7. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
M y mind stirs and my eyes flicker open. I have always been an early riser, as if my body senses the dawn, but when I glance through the arches of my bedchamber, there is not the faintest hint of sunlight. The sky is gray with dense hanging clouds, and though the rain falls lighter, still it falls.
Does it ever stop?
It is not until the doors open and the maids file in that I’m convinced it is morning.
Here in Baev’kalath, the morn is as dark and dreary as the midnight hours.
They rush to the bed, but freeze in their strides when they take in the scene as I lie on top of the undisturbed covers, fully dressed. They look curiously around the room and I know who they are searching for.
“He is not here,” I say, putting them out of their misery.
Solena asks the question on the tip of all of their tongues. “The prince did not spend the night with you?”
I roll my eyes. “I assumed you would already know that. At least one of you.” Something sour hits the back of my throat. “Or all of you.”
They exchange bewildered glances, but I am learning quickly that no one in Baev’kalath is to be trusted and lies fall easily from their mouths, like acorns from an oak. I have no doubt the more enticing bed my husband spoke of belonged to one of these pretty Fae. Solena walks around the bed to stand beside me, then puts her arm behind my back to help me up.
“I’m fine,” I say, shirking away her help. I push my hands against the bed to prop myself up, then wince and curse under my breath when a sharp pain surges through my hand.
Solena looks at the black cloth wrapped around my palm. “Are you injured, Your Highness?”
I narrow my eyes at her. It is the first time someone has addressed me this way, and the words feel too big to me. Like clothes I will never grow into. “Just call me Amara.”
“Princess Amara,” she corrects.
“Fine then. Princess Amara,” I reply, and I realize Daed and I had a very similar conversation last night. Both of us unwilling and unwelcoming of the titles forced upon us.
“Your hand, Princess Amara,” Solena continues. “Is that from the wedding ceremony?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “Is it custom for the bride to bleed out?”
“May I?” she asks. I nod, interested myself to see what it looks like. I wince as she tugs back the cloth of Daed’s shirt and the contortion of her face does not fill me with optimism.
I lean over to get a glimpse and find the wound still open and raw, as if freshly cut, like the flesh of the rabbit in the snare.
Solena glances at the maids. “Hot water, towels, bandages, and brew some limmeth tea.” They set to their tasks in an instant. “Fae brides heal almost immediately after the cutting,” she says to me, her tone dripping with disappointment, as if this is my fault.
I arch an eyebrow. “How fortunate for them. Sadly, marriage alone does not make me immortal.”
“Fae are not immortal. We die quite well,” Solena retorts. “We just age slower and heal faster than humans do.”
“I suppose that makes you superior to us?”
Solena considers me, her face thoughtful, not giving an inch. “It is one reason. Yes.”
I nod my head towards the pungent concoction being brewed nearby. “Because of that dirty water?”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Limmeth is not dirty water. The first Fae brought the recipe from the old world. Ancient herbs grown in ancient soil. But Baev’kalath has no fertile land, so we have adapted a plant that grows in the mud on the shoreline.”
I cringe. “Delicious.”
She leans close, and my body stiffens. “But you have your own remedies, don’t you? Word has spread like wildfire of how you healed Arax. So why not heal yourself the same way?”
My skin prickles. Being human was enough reason for the Fae to whisper about me with disdain. My ability to heal will drive them into a frenzy.
She wields the powers of the Maledannan.
Those words spoken by the Blades aboard the ship were nothing I have not heard before. The Maledannan might have been our teachers once, but the Tenders surpassed their knowledge. After the war, Fae considered any use of magic by humans to be theft, especially by those who did not fight on their side. Just another excuse for them to despise us.
I shake my head in reply to her question. “I cannot use the gift for myself. For it to work, I must absorb a beings’ suffering. But if I am the one suffering, there is nowhere to channel that pain.”
A maid hands Solena a silver cup sloshing with the murky gray brew and she holds it out to me. “Dirty water it is, then.”
I gingerly take the cup, and I smell it long before it gets close to my mouth. She glares, her hard stare pressuring me to drink, and I change my mind several times before finally throwing it back in one gulp. It tastes as horrible as I imagined, bitter then gritty as it goes down the throat. I screw up my face and hand her the cup, which she sets down on the table as the other maids bring the hot water, towels and bandages.
“I’m going to dress your wound now,” she says before setting straight to work.
With all the delicateness of a wild boar, she unwraps the black cloth. Her eyes linger on the fabric and I wonder if it was her bed Daed visited last night. Perhaps that is why I feel the contempt in her eyes. She wishes to be a princess instead. Well, she is welcome to it.
Solena may not be gentle, but she is thorough and quick. She cleans the wound, then takes the bandage and wraps my palm three times over before tossing back my hand with a weary groan.
I furrow my brow, feeling a little worse than when she started as the bitterness lingers at the back of my throat. I swing my legs over the bed and sit upright before the world tilts violently, my vision blurring as the room spins around me.
“Do you still feel unwell?” Solena asks with mild concern.
“I’m just tired,” is my response as I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t believe that’s all it is.
There’s a weakness crawling through my veins. I feel it taking over, so slowly you might mistake it for an awful night’s sleep. But I am in touch with my body enough to know when something is wrong. Perhaps it is just the cut in my palm. Maybe I will feel better in a day or two. I can think of only one way to be sure.
“I want some time alone,” I state. “Can you leave me?”
“Do you want us to dress you?” Solena asks, gesturing to the gown I’m still wearing.
“I don’t need you to dress me every morning. I’ve got this far in life confidently dressing and undressing myself.”
“Clearly not,” Solena quips. “You are still in your dress from last night.”
“I command you to leave,” I grunt with exasperation. “Is that something I can do?”
“You are the princess now. You can do as you please,” Solena says, but even that feels like an insult from her lips. She bows nonetheless and the other maids follow. “If you need anything, ring for us.”
The maids file out of the room one by one and as soon as the doors close behind them, I climb to my feet. It takes a moment to get my balance, then I take a deep breath and reach behind my back, yanking at the hooks that keep me bound in this dress. I grit my teeth as I wrestle with the last button, and finally the mass of silk and lace falls in a pile at my feet.
The sleeveless tunic underneath leaves little to the imagination, so sheer that I can make out every curve and intimate detail of my body, but this cinched waist does not belong to me. The hooks of the dress had already pushed me to exhaustion, but I muster a burst of will strong enough to loosen the strings of the corset and rip it from my body with such exuberance that I throw it straight through the arches and over the balcony.
A snort of laughter slips past my hand before I can stop it, the relief bubbling up uncontrollably.
Good riddance.
Finally free, I stride over to the table where my serpentine vine rests, its pale green tendrils twisting in quiet repose. With a soft smile, I gently pour water from the pitcher, watching it soak into the soil.
“Good morning, friend,” I exhale, running my thumb gently along her stem. “How was your first night?”
When she remains silent, concern knits my brow, and as I lean in, I spot one of her newly grown leaves lying beside the bowl. I pinch the fallen leaf between my fingers and bring it closer, squinting to focus. Its edges have curled, the tip already turning brown. How could it have withered so fast? It had only just unfurled. I glance through the arch and to the sky, the densely packed storm clouds not allowing even a glimpse of sunlight, but there is no point in finding her a better position. Not a single spot in Baev’kalath is any better.
I return the leaf to where it fell and offer a weary smile. “You don’t like it here either,” I whisper. “But we must be strong for each other.” A soft creaking noise emanates from the bowl and the earth at the base of the vine shifts ever so slightly. The vine grows less than an inch, so little that no one else would notice. But I do. “There you go.”
I step away from the vine, finding an empty space in the center of the room. Slowly, I lower myself to my knees, fists clenched and resting on my thighs. My eyes fall shut as I surrender to the silence around me.
When the first Fae arrived in the Sundered Kingdoms, they brought creatures of magic with them. Some were vicious monsters like the Stormwyrm, while others were peaceful explorers like the Elementals.
Legend says that several of these Elementals discovered The Grove, and finding it so beautiful, they stopped to rest and fell asleep. When they awoke, they found themselves changed, their legs transforming into thick roots that held them to the ground, and their arms into twisted branches that stretched to the heavens. Their bodies turned to wood, their mouths sealed shut, but their voices lingered, heard only by those they deemed worthy of their secrets. They became the Souls of the Forest.
When I was six years old, I heard their whispers and followed them to a clearing in the deepest part of The Grove. They told stories while cradling me in their roots, of the first dawn and the long dark, and gods above and below. They whispered I would be the next Jewel of the Tenders, and my lessons with the Sisters of the Vine started straight away. But what my sisters—what no one ever knew—was that I did not just visit with the Souls to learn. I visited them for comfort and friendship and the warmth of the home I lost.
The Souls are not just ancient Elementals. They are my family, and I need them now.
I reach out to them in my mind, my thoughts a desperate plea for answers, for comfort against the weakness that grips me. I beg for some sign that I’ll survive this, that I am still tethered to them. But the silence stretches on. Nothing stirs. No voices, no presence, no whisper of reassurance. My eyes snap open, and I swallow hard, pushing back the tears threatening to spill. They are gone. All my life, I had my village, my sisters, the Souls of the Forest. But now, for the first time, I am truly alone.
The realization fills me with panic. I stumble to my feet, an anxious fear clawing at my throat. My mind goes blank, but suddenly, all I hear is that impossible voice that came from the shadows.
“Run!”
My body takes over while my mind struggles to keep pace. I run to the doors, grasp the handles, and throw them open. But rather than finding the freedom I seek, I am face to face with Arax. He stands stoically outside and holds out a stiff arm to stop me in my tracks.
“Princess Amara. You are not dressed.” He glances at my sheer undergarments and looks away immediately, then sweeps his gray cloak off his back and drapes it over me. “Where are you going?”
“I…” I calm myself, focusing on slowing my thundering heart beat and soothing the dread churning in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t know.” I exhale, then look at him with questioning eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Arax rolls his shoulders and I notice his armor is different. It is the simpler garb of the Blades, not the more refined and imposing scaled plates and shrouded helm I remember when first seeing him aboard the ship.
“The king and queen have named me your personal guard,” he replies monotone. “I am stationed at your door night and day.”
I sigh. “If I do not need maids, I certainly do not need a personal guard. What are you to protect me from in the middle of nowhere?”
Arax does not reply, but I spy a quiver in his throat.
I tap my foot on the ground and gingerly ask my next question. “Where is the prince this morning?”
This time, Arax answers. “The prince’s nights are long and strenuous. He spends most of his daylight hours in his chambers recovering.”
Recovering? From what? I dread to think.
“Alone?” I ask, not sure if I want to know the answer.
Arax raises an eyebrow. “Would you like me to check?”
I clench my jaw and slam my eyes shut. “No. No, of course not.” I take a strained breath, then look at him. “I do not want to stay in this room all day. Can I take a walk?”
“Yes, Princess Amara. As you told me on the ship, you are not a prisoner here.”
“I’m beginning to think that is not entirely true.”
Arax glances at my attire. “Perhaps you should change first?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, thank you, Arax…obviously I was…” I continue to mutter under my breath as I shut the door firmly.
He reminds me of Keeper Tovar. Guardian of The Grove, and the closest thing to a father I have. But even the Keeper, in his great wisdom, can grate on my nerves from time to time. So many tasks, so many duties. The expectation that I act mature and poised at all times, when I am barely a grown woman. And the way they spout suggestions.
Perhaps you should change first?
As if that was not something I already knew. If I had secretly desired a break from Keeper Tovar’s overbearing guidance, it would have greatly disappointed me to arrive in Baev’kalath and suffer instead at the hands of his twin, Arax.
I march towards a giant, intricately carved wardrobe that takes up the back wall with Arax’s cloak still around my shoulders. When I open the doors, my jaw drops as my eyes settle on rows and rows of velvet, silk and lace gowns, all splendidly detailed and finely sewn. There are more dresses and shoes here than I could wear in a lifetime, and it is clear there are only three colors permitted in Baev’kalath.
Blackest black, crimson red and emerald green.
One of the green dresses toward the back catches my eye. Green at least reminds me of The Grove, and with a simple square neck and no train or puffy sleeves, it is the closest I will get to something modest in this wardrobe. I tug the dress from its hanger, pointedly bypassing the row of corsets.
Slipping it on, I'm relieved to find it fits well enough, and when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I don't look entirely ridiculous. With a sharp breath, I pull the combs from my hair, releasing the tension that’s been clawing at my scalp since last night. My brown waves tumble free, cascading over my shoulders and down my back, easing the tightness from my brow as they fall.
Yes. That will do.
I throw open the doors and find Arax still there, as he said he would be.
“I’m ready,” I announce, tossing his balled up cloak at him.
Arax catches it with one hand, and while he attaches it to his pauldrons, he looks me over again, likely checking that I am not half naked. His eyes linger on my toes, peeking out from beneath the gown.
“You’re not wearing any shoes,” he remarks, always with something to say.
“Well spotted, Arax—and I am grateful for it,” I reply. “Now let us walk.”
When I step into the hall, I look down both long passages. I remember the left leads to the throne room, and I have no desire to go anywhere near there. So I step right and begin my march while Arax follows close behind. We pass servants along the way who bow and avoid meeting my eyes and patrols of Blades who move aside for us before glaring at me bitterly. The stone walls are dreary and bare, and the balconies might be stunning if they did not overlook a tempestuous, endless sea below a sky of foreboding gray clouds.
In The Grove, there is always something interesting. A plant, or an insect; perhaps a bird I’ve never seen. But here it is only long halls of stone that lead to nowhere and seem to go on forever. Then we pass an open doorway and a burst of color catches the corner of my eye. I come to a sharp stop and Arax grumbles when he almost crashes into the back of me.
“What’s in there?”
“That is the royal portrait gallery,” he answers.
I do not hesitate entering. Inside the room, enormous paintings line the walls, illuminated by an open fire burning in the gallery’s center, with the flickering light of the orange flames dancing over the portraits. There are singular portraits of King Kaelus, Queen Lanneth, and Prince Daedalus. Then some of just the king and queen regal at their thrones or arm in arm on a balcony with the Untold Sea at their backs. One portrait shows the king and his son in full battle armor with such ferocity in their eyes I’m surprised the artist did not flee in fear. But the largest of all and positioned at the center is the portrait of all three royals of House Mordorin.
The king and queen stand behind Daed, each with a hand on his shoulder. Daed sits in a stone throne at the forefront, his dark hair slicked back, his face hard and pensive, with lines and angles chiseled from rock and polished smooth with those slate-gray eyes of the storm staring straight ahead. His hands grasp the ornate, jeweled hilt of a magnificent sword, its silver blade plunging down so its dangerous point meets the floor. But the weapon is not nearly as lethal as his captivating mouth.
I recall how the Archdruid referred to him last night.
The favored son.
This portrait is the embodiment of that title. Here he sits, ruling over all beneath him, his parents presenting him as their champion. As their future. No wonder his ego is so disgustingly large. People shower him with more praise and worship than all the old gods combined.
When I drag my eyes away from his face, I notice that every portrait of the prince shows him as an adult. You would think in a royal portrait gallery, there would be at least one painting to celebrate the birth of the heir to a great Fae house, or even as a child, growing into he who would rule. But there are none. It is strange, but I do not think on it too long.
Who knows why the Fae do as they do?
When I’ve seen enough, I wander from the room and continue down the hall, with Arax still close behind. Eventually, we arrive at another divergence. Two more long, boring stone halls that stretch further than my eyes can follow.
“What’s down there?” I ask, gesturing to both options.
“Nothing of importance,” Arax replies. “Would you like to continue walking?”
The four walls of my room were more interesting than this excursion, and I can not even use the need of sunshine and fresh air as an excuse, as there is not a drop of either. I frown. Stranded on a remote island in a dreary fortress full of nothing. I notice Arax looks as bored as I do, but I would much rather be miserable in my own company.
“You do not have to stay, you know? I’m fine by myself.”
“No,” he replies. “I can not leave your side.”
I’m about to roll my eyes at him and his fussing when a Blade patrol approaches. The two towering warriors do not address me straight away, instead I see their mouths twisted as if something sour sits on their tongues. Then Arax glares and demands, “bow now before your princess.”
They move slowly as if their limbs are rusted, but eventually I receive the bow that I couldn’t care less about.
“Be swifter about it next time,” Arax growls. “Now. What do you want?”
I do not hear much of the hushed conversation, but whatever they say is enough to earn a surly grumble from Arax.
“Do not move from here,” he says sternly. “I will not be gone long.”
Arax flips his cloak over his shoulder, turning in the other direction with the two Blades flanking his sides.
Do not move .
An easy instruction to follow when you are in the middle of nowhere. But when I turn towards the halls, I notice a third option that I swear was not there a second ago. A set of steps leading straight up, right in front of me, veiled by the same translucent shimmer as the queen and Archdruid.
I raise my brow and narrow my eyes suspiciously. I may hear voices and see smoky apparitions, but have I truly gone completely mad? A soft humming reaches my ears, drifting from the top of the stairs. It is the kindest sound I have heard since I arrived. I place my bare foot on the first step, my toes twitching against the cold stone. Leaning forward, I peer up, hopeful to see what is up there without having to get any closer. But all I see are more steps.
I glance over my shoulder in search of Arax, but he has vanished without a trace. My head slowly turns back to make sense of the stairs one last time, but I already decided what I was going to do the moment I set eyes on them.
I begin to climb. Cautiously at first, but when I see no end in sight, my impatience stirs and my pace quickens. Soon I’m jumping two steps at a time, my mysterious fatigue overpowered by my rampant curiosity.
The hum carries on the air, but no matter how many stairs I climb, I am no closer to its source. My legs burn, and the weight of my dress pulls down my shoulders until each extra step becomes a horrible chore. What a fool I was to think this was a good idea. I drop my chin, ready to call this a waste of time, and descend before Arax returns. But abruptly, the humming stops. I look up, only to find myself face to face with a door that was not there before, so close that my nose brushes against the wood.
A hard lump lodges in my throat and my chest fills with a shuddering breath as I reach for the handle. It turns with a click, and the door groans open. The room is starkly empty, without a single piece of furniture and only a blanket of dust across the bare floor. My shoulders slump and I swallow the lump in my throat.
All that climbing for nothing.
But as I turn to leave, I glimpse something in the corner of my eye. I turn, but even with the clarity of both my eyes, it is still just a shadow, a glimmer, a ripple in the emptiness.
My curiosity pulls me forward, but when I place a single foot on the threshold, I am tossed backwards, my back colliding with the wall before I slump with a thud on the steps.
“You shouldn’t be here!” the voice cries. “Why did you come here? Why!”
I squint up, my eyes half-shut, one hand cradling my lower back as a dull ache pulses through me. The room is still empty. Just me, staring at nothing. Then, out of nowhere, a hand and only a hand, emerges from the nothingness—gnarled fingers stretching toward me in midair. My breath catches in my throat, and I bite back a scream, scrambling up the wall until I’m standing, heart pounding in my chest.
“Run!” the voice wails. “Run!”
I linger long enough to note the band of tattoos around its wrist; circles and half circles and crescents in a sequence before I grit my teeth and brace myself for the long descent. But when I turn, I am already at the bottom of the stairs without taking a single step. My heart comes to a hard stop in my chest as I swing around towards the door and the wailing voice that seeps into my skin, but there is no door. There are no stairs. Only the two long, boring halls where Arax had told me to stay put.
My head wavers in disbelief. Impossible. I saw it. I felt the steps beneath my feet.
“Princess,” Arax says.
I swing around, my breaths sharp in my chest as I struggle to find reason in what just happened.
“The stairs,” I mutter, chewing on my lip. “The voice.”
Arax squints at me curiously. “I do not understand.”
He is not alone. None of this makes sense. It’s this place. This dreadful place is toying with me.
Arax’s voice drops low and soft. “Come, Princess Amara. Let me return you to your chambers.”
For a moment, I hear Keeper Tovar’s concern in his tone, and it is the safest I have felt in a while. I do not argue with him, and rather than have him walk behind me, I stay at his side. I feel safer there.