge she pulled from my lips, coupled with the whisper-thin thread of hope she spun when I asked about forgiveness.
“I do want to.”
* * *
—
As dusk encroaches, we make camp. Aurora’s tent is close to mine, but she prefers to sit with Derek and his Demon guard. All of the white-hot ire she harbored for the mortal prince seems to have melted away since his return, and it kindles my own frustration. Why can she forgive his transgressions and not mine? Why is what he did to save his people acceptable, and what I did isn’t? It no longer seems to bother her at all that he plotted with the Fae to secure her hand in marriage.
“Careful.” Regan settles beside me on the fallen trunk of a Fae tree. “If you keep staring at him like that, you might kill him. Not that I’d particularly mind his death, but then he wouldn’t be able to help us navigate Oryn’s palace.” She passes me a stick with roasted meat on the end.
“This isn’t vulture again, is it?” I did not enjoy my first taste of the creature.
“Grouse, I’m told.”
I frown, doubting that very much, but nibble on the end anyway. Grease dribbles down my chin and I swipe it away. “We should have brought a couple of Imps with us.”
Callow has graced me with at least half a dozen mice and snakes and other such tribute since we left the palace, and I have no inclination to eat those, either. She’s off on one of her hunts now, and I cringe at the thought of waking to find my hand in a nest of splattered intestines.
“And have them pestering the Goblins with whatever harebrained prank popped into their heads? I think it’s better we eat vulture.”
I’m not sure I agree. But I chew the stringy meat and study the fire. The nights are long, and I can’t dispel the feeling that this last stand will end as Malakar’s had—with all our heads on golden plates.
Trust in me, pet.
“Torin says we should reach the rendezvous point with Neve by tomorrow.”
I nod and pull my cloak closer. This sort of cold makes the memory of our drafty palace feel like a warm blanket. From farther away, the sound of the Goblins’ gravelly laughter echoes, laced with the song of steel being sharpened.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” Regan asks carefully.
I gnaw off the last of the meat. It was definitely not grouse. “A little.” I poke the fire with the end of my stick. The residue of fat pops.
“You’d be a fool if you weren’t.” The nickering of Fae steeds drifts from deeper in the camp. “But yours is the greatest power of this age. This time tomorrow, we’ll have Oryn’s staff.”
Her encouragement should bolster my confidence, but I find myself fixated on something else Regan said: this age. “Do you remember Aelfdene?” I ask. “How he said the mountains would crumble?”
“Yes,” she replies wryly, “and then he bit off his tongue. I’m not sure I trust that ‘prophecy.’ ”
“But if it is true,” I press, disregarding her sarcasm. “Do you think the new age he alluded to is ours?”
Wind stirs the fire, making sparks dance. “You don’t?”
“Torin thinks it might mean a time without Vila or Fae because none of us will survive.”
Regan stares at me, then pries my stick from my hand and sniffs the sharpened end. “You’re right. No more vulture.”
“It’s not that.” I snatch the stick back.
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know. During our early sieges, everything seemed so clear. We rescued the Imps, and the whole court was calling for revenge. But now…”
Shadows dance over Regan’s features, stirred by the Demons weaving overhead. They’ve been taking shifts since we left Briar, cocooning us with their shroudlike forms in order to obscure our party from Fae scouts. If I listen closely enough, I can hear them whisper. It raises gooseflesh on my arms.
“I came looking for you last night.”
My cheeks flame, and I dig my stick into the black silty earth at my feet. “I couldn’t sleep, and I wandered.”
“Nimara.” She catches my wrist. “I can guess where you went. And I think it’s probably the same reason you’re having these thoughts now.”
I yank my arm away. “You think I can’t make up my own mind?”
“I think,” she says slowly, “that the princess’s waking has complicated matters.”
“Complicated.” My laugh clouds in front of my face. That’s a good word to summarize the myriad of disasters that have occurred since Aurora opened her eyes.
Trust in me, pet, Mortania urges from her den. I wish it were that simple.
“Can I ask you something?” Firelight washes over Regan’s rich brown skin. “When you’re with her, is it easy?”
The question is harder to answer than I’d like to admit. I twist my signet ring, the bramble band rough against my finger. Aurora and I have had our arguments. Shouting matches, even. Hurts and betrayals. None of which could be remotely described as easy. But then I think of the look in her amethyst eyes when she came to thank me for the funeral. Her lips against mine. The way she said my name. “Is it supposed to be easy?”
Regan shrugs. “Maybe not. But look at how things are with us.” Her hand crawls across the log to meet mine. Bone spikes atop my green-veined skin. My breath catches, as it did the very first time we touched. “That night in the library—didn’t you feel something?”
A lump forms in my throat, and my lips tingle with the memory of the taste of her. How her body wrapped around mine, and what it felt to be wanted. “Yes. But—”
“Don’t.” She squeezes my hand. “Not again. Just think, please. Think about how you want things to be. How they could be, all the time, if you would let them. Will you?”
I should tell her no—that I cannot give away my heart when it belongs to another. But then a laugh resonates between us. My attention tracks over to Aurora, who is sitting close to Derek and helping him eat. And I wonder if there is a way back to what we were. If there was ever an us at all. Or if I’m pining away for something that never existed. Because Aelfdene was right.
“It was not real.”
“All right,” I hear myself say. “I will.”
* * *
—
I sit at the fire for a long time after Regan goes to bed, knowing I won’t get a wink of sleep after our talk. When the embers finally dim, I decide to visit Chaos where he’s being tended with the other steeds. But then I notice that Derek is alone. My steps veer in his direction.
“This journey must be infuriatingly longer than your last,” I say in greeting, “what with no Fae steed from the Hunt.”
He’s gnawing on a leathery strip of meat and coughs as I take a place opposite him. The Demon guards salute me from their posts. “I’m in much better shape for it.”
“Are you?” His wounds are healing, but his bandages are still spotted scarlet with his blood. And there are angry welts on his wrists where the ropes are digging in.
“I’m conscious.” He shrugs. “No one is shooting at me.”
“Yet.”
He laughs and then sobers when he realizes I’m not joking.
The Demons’ shadows churn, blocking out the moon and stars. The rabble of our camp is beginning to dull. The sound of Goblins snoring floats toward us. “Briar seems to attract a slew of Ryna princes. First Elias. Now Derek, or Theodoric, or whatever your name is. An uncannily lucky sort, the lot of you.”
“As I’m a pawn in two courts”—he pauses and counts on the fingers of one hand—“no, three courts, I can’t say I agree. And I only half-lied about my name. Derek is what my mother and sister call me. It’s short for Theodoric.”
His true name, hidden in plain sight. “I really don’t care.”
The dwindling fire smokes in a gust of wind.
Derek tries to bite through the meat again but gives up and flings it away. “You met King Elias?”
“He wasn’t a king then,” I tell him. “Though he had ambitions of breaking Aurora’s curse and becoming Briar’s.”
His brow rumples beneath his swoop of crow-feather hair. “I thought he didn’t want to marry—”
“Were you there?”
He swallows his next remark. A log collapses and sparks skitter over the ground.
“You look like him,” I admit grudgingly. “Same eyes. Unnerving dimples that make you look like a child.”
He swipes the back of one bound hand over his mouth. “Did he seem mad? That’s what our historians say was rumored, even after the stories about Briar were verified.”
I should lie to him and tell him that the first Ryna prince was absolutely mad. And vile, and as much a tyrant as Tarkin. But for some reason I don’t. “He was perfectly sane. He and Aurora—” I picture them during the celebration in which he kissed her. Her radiance. The care he took when touching her, requesting her permission instead of treating her like an object to be owned. “They were friendly. He was respectful.”
The noises of the Fae steeds carry over the camp.
When Derek speaks, it’s careful and measured. “I mean no harm to her. And I entertained no intention of forcing her to marry me or…” He shifts in his seat. “She’s a good person. I want to help her if I can.”
I note the way his voice goes huskier when he speaks of her. The slight upturn of his lips and the way his shoulders relax. I know the feeling well. And I don’t like seeing it mirrored in someone else.
“If you care for her, let her go. She isn’t yours.”
The doltish boy doesn’t even blink. “She isn’t yours, either.”
That night, the prince of Ryna finds his bed on the cold, muddy ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Torin’s estimation is correct. By dusk the following day, our party pulls to a stop. The sky in the horizon isn’t the charcoal gray of Malterre but a brilliant azure streaked with the tangerine and russet of sunset. Even from here, I can glimpse birds skating through the clouds—not the ominous night creatures of our lands, but graceful bright-feathered things. And the air is warmer, untouched by the eternal winter of Briar.
Before long, we can smell the Fae.
A faint hint of dewed grass and summer roses. If they could, our army would charge ahead and try to hack away at the High Court’s protections with their spears and swords. But the memory of the murdered Starlings restrains them. We wait, hidden in the oil-skinned trees, not even daring to light a campfire lest we be discovered.
The hours crawl by, broken only by the howl of the wind and calling of owls and wolves. Demons wend and whirl overhead, patrolling our perimeter. Goblins ready their weapons, which must be deadly enough by now to slice through a Fae limb as easily as butter. The Vila huddle with Regan. And Chaos’s impatient breath steams in the air. At long last, a blur of indigo and orange sails above us and perches neatly on a tree limb—Neve.
The Starling leader warbles out the tune she taught us to recognize. Mortania surges up in response, and her enthusiasm is contagious. The energy of our army swells.
“We’ll be ready when the protections break,” Torin says as I climb onto Chaos’s back.
“You’ll need to be,” I tell her. “I’m not sure how long they’ll be disarmed.”
Or if they will falter at all.
