Chapter 9
9
H is slippery smooth tones mirrored the dark, rich voice of Roran.
This must be Crown Prince Cillian, then. His gaze dropped to the front knot of her towel and lingered there. Robin’s-egg blue eyes simmered with something she couldn’t quite place as he took her in, crossing one leg over the other and never breaking eye contact. Aven wore only the towel, and it offered hardly any protection against the almost physical caress of Cillian’s attention.
Warm where his brother was cold, hoops of metal pierced his ears all the way up to the pointed tip. His strikingly handsome face broadcast interest, but rather than repeat his earlier statement, he swiped a hand through his blond hair, scattering the long strands. They fell right back into place once he finished.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face,” he continued.
“Mind giving me a second to get dressed?” Aven forced herself to say. Thank goodness her voice remained steady.
Cillian tossed her a grin. “I’ll wait.”
The command in his voice left her no room to argue.
He was the one responsible for this room, for the bath and the food. But she drew the line at letting him watch her change. Making sure to keep Cillian in front of her at all times, she crept over to the armoire and drew a dress from a hanger at random.
He tracked her movements as well with a barely perceptible angling of his head.
“What’s the matter? You think I’m interested in taking advantage of a young woman in a delicate position?” He stared at the towel again. “You’ll soon come to find, Princess, I am not the same sort as my brother, who will dog after any female, available or not, as long as she has a pulse.”
Aven bared her teeth at him and slowly edged toward the bathroom. Without bothering to say anything, she slammed the door shut.
She dressed faster than she ever had in her life. The long skirt of the dress tangled around her feet, her balance lost. She slammed into the side of the vanity, and the marble top dug into her hip. Pain flashed through her, bright and keen.
This was something she could use.
Better for her to keep her mind clear and her senses on high alert. The crown prince might seem like a guardian angel, but she knew better. All of them were devils.
She’d chosen a dress the color of a white spring crocus. Long sleeves tapered down to points just above her knuckles, and a loop of fabric around her middle finger kept the hem in place. The bodice tightened at her waist and cut low in the front to leave most of her collarbones and chest on open display. Tight gold stitching added a glow to the dress, and in the fabric of the skirt were hidden patterns of leaves and flowers.
Aven smoothed a hand down the front of the gown and along the flat plane of her stomach. The fabric was breathable, stretching in just the right places so she didn’t feel constricted. It wouldn’t be the best for fighting if things degraded to a brawl, but she had the ability to move, and that had to count for something.
Her eyes met her reflection a second time as she began braiding her hair, weaving one long plait on either side of her head. The wet strands were malleable, water still dripping as she worked. She found several lengths of golden thread in one of the vanity drawers and carefully wove them through each braid, securing the ends tightly. The braids fell like rivers of darkness down her back, glinting faintly with the gold. The image she made seemed presentable. Exhausted, terribly sad, but presentable.
She squared her shoulders and forced herself to take a long breath, feeling it all the way down to her stomach, before she faced Cillian again.
The fae hadn’t moved from his spot at the table, yet she knew he was aware of her movements, tracking her by sound and scent.
“Will you embarrass me by forcing me to ask my question again?” he began.
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear you ask one. You offered me a statement instead.”
He turned to her, the movement slow and supple, examining her. “Yes, you’re absolutely right.” Cillian’s smile remained in place. “I’ll offer you a question now. Remember, Princess, the choice is yours, always. Will you join me for dinner?” He rose and straightened, holding out a hand for Aven. “It would be my pleasure to wine and dine you tonight. In an attempt to get to know you better.”
“Why?” She narrowed her eyes on him. There had to be a reason for this kindness. Roran kept her off guard with his taunts and dalliances. What would Cillian’s game be?
He merely stared at her with a light smile, a male in front of a female.
She’d never been worried about that sort of thing before.
Not when she had people to lead and battles to win and lives to save. Now Aven became acutely aware of the cut of the dress, the exotic print, and the beautifully colored fabric. Except the awareness brought a blush of embarrassment to her face. There was no way in hell the crown prince had any interest in her outside of what she represented to him.
A conquest.
Some part of her really needed to get in line.
Cillian remained standing with his hand outstretched, waiting for her to accept. “Your first glimpses of our world were less than stellar, and I’d like the opportunity to make it up to you. Roran and our father have certain ideas about the way guests should be treated. I am of a different mind,” he told her.
Guest . Hah.
Even if this were a part of a larger game, Aven knew she had little room to deny the request. Politics were politics.
“Fine, then. Yes. I’ll have dinner with you.” Her head throbbed as she bit out the agreement, forcing one foot in front of the other, but Aven strode across the room and slapped her hand down on top of Cillian’s a shade harder than she should have.
His expression did not change, as inscrutable as before. “Would you like a tour of the palace before we retire to dinner, Princess Aven?”
She shuddered at the title. Princess of what? A kingdom in ruin? A dead family? “Aven, please,” she replied blandly.
“Then you’ll call me Cillian, and we’ll pretend to be friends,” he said. A graceful twist of his hand brought her palm to the crook of his elbow and fitted it against his arm. “There’s much to see here. Do you have shoes?”
Only her old combat boots, and those were filthy, covered in dirt from the dungeon floor and her own vomit.
Cillian read the answer in the tightness of her lips. “We’ll take care of it. You’ll find a fair assortment in the dresser near the door.”
Aven drew the line at allowing him to slip the shoes over her feet like some kind of damsel who wouldn’t look out for herself. Instead, she used him for balance as she grabbed a pair of black flats and shoved her toes into their depths. Another perfect fit.
She glared at the shoes.
Why did it surprise her?
Cillian led the way back down the hall away from her room. Sunlight trickled in from the hundreds of gleaming windows lining every available wall space.
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be? Duties to attend to?” Of course he did. No crown prince in his right mind would waste time being a tour guide.
He shrugged, the fabric of his golden collar shifting with the movement. “There are always things to do, but it’s necessary to take time to rest. To do something that gives me pleasure. Otherwise I’ll burn out, and then my duties won’t be done to the best of my abilities.”
“And you think you’ll find a pleasurable afternoon with me.” She shot him side-eye, studying his profile without making it obvious. “Really?”
“I think we might both benefit from some time outside of our stuffy rooms,” was the only thing Cillian said.
She had her doubts.
Aven drew in a breath and inhaled the smoky scent of whatever fragrance he wore. She hadn’t noticed anything of the sort on Roran, but the two brothers felt different. Energetically or whatever one wanted to call it.
“I really have no interest in touring your palace,” Aven told him, “and even less interest spending time with you. It’s best if I’m upfront about it.”
“The main part of the palace is ancient beyond even the best reckoning of our scholars.” Cillian continued as though he hadn’t heard her, although they walked side by side. He retained hold of her hand, and Aven made sure to keep as much distance between them as physically possible, lest their shoulders brush together.
He might act like he is kind, different, from the other fae that she’d met, but not long ago she’d seen the destruction the fae wrought with her own eyes. Nothing he said or did would convince her he was anything but a monster wearing a handsome skin.
His smile was a mask.
“Several wings have been added throughout the reign of our past monarchs, although my father has ruled for the last three hundred years.”
“So the war is his fault.” She took a risk saying it.
Cillian huffed out a chuckle. “The war is the fault of everyone and no one. There are finite resources on this earth. The fae are long-lived enough to understand things must change, territories must be taken and cared for. While the mortals short-sighted enough to be a blight. It’s not your fault.”
Aven held back a scoff. Not her fault—but this was only the beginning. The fae wouldn’t stop with Grimrose, not while so much else lay waiting. And the other kingdoms that had watched her home burn, too proud or too foolish to offer aid? Well, it served them right.
He drew her to the mouth of the stairs, and for the first time Aven realized the view. The main foyer of this palace opened up in a towering three-storied cathedral.
Despite the towering heights, the space was warm, alive. The view of the greenery outside and the odd glassless look to the windows made it seem as though they were in an aviary.
“You and your brother certainly know how to charm a girl. You’re just as skilled at compliments as him.”
They took the stairs carefully, Aven unaccustomed to walking in these kinds of shoes. She immediately missed the tread of her boots and the way the leather gripped the ground. She felt as though she might slip off and tumble along the railing if Cillian weren’t there to hold her with his unbreakable grip.
She wished she’d brought her wand as well. In case the circumstances changed on a dime and she was forced to protect herself.
“I’m merely stating the facts. Now, we don’t have to worry about the destruction. The war has been won, and peace will soon be upon us.”
Aven swallowed over a gasp fast enough to almost choke on her spit. “You call what your father did peaceful? He killed my family.” She caught herself too late and forced boredom into her tone. “I’m not interested in your theories on ruling, either. If I haven’t made myself perfectly clear.”
“You have. But I’ve heard you are interested in runes.” Cillian gestured with his chin to the one on her wrist, barely visible beneath the white gown. “I thought you might like to see the tapestries in our library. They depict some of the oldest runes known to the fae kind. I guarantee there are many you have never seen in your life.”
“Hard pass,” she told him.
Once they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Cillian took a turn down one of many open and airy hallways leading away from the grand nexus of the palace.
“Regardless of your feelings for me, or for my kind, I know this is a tough time for you. You might find some comfort in these runes. I thought you might appreciate them,” Cillian added softly.
His kindness was a joke, that’s for sure. Another ploy to get her to lower her guard and trust him when Aven knew from experience there was no good fae outside of a dead one.
“I’m sorry to tell you, golden boy, but your efforts are wasted on me.” Aven turned her chin up. “You don’t know me, and your attempts to lure me into complacency will fail.”
They walked into the library, and Aven went still. She clenched her chin and cheeks to keep her mouth closed.
“Is that what I’m doing?” Cillian studied her every movement. “Complacency? I thought I was a good host for you.”
He contemplated her before ushering her forward toward a tea set laid out in front of a large oak table, the surface polished and flat and filled with stacks of books. The walls were high and towered over her head. Book spines glittered like coins on each of the rows. Most of them were languages she had never seen before.
Aven glared at him like the expression was a shield.
“Golden boy.” He tried on her insult. “Not the nickname I would have chosen, but if you insist on it then I’ll oblige you.”
He finally dropped her hand and moved to the tea set, pouring out two cups of bright yellow tea and handing one out to her. To prove it hadn’t been poisoned, he took the first sip.
Aven finally took the offered cup for something to do, holding it between her hands as the heat seeped into her skin. Not that she was chilled, but it helped steady her. She finally turned her back on Cillian and walked closer to the nearest wall. In a break between the bookshelves rested a tapestry hung on an ancient-looking curved iron spike. The fabric itself was in pristine condition, and the image woven together in fantastically clear rendering.
The black lines of the rune were sharp and strong. He’d been right, which she hated. She’d never seen the rune before and desperately wanted to ask him what it meant. What it would do if it were inked on skin.
Aven clenched the cup together as her scowl deepened.
“Since you’re content to play tour guide, why don’t you tell me more about this?” She jerked her chin toward the tapestry.
Something about the swirling lines intersected by strong black downward strokes drew her. She couldn’t look away from it.
Cillian stepped up beside her close enough to touch, and Aven took a massive step in the opposite direction. “This one depicts the primitive name for the Darkroot. No one knows exactly what it was, only that it is.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“It’s one of the Sacred Trees, though you already know about those, don’t you? It was named by a mortal; its true name has been lost to us, like much else was lost during the first calamity.”
Aven kept her face carefully blank, though her mind raced. Each Sacred Tree blessed its kingdom with unique gifts—long life, protective magic, even the ability to shift forms. The kingdoms without such a blessing? They didn’t stand a chance.
She remembered meeting some of their royals when she was younger: a princess with a haunting voice, a king who had reigned for nearly a millennium, the Black Widows. And, of course, King Donal—likely the most dangerous of all, since the fae had always possessed their own Sacred Tree, until the day it was destroyed. She wondered why it was destroyed in the first place. No, not why. How .
“Why don’t you set those scholars on finding it, then?”
“Don’t think they haven’t tried.”
Aven cleared her throat. “What kind of powers does it grant you?”
“Well, it’s the Tree of Magic. Some say it’s the source of all fae power, although my father thinks the accounts are greatly exaggerated. Would you like to see it?” A smile broke out over his face, and this time, something changed. A light came over him, and Aven found herself nearly smiling back at him and his exuberance.
She schooled her face to remain neutral and pursed her lips. “If you’d like to show me, then why not?”
The Tree of Magic? The source of all fae power?
How likely would it be to burn the tree down and destroy all the fae with one swoop? Not likely at all, but she’d still like to see the Sacred Tree.
“Come, then.” Cillian didn’t wait for her to take his hand, instead grabbing her wrist and hauling her toward the glass doors keeping the library separated from the greenery beyond.
Tea spilled out of her cup with the motion, and she managed to set it down on the main table. Cillian moved swiftly.
“The fae were once the most powerful race on the entire earth,” he told her. A little breathless, a little excited. “We’re floundering now, since the mortals have learned to use our magic against us. Weapons and spells, wands, all of it. Your hijacking of our ancient runes. The other kingdoms learned to use their trees’ gifts. Tragedy has struck us many times during the war, and yet somehow, the Darkroot has survived. We’ve survived.”
“I’m sure your father is sick of the bloodshed.” Not likely.
“He is. I’m determined to end this, once and for all. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to ensure the continued survival of our people. And yours.” Cillian added the second statement like an afterthought.
Whatever it took? Yes. She’d seen it. King Donal’s vile ruthlessness.
“What about your brother?” Aven couldn’t help but ask.
She lost her breath, Cillian pulling her across a flagstone patio and down a winding gravel path through verdant shrubs and flowering bushes. Judging from the state of the palace, it certainly didn’t look like Mourningvale was floundering.
Not when she considered the state of her own territory, and its decline over the last few years. The fae even lived in a goddamn palace, not just a castle.
“Roran doesn’t bother with anything. He is self-absorbed and only concerned for his own happiness.” Cillian finally slowed like he realized Aven was having a hard time keeping up with him. “He chooses to shirk his responsibilities more often than not.”
“Is that why you’re the one showing me the Sacred Tree?”
Cillian’s smile grew. “Absolutely. It’s only a little bit further. It’s always been a special place for me to go. I feel… connected there.”
“To nature?”
“To everything. I’m happy to be your tour guide. And I’m happy to tell you I used to come out here as a child when things felt a little too heavy.” He slowed down until the two of them fell into step with each other yet again.
Gravel crunched underfoot, and her head lightened, dizzy with overstimulation.
“When my mother was alive, she’d always come out here to check for me. I’d climb the tree and hide in the branches high above the ground, but she always found me,” Cillian continued.
“Do you miss her?” Aven blurted out the question without thinking.
Much to her surprise, Cillian nodded. “Every day. Although I’m sure you know the feeling, having lost your own mother.”
She’d lost everyone except her father, and she’d been used by King Donal against her father, forced to be a captive to keep him in line. She swallowed, nodded. “I do. She was a great woman.”
“They usually are, always gone too soon.”
The path opened up in front of them into another small courtyard.
“Here we are,” he whispered. “Our Sacred Tree.”
She wasn’t sure what she expected. Something grand and huge and that towered over her, a giant form legend. Something like the tree in her bedroom with those dripping purple flowers. Or perhaps something like the Sacred Trees she’d heard about in other kingdoms—the ones that probably made the fae seethe with jealousy and rage.
Instead, the Darkroot looked to be the size of a maple tree. Its leaves were a silvery blue and absorbed the light of the sun overhead. The same shade as Roran’s eyes, the voice in her head remarked, and she shut it down quickly. The limbs looked barely able to hold the weight of a small child, let alone anyone else.
“The royal line has lovingly tended it for as long as anyone can remember. Once my father passes on his crown to me, then I will carry on the tradition.” Cillian leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you think?”
Aven studied the Darkroot and ignored his opening to speak. The tree itself might not look like much, but the same scent of magic perfumed the air out here, the electric throb before a lightning crack. Oh, yes. Even her dull human senses knew there was something utterly special about this tree.
“Hardly anything will damage the tree.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t even think about it.” His expression shuttered. “I brought you out of here as a courtesy. I’d hate to think you would try to do anything to damage our Sacred Tree.” Then his smile returned, and he continued with, “Although I’d love to see you try. It would be funny to watch your bones melt inside your body as the power of the Darkroot flayed you from the inside out.”
Funny? Aven had another word for it. She glanced between Cillian and the tree, the feeling of power drawing her forward like a physical tug through her midsection. No, she would not try to harm the tree. Not when she wanted to learn more about it.
Not when she still saw the rune in her mind.
Cillian’s comment remained with her on their walk back to the palace and all the way through dinner. Golden boy or not, it was a warning for her to stay in her lane. To be grateful for the things he gave her. A warning of what might happen if she did anything to step out of line.