Fearless (The Powerless Trilogy #3)

Chapter 58 Paedyn

CHAPTER 58 Paedyn

The crown is just as heavy as I remember it being.

Only now, it carries far more weight with a queen under it.

Kitt walks beside me, the sound of a dismissing court echoing in the distance. We head for my room in a rather dull silence, soaking in this sliver of peace before our second ceremony. The feasts and dancing in celebration of our union won’t begin until tomorrow, and I wish for nothing more than to sleep this day away.

The thought makes my ears burn. I doubt I’m intended to sleep alone tonight.

“You did well,” Kitt finally offers into the silence.

My heels continue hitting the ground with a rhythmic click. “Thank you.”

“Now, as soon as you’re changed and ready, we will head out to the coaches.”

The elephant in the room stomps beside us as we continue to pretend as though we are not bound together for life. I whirl on him suddenly. “Did you want this? Despite our marriage being for Ilya, did you want this?”

My question makes him pause. “I know how Kai feels about you. So, no, I didn’t want to do this.”

“But you married me anyway.”

“And I would do so much worse for him,” he says quickly.

I swallow. Despite everything, I understand. Our marriage is for Kai as much as it is for Ilya. The Enforcer will never have to take the life of another Ordinary. He will no longer be controlled by guilt or shame. And above all, this kingdom will remain standing.

I can manage little more than a nod.

Reaching my door, I place a hand on the knob. “I lost track of time earlier, but I’ll pick something out from your mother’s jewelry box now.”

“Thank you—” A raspy cough cuts the sentiment short.

“Are you”—I spot something that looks suspiciously like blood splatter his handkerchief—“all right?”

He wipes his mouth. “I’m fine.”

“Kitt, I think you’re sick—”

“I said I’m fine, Paedyn,” he snaps, eyes suddenly wild.

I take a bewildered step back and watch the king compose himself. He clears his raw throat. Shifts into something deceivingly docile. “Thank you for your concern.”

I nod. My voice is weak. “I’ll meet you in the courtyard.”

The king is striding down the hall before I slip into my room.

I lean against the door and shut my eyes, shoving aside the tears I desperately wish to cry. My heart aches at the vivid memory of Kai standing behind those doors with a look of betrayal seeping onto his features. Then he slipped into the crowd before my trembling lips could form an apology.

I pull the crown from my head, hardly noticing when the jagged points bite into my palm. The sharp emeralds reflect my weary face back at me like a glimpse into my future. I see a life of torture beside the man I love. My husband sits on the throne, but he is not who holds my heart. No, that man stands to my left, never looking in my direction. The mask he wears has choked all emotion from his face, and without me to pull it free, he becomes a shell of the man he once was.

A gnawing numbness has begun its slow trickle over me. Ellie helps pull the extravagant wedding dress from my body, each word a congratulations, each turn of her lips a smile. I’m quickly swaddled in more white fabric, this dress lighter and softer than the last. The swishing skirt billows out from my waist and flows to just above my bare ankles. Its bodice is relatively simple, though embroidered with a tangle of beaded vines. Thin straps hug my shoulders, and white heels clutch my feet.

“You don’t want to look too dressed up on Loot,” Ellie reassures while toying with my hair. She says this like I didn’t already know. Showing up to the poverty-stricken slums in a gown expensive enough to feed several of them for weeks would hardly make the best impression.

She steps away to examine me. “But you still look like a very elegant bride.”

“Thank you, Ellie.” I clear my tightening throat. “That will be all. I’d like a moment alone.”

Nodding her understanding, Ellie slips from the room. I sigh into the silence and wish I could hide behind these four walls indefinitely. More out of comfort than necessity, I strap my dagger to a thigh beneath the dress. This makes me feel better, having a piece of my father with me on my wedding day.

The jewelry box taunts me until I finally pad over to it. Sitting carefully atop the bed, I adjust the dress around me and tip open the lid. I stare into its velvet-encased depths, swallowing my gasp at the sight of so many glimmering jewels. They sit against the green fabric, so perfectly intact. Diamonds, sapphires, and an impressive number of emeralds wink up at me. I reach for a particularly blinding necklace before thinking better of it.

Queen Iris certainly had a taste for finery.

I have never seen such wealth. I’m not even sure how to hold it.

These jewels alone could feed all of Loot.

I’m suddenly snapping the lid shut, nauseated by the mere sight of something so fine. There was once a time when I would have done unspeakable things to steal even a single gem. Now, I get to wear them around my neck like a trophy.

Or a pretty noose.

I shove the thought away and pull open one of the small drawers. It is stuffed with shiny rings, all bands of shimmering gold and silver. Beside it is a drawer littered with bracelets. But it’s the one beneath that has me pausing.

No jewelry. No gems. Only the brittle head of a rose.

I run a gentle finger over the dried petals, watching them crumble beneath my touch. My breath catches in surprise. This flower is older than I am.

A folded piece of parchment lies beneath its severed stem. Carefully, I slip it from the drawer’s clutches, though the wood clings fiercely to it. Time has aged the note, creasing the edges and yellowing the paper. I unfold it slowly to reveal a hastily written message in looping handwriting.

Meet me in the garden at midnight. Wear a cloak—you are too beautiful to be seen with me. My heart is yours, always.

I stare blankly at the note.

This was not meant for my eyes. I feel as though I’ve intruded on an intimate moment that was supposed to remain forever preserved within this box. And yet, I can’t seem to tear my gaze from it.

This was not the king she was meeting. No, the queen would not sneak about the castle with her own husband.

She had a lover.

I set the paper down with a sigh. It feels odd to pluck a piece of one’s life from belongings of the dead. To accuse the late queen of being unfaithful feels stranger still. And yet, staring down at the note, something nags at me distantly.

I dismiss the feeling, deciding instead to explore the other drawers. Hair clips in one, more rings in the other. My fingers tug at the last compartment, fighting to free the shallow drawer. With a groan, it gives up, sliding out to unveil a stack of crumpled notes.

It’s that same smudged handwriting that stains each piece of parchment. I skim through the short letters, each one more cryptic than the last.

Time. Place. I love you, always.

My fingers fumble blindly around the drawer, searching for any forgotten pieces of the past. A creased sheet of parchment lives in the corner of the compartment, contorted against the wood for what has likely been years. I pry it out before forcing deep ridges from the yellowing paper, flattening it against my dress-draped knee. Inspecting further, I flip it over and—

I’ve never looked into the face of a ghost, but I imagine this is what it would feel like.

My whole body goes numb as the photograph slips from between my fingers. Something grips my very soul, certain and crushing. It’s familiarity, I realize. It’s recognition of yourself within another.

I stare at the woman. She stares up at me.

Her bright blue eyes are nearly as vibrant as the smile she wears. There’s a certain warmth in her gaze, in the rosiness of her cheeks. Light blond hair cascades over her shoulders, falling in loose waves. And her nose…

I take a shuddering breath before lifting the photograph in front of my face.

Her nose is dusted with freckles.

I stare at the queen. She stares up at one.

Blood claims blood. And when I look at Iris Moyra, the late and beloved queen of Ilya, I see a shade of her coursing through my veins. And blood never forgets.

The parchment flutters to the bed as I press a steadying hand to my thumping heart.

This is absurdity.

That is what I tell myself, over and over again. This is a coincidence, a picture that shares a slight resemblance.

I am no royal. I am no daughter of a queen.

The door creaks open, and I hardly hear the footsteps that follow. I’m still studying the photo when a figure strides into view, stopping before my bed. My gaze lifts begrudgingly from Iris’s face to land on Calum.

He stands there, stoic as always. But I watch the color drain from his face.

Time seems to stall—Calum’s gaze on the pile of notes, mine on the bouquet of flowers he holds.

Pink roses.

It’s my bouquet. I realize now that it had been forgotten after rushing to the throne room. He must have been bringing it to me. Blinking, I lower my gaze to the crumbling flower beside me, plucked years before this moment.

There is that something tugging incessantly at the corner of my subconscious once again. Like the intuition that senses a fight before the first punch is thrown. Or the moment before I’ve fit every observation together, molding the story into place with my mind. Or how a memory resurfaces at the exact moment I need to pick it apart. Because nothing goes unnoticed.

“I must rush off to a meeting with Kitt, but I will be sure to tell him how beautiful you look in this wedding dress.”

Calum was standing mere steps away from where he is now when the compliment slid from his tongue. But it’s the following string of words that I focus on. The damning ones that echo through my mind.

“The roses from my garden will look lovely with it.”

I had felt that distant nagging then, that prick of intuition, and chose to ignore it. My trust in Calum had built a wall around my heart, yet all it took was a rose to have it crumbling.

Everything is happening so fast, like the inevitable trip before a fall. My thoughts blur, all bleeding into one another. The past comes racing toward my current present, overlapping to create one clear conclusion.

I glance down at the decaying flower.

Ellie’s words suddenly surface from the depths of my mind.

“There is a private rose garden here on the grounds. Pretty pink ones, I believe.”

My head swims.

That rose garden has been here for decades.

Each breath grows shallower.

A Fatal. A Resistance leader. A man who is always in the right place at the right time.

A flood of unanswered questions pours into my reeling mind, making me dizzy. Confusion creeps into every thought, every moment spent with Calum. From his Resistance speech at the Bowl to the very ring on my finger.

I claw at my mind, prying apart strands of my past. A wave of realizations crashes over me in a series of disconnected thoughts.

The notes.

The handwriting.

The Purging Trials.

My mind is a muddled melody of rhymes, all scrolled in that loopy penmanship. One from a scroll in the Whispers. One at the base of Plummet, and one read at its peak.

My heart pounds as pieces of this puzzle begin falling into place.

When I fought the king, his words meant nothing. Until now.

“… a friend told me of his intentions and this Resistance he was a part of.”

A friend.

Someone close to my father, and the king.

Someone loyal to the latter.

Blooms did not spring flowers from the earth for Calum overnight. No, he has been tending to them for years.

Because he is the king’s Mind Reader.

It’s as though the world has tilted beneath me.

But that is not all. That is only the beginning.

I don’t look up at him. It’s the queen who holds my gaze now.

That is when everything clicks.

Father—my real father—taught me to trust my instincts. Never falter. Never leave anything unnoticed. It’s as though I’m back on Loot, facing an Imperial who has ordered me to demonstrate my Psychic ability. So when I speak, the words are sure, unshadowed by doubt.

Even a Mind Reader can be read.

“You know”—I stand slowly, the dress swishing around my ankles—“I meant to thank you again for giving me those books. They kept me occupied on the boat.”

I pick up one of the faded spines on my bedside table, flipping open the front cover. “For Paedyn,” I read aloud. The rose sketched above the words makes me smile faintly.

Calum’s gaze has yet to meet mine.

I set the book among the littered notes, lining up the identical handwriting. “I would add the scroll from my Purging Trials, but I didn’t get the chance to keep one as a souvenir.”

I pick up the photograph next, flapping it between my fingers. “Do you still think I look like my mother?”

Silence.

“I thought it was odd when you mentioned that I looked like her from the pictures you had seen,” I say slowly. “See, we didn’t have any photos of my father’s wife, Alice.” My feet tread a path across the carpet, the dress’s hem lapping at my ankles. “I mean, a Transfer is needed to impress a Sight’s memory onto the page, and it all becomes far more expensive than it’s worth.”

I wave my hands, dismissing the explanation. Then my feet falter, changing course until I’m standing right before him. I lift the photograph between us, forcing those blue eyes onto Iris’s.

“… that is not the only royal you have killed.”

Calum’s words ring in my mind, another piece of the puzzle that is my past.

“But Alice was not the mother you were talking about,” I breathe. “It was the queen you loved. The one who died giving birth to me.”

I’m shaking, every inch of my body. The adrenaline coursing through my veins has my heart hammering against a tightening chest, blood pounding in my ears. The gravity of this truth I have uncovered threatens to bring me to my knees.

“You were Iris’s lover,” I pant, my eyes wild. “And the king’s Mind Reader, feeding him information about the Resistance the entire time. That is why he was always one step ahead.”

Knees trembling, I stand my ground as Calum’s gaze lifts to mine. It’s agonizingly slow, this moment in which I stand between the past and the present.

“So I’ll ask you again,” I say, deceptively calm. “Do I look like my mother?”

When his blue eyes finally meet mine—the queen’s —I watch him pluck every thought from my head. He reads the mistrust, mulling it over carefully. I stare up at the Fatal, unsurprised when he finally says, “And who else do you resemble?”

This is not the first game I have been forced to play.

And it will not be the first I lose.

So when I send the words to the forefront of my mind, I mirror the shadow of a smile that lifts his lips.

Hello, Father.