Chapter 26
26
C illian helped Aven onto her horse, sidesaddle to keep the flounces of her dress in perfect petal-like order. The sharp edges of the corset dug into her torso and drove the air out of her lungs—the way it was designed to do.
She’d turned into the creature she’d taunted her father about—put in a corset to smile and wave.
Two sentries stood on either side of the horse, and although a slight breeze tickled the back of her neck, the air felt stifling, too hot. And most times a bit too still.
Cillian left his hand on her knee and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “You look pale,” he said, having to lift his voice above the noise and chaos.
“I’m fine.” She had to look away from him for a moment. All too aware of the way people studied them when they were together. The way they stared at her, it felt too permanent. Not like when she and Cillian were alone.
And definitely not like how she felt when she was with Roran. With him, she didn’t care who else was around to look at them. He made her angry enough to forget everything and everyone.
The humidity weighed her down from the inside.
“I’m ready to start the parade,” she insisted when Cillian refused to look away. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s get this show on the road.”
His smile formed slowly, but it lit him from the inside. “Have I told you today how lovely you look? Just like a princess.”
He squeezed her knee a second time before moving to mount his own stallion, with no idea how harshly his words impacted her. Right now she didn’t want to feel like a princess, put on display for everyone to see and admire. Or worse.
Cillian’s azure jacket with its silver embroidery perfectly matched his commanding presence, the fabric highlighting his tall frame and golden hair. Even among the fae nobility, he stood out—every inch the crown prince. He was in his element. Or at least more accustomed to the attention, even when it pressed against his skin like grubby hands.
Aven never thought about it before, how it might feel to actually act the part she’d been born to play and her reaction. The press of so many bodies in the crowd was stifling underneath the suffocatingly perfect sky. The horse seemed to sense her mind and shifted underneath her, uncomfortable. He let out a small whinny, prancing and striking the ground with his front hoof.
Aven gathered the reins to make sure she wouldn’t lose her balance. Riding sidesaddle wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Cillian had gotten ahead of her and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was still with him.
Her smile pinned in place at the edges, but she clucked for her horse to pick up the pace, and he obliged.
Everyone had turned out for the parade today, and the streets were lined with fae from the village around the palace and more. So many more than she’d ever seen in one place before—and that included the battlefield.
People dressed in their finery, trading work clothes for their best.
Voices twined together in a cacophony of sound.
“The war has finally come to an end!” one of the women chirped excitedly to the man beside her. “It’s a miracle.”
“It’s about time! How many decades have been wasted on this ridiculous fight with those mortals?”
The fae spoke openly about the end of the war.
It was impossible to miss the disdain in the man’s voice, however. “They’re nothing but monsters.”
“They should pay for what they’ve done,” the woman agreed.
“In flesh. They should all pay for what they’ve taken from us. Starting with this one. Look at the way they show her off.” The man blew a raspberry. “Ridiculous.”
Aven moved on, the brisk pace of the horse taking her away from the pair. Ice froze her spine one vertebra at a time. She fumbled with the reins when her hands went clammy and her stomach twisted uncomfortably.
She knew, in a vague and distant way, how the fae felt about the humans. Their lack of respect for her kind was impossible to miss on a good day and in her face on a bad one. But to hear it talked about so openly and within earshot of everyone else around…
She maintained a brave face through the rest of the parade.
Except the first couple wasn’t the first to discuss their hatred of humans. Not even close. Now that she’d tuned into it, she heard snippets of conversation everywhere. People made no pains to hide it. Every passing minute their voices grew louder, more insistent, as if raised to make sure she heard them.
“She has no business being here.”
“Do you see her? Dressed up like a pig and pretending to be worthy of our crown prince.”
“If you ask me, she deserved to be slaughtered like the rest of her family. To send a message to any other mortals who might think about revolting against us.”
By the end of the parade, her teeth chattered with the effort of keeping it together. She clung desperately to her sanity by the barest thread.
“Aven, you’re quiet. If something is wrong, please say it.” Cillian helped her off the horse, and she leaned into him when she felt off-kilter and ready to fall on her face.
She gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the finery of his jacket and creasing it. There wasn’t a hair out of place on Cillian, not a bead of sweat. She fell apart at the seams in comparison.
“I need to go. I think the excitement and the sun did something to my head.” Yet she pressed a hand to her belly and the agonized writhing there.
“Done.” Cillian snapped his fingers, and two of his men broke away from the crowd to help her.
Aven shrugged them off. “I’m capable of making it up to my room by myself,” she insisted. Although it might be a stretch for her to get out of the corset on her own. It dug into her bones and cut off her circulation. She no longer felt her feet, and her fingers tingled, bordered on numbness.
They stood in the courtyard with the sky overhead darkening to the bruised purple of twilight.
“Join me for dinner if you’re feeling well enough,” Cillian called out before a mob of nobles overtook him.
Roran was nowhere to be seen, and Aven kept her focus on her feet, one step at a time. One heartbeat at a time, but she still couldn’t breathe with the distance from the crowd.
Even when the door closed behind her, the two guards on one side and her on the other, she wasn’t able to draw in a full breath. She fumbled with the dress, fumbled with the corset, but neither one of them budged.
Everything felt too constricted—her dress and her insides—the latter slowly compressing until Aven started to hyperventilate. Again.
The people around here… she knew they weren’t fans of hers or her family. But wanting her dead? Wanting her to suffer the way her sisters and brothers suffered? They had no idea how horrifying it had been to rush home and see those innocents butchered. Taken down in the prime of their lives because of some vendetta between their two peoples.
It didn’t matter that her father was responsible. It didn’t matter what he’d done. Her sisters, her brothers… they were innocent. They hadn’t made the decision to start the war or use magic against Mourningvale. They were like her. Struggling to deal with the aftermath as best they could.
Aven scrubbed at the rune still lingering on her forearm, although the fabric of the dress hid it from view. Scrubbed until her skin grew too hot and she was forced to stop.
She ignored the knock on her door when it came and refused to let Nora inside to see her.
Refused to let anyone inside or go down for dinner. She was way too tightly strung to eat. Even the thought of getting out of her dress wasn’t enough to let anyone see her.
She needed to get rid of her wand. Destroy the thing and any tie it might hold to her father’s past actions. She needed to get rid of the runes on her body and any scrap of evidence of the magic she’d used.
It wouldn’t be enough to make amends, but she had to try. To do something.
Once night fell, she made her escape, the wand hidden in the folds of fabric. It might be smarter to stay hidden in her room, but she wanted the fresh air, the open sky overhead. Besides, in this place, there was no privacy. At least hidden in the trees she might be able to find a semblance of the stuff without the prying eyes of the guards outside her room.
Except when she opened the door, she found the hallway empty.
Laughter sounded from somewhere far off in the palace as though the celebration of the parade had been moved indoors.
Aven went in the opposite direction from the merriment.
Through the halls, out into the garden, and along the winding paths to the trees beyond.
The moment she had put enough distance between herself and the palace, she drew the wand out of the back of her dress and stared at it—the long slender reed of wood she’d used on countless occasions. It looked absolutely normal upon first glance, felt solid in her hand, yet if she looked at it too long, the edges began to blur in a corona of magic. The wand pulsed once, and heat spread through her.
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
Pay in flesh?
She had paid, more times than she could count. Every time she had a rune inked on her skin, every time she used the wand to redo them and keep the tattoos strong and stable.
Yet it wasn’t the kind of payment they wanted.
Because she’d taken too many lives.
The thought of inking another rune on herself, whether with her wand or not, brought a wave of queasiness. She needed to get rid of those runes and destroy the wand. So far, she’d been lucky. Too lucky by all accounts.
She’d already been responsible for a fae guard’s death when he caught her redoing them.
Aven shook her head, swallowing down over the bile burning the inside of her throat in an attempt to keep it down.
This has to stop. With her.
Although it cracked something in her heart, she ripped the sleeves off her dress. The fabric tore in pieces, fluttering down to the ground like broken butterfly wings. Her scars stood to attention, one on either arm and large enough to cover the entirety of her bicep.
She’d covered them too many times to count now with the strongest runes of the stolen fae magic. For bravery and strength and speed.
It felt too hard to think about what was done and everything she’d lost. Everything these people had lost. She might have hated the fae as a whole once, but she wondered if her hatred had ever reached the acidic levels of the people she’d heard today. Those who remained in the protection of the town and never saw the bloodshed of the killing fields.
She focused on the wand, tapping it to her arm. Magic pulsed from the wood and warmed the moment it touched her skin. The familiar tingle of power spread through her, winding along the dark lines of the runes. She willed them to disappear. She no longer needed them here. Not for cunning on the field or strength to wield her weapons. Those things were long gone now, completely outside the realm and scope of her new life.
The runes remained in place, her skin tingling underneath the power of the wand, strengthened by being so close to the root of its making.
She tried one, then the other, but the scars remained. They’d been redone too many times to count now. Although the dark ink of the runes grew dimmer, the lines remained on her skin, raised and angry looking since she tried to mess with them.
“No, come on. Go away! Damn you.”
Aven repeated the process with both arms. Anger simmered inside her at the scars on her skin. The lines were prominent—a part of her now. Unable to be removed. Only hidden.
She choked down a sob and grabbed the wand, bending the wood between both hands to snap it in two. No matter what she tried?—
The wand remained whole.
She kicked it, slammed it against the ground, bent it into an angle, only to have it snap back into place. The magic gave another pulse before the wand fell silent.
“How in the world did we miss that? You certainly are enterprising. Aren’t you?”
She didn’t jump when Roran snuck up on her. Only hurried to turn and keep him from seeing her arms. “Maybe you weren’t thorough enough when you brought me in. After all, you drew the line at a cavity search,” she said, overwrought.
Roran’s attention focused on the wand like he could see the magic inside of it. And knew exactly where it had come from. “You shouldn’t have it. It’s not yours, and you have no idea what kind of magic it’s capable of bestowing in the wrong hands.”
“Why do you think I’m trying to destroy it?” The fight lifted her hackles, and she faced him fully, letting him see the heat of rage and sorrow inside her. “I want it gone. I don’t want anything to do with it anymore, but it won’t break.”
“Because you’re not strong enough to do so. Not this close to the Darkroot. With fae strength, it can be done, but I’m not going to let you.” He bent to snap it out of her hands and stooped, his eyes narrowing on her arms. Her scars.
She forced herself to take in a long, steady breath. “Please. Stop looking at me.”
Roran didn’t turn around. He didn’t move, only shifted to clench his jaw. “What happened?”
She should make something up. Lie to him, or tell him to shove off because it wasn’t any of his business. Instead, Aven found herself saying, “I’ve applied my runes too many times, it seems. They’ve left a physical mark on my skin. I’m scarred.” She glared at him. “I know it just makes me even more hideous to you and your kind.”
“There is no judgment from me on your scars. You should know that. We all carry them in different places. Some of them are on the inside, and others, like yours, are on the outside.”
The statement clanged through her like someone had dropped a stone down a well. Her muscles tensed. “I don’t care about your life philosophies.” She pressed her hand tighter against the scar on her bicep. “I’d like you to leave. Now.”
He made it difficult to think with his proximity. Especially when he watched her the way he did, his head slightly tilted to the side, and it terrified her how much he saw. Not only her bare flesh but… her .
“What is it about the scars that embarrass you?” Roran asked. He reached for her arm only to stop himself before making contact. “Is it because mortal women want to be pretty for their imaginary princes? Do they think their handsome fae lover will not want to wed them if they’re damaged goods?”
She frowned at him. “Who are you calling damaged goods?” It felt better with him there. Awkward, of course, but better.
“I’m trying to get to the bottom of this embarrassment of yours.”
“By making me angry.” She shook her head. “You are such a bastard.”
“You have no idea.” He grabbed her hand and tugged it away from her body, the force of him enough of a surprise to have her letting go. Roran stared at the scars long enough she wanted to spit at him.
Still, he waited. “Tell me about these,” he said. The flatness of his voice twisted her heart.
“I already did. I’ve redone them all the time, and they’ve scarred over. I’m proud of them.” The second she said it out loud, Aven stopped. She actually did feel proud about her scars.
“Then why do you hide them?” Roran asked softly. “Like I haven’t noticed the long sleeves you wear.”
She jolted. He’d put it together? How? “Just because I don’t show off my scars doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of them. They’ve allowed me to heal when I needed to heal, stay strong when I needed to be strong, and maintain the determination to see my battles through to the end.”
“An efficient way to look at things. And how do you feel about the wand?”
She had no answer for him—none that were forthcoming in the moment. She only stared at him like for a moment she might see through him the way he did for her. His grip lightened on her wrist, and she let her hand fall down to her lap rather than covering up the scars again.
A muscle in his temple twitched, and he broke eye contact, reaching between them for her wand.
“It’s saved my life multiple times. I can’t destroy it.” Aven gulped. “But it would be wrong to keep it. It doesn’t belong to me.” Nothing felt right. Like there was always a step she missed or something out of place. Especially with Roran this close to her.
“Please, don’t take it away from me.”
He stared down his nose at her before asking, “Why? If you were going to destroy it, then it shouldn’t matter if I keep it or not?”
“Because… it’s one of the only things I have left from my own life. Even if it’s just the pieces.”
They sat together for a long time, with neither one of them willing to move. As though one wrong move would break the odd peace blanketing over them.
Aven’s face burned while she waited for him to answer.
“I won’t destroy your wand, little princess,” Roran finally replied. “It’s yours as much as it is the Darkroot’s, because you’ve used it. You’ve given it your energy and it’s given you magic.” He reached out, like he might stroke the side of her face, before he changed his mind. “A symbiotic relationship.” Then practically threw the wand back at her. “So keep it,” he spat out. “Redo your damn runes. Cover your scars.”
“Roran, what?—”
She wasn’t sure where things changed, but the energy between them shifted out of balance sometime in the last minute.
His breathing turned ragged. “We’re all getting what we want in the end, aren’t we? Cillian is getting his bride, you’re getting the safety of the royal family, and our kingdoms have peace. Much-deserved peace.”
He hadn’t said anything about himself.
“What about you, what do you want? There has to be something.”
“Another thing you haven’t learned yet. It doesn’t matter what I want, because it’s not up to me. I’ve already been given more than I deserve. More than people expect me to be given. I should just be damned grateful.”
His voice roughened on the last word, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was physically restraining himself.
“Sometimes people need to take what they want. Need to be greedy.”
Roran’s eyes darkened, and before she could move, his hand was in her hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands. “Even if someone gets hurt?” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, sending shivers down her spine. The tension between them crackled like lightning before a storm.
He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across her cheek. Then suddenly, he jerked away. His hand fell from her hair, leaving her skin tingling where he’d touched her.
“Be careful what you wish for, little princess.” His voice was cold now, controlled. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
It made her angry.
He’d caught her in a vulnerable state, and yet Roran wasn’t willing to give her the same emotional availability. And it made her ridiculous to even believe it was possible from him. To expect it?
She was worse than stupid.
She was a fool.