Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
Cool green eyes appraise me, flicking to my betrothal ring. Did he see the wormbark oil before I shut the cabinet?
“Your Majesty.” I fall into a deep curtsy. Acid churns in my stomach. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I keep hearing about your efforts here,” he says, waving a casual hand around the stark space. “Sauzon is quite pleased with you.” He frowns, as if the thought of someone being pleased with me is abhorrent. “And he’s a difficult man to please.”
I don’t know what response he expects, so I remain silent, trying to look demure and delicate.
Harmless.
“Join me for a walk.” A command, not a request.
He strides away, expecting me to follow blindly.
And I do. I play the part.
I catch up in the hallway, falling into step just behind him, my guards trailing me. With a flick of his hand, he waves away Gregoran and Freynk. The heavy thud of their booted feet fades away, and I resist the urge to crane my neck and glare at them for abandoning me.
Does Varad know? Am I marching to my death?
Anxiety ravages my nerves in a vicious tide, dragging away any semblance of peace. My heart hammers against my ribcage, hands wringing together. I wait for him to speak, but the bastard wields his silence like a weapon.
He takes me to a room I’ve never seen before, concealed by two stately wooden doors.
Inside is a narrow hallway—a gallery of sorts.
Large paintings encased in intricate gold frames line the walls, an ornate lantern embedded between each.
Varad’s eyes bore into the side of my face as we walk down together.
They’re all portraits of the royal family over the centuries.
Arbinj’s version of the Hall of Ancestors.
“My great-grandfather Zeramaar and his wife Luna,” Varad says, stopping before a painting. The man looks eerily similar to Zev. “Stormwielder and earthwielder. A formidable union.”
He names each royal as we pass their painting. Some of the men stand alone—they took no wives, just bred children from powerful noble wielders, then discarded them afterward on a sizeable plot of land.
My steps falter.
The painting before me steals my breath.
The man is clearly Arbinji—tanned skin, slate-gray eyes, and a deep, green tunic. But the woman…
It’s my grandmother.
Turmah, with her icy blue gaze and pale skin. She wears the proud blue and white of Tundrayn.
My eyes drop. She has both hands.
“Ah, yes,” Varad says, hands clasped behind his back. “Turmah. Cousin Fareynz was never quite the same after she left.”
I whirl to face him, willing my tongue to behave.
It doesn’t.
“Neither was my grandmother. After he chopped off her hand.”
Varad gives me a strange look. “Hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the lies they’ve fed you.”
He walks farther down the hall. My shoes clack against the floor as I keep up. “What do you mean?”
Varad gives me a sideways glance. “Turmah was happy here with Fareynz. In love. I witnessed it myself. But your great-grandfather changed his mind. Sent his warriors to bring her home. Against her wishes. They breached the palace, infiltrated their rooms. Fareynz tried to protect her—they sliced off his hand with an ice shard. Turmah agreed to return to spare his life. But she cut off her own hand first.” He sighs deeply, shaking his head.
As if the false story grieves him. “It was the last time a waterwielder set foot in Arbinj.”
Anger coils inside me, tighter and tighter, with every word. I want to spit in his face. Does he truly expect me to believe my grandmother sliced off her own hand? Out of a twisted sense of love?
He must see the rage I can’t conceal, in my clenched fists and frightful grimace, but surprisingly, Varad doesn’t reprimand me. Instead, he waves his hand and continues down the hallway.
“I didn’t bring you here to debate Turmah’s fate. I wanted to show you”—he stops in front of a painting, concealed by dark velvet fabric—“this.”
I stare at him dumbly. With all the patience of a starving snow wolverine, he gestures for me to remove the fabric. It pools to the floor in a dark puddle.
My breath stutters.
It’s Zev and me. On our wedding day.
I vaguely remember this moment. We’d turned to face the crowd, ready to walk back down the aisle together. The painter perfectly captured the dark hair curling around my shoulders, the deep blue of my eyes, the detailing on my gown. I’m facing the viewer.
But Zev? He’s looking at me. His hand clasps mine, about to guide me down the petal-adorned aisle, his lips tilted up slightly. It was the moment right after he kissed me.
Something sharp and desperate pulls at my heart.
Varad says nothing, just watches me closely as I study the painting.
“It’s—it’s lovely.”
Varad only hums, then waves at me to follow as he exits the gallery.
Our little field trip isn’t over, apparently.
We arrive at the throne room. I haven’t set foot here since the first day I arrived in Arbinj. Since Varad chose Zev for me instead of Faramir and sealed my fate.
The last time I stood in this room, I was a bargaining chip.
Now, I’m something else.
I just haven’t decided what yet.
“Sit on the throne.”
“I—what?” Of all the things I thought he might say, it certainly wasn’t that.
“Sit.”
Is this a trap? Some kind of test?
My palms grow damp, but I climb the dais, hesitating for only a second before I perch on the throne, straight-backed and sure.
Like a queen.
Varad’s cool gaze rakes over me, green eyes narrowed, before he hums in satisfaction.
With a wave of his hand, he gestures for me to follow as he heads out of the room.
Again. I scramble off the dais. The hallways blur past me, but my skin prickles with icy dread.
Where is he taking me? My instincts are screaming, but I don’t know at what.
He takes me to the gardens next, where I was wedded to his son. Sunlight dapples the grass, and the cool breeze rustles the golden leaves. Varad takes a seat on a nearby stone bench.
I join him, my body as stiff as the cold stone beneath me.
The silence between us stretches for minutes, tense and heavy.
What does he want? So far, I’d been successful in avoiding him, but I hadn’t counted on Varad seeking me himself.
“Mayah,” he says slowly, as if testing my name on his lips. “Queen Mayah of Arbinj.”
Have the Tides ravaged his mind?
Varad sighs deeply. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, his voice quiet. “I didn’t think you’d marry my son. It ruined my plans when you did.”
I bristle. Why is he telling me this?
“You wanted to keep me hostage. Or kill me.”
His lips twist. “A hostage, yes. I wouldn’t have killed you. I’d have lost my leverage.”
I scoff, violent anger roiling inside me. “What was your plan?”
“Force your father to help me fight the Rebellion. Take his land. Resources. Whatever he’d give me for his heir.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and the gesture reminds me so much of Zev that my heart stutters.
“My son is in love with you, Mayah,” Varad says matter-of-factly.
The air leaves my lungs.
I want to believe him.
I want it so badly, my bones ache for it.
“I didn’t plan for it. But it doesn’t make it any less true. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. And in his rage when anyone else looks at you.” He glances at me, finally. “I want my son to be happy.”
Why did you kill his mother, then?
“I am willing to set aside this decades-long war for him. If you care for Zevayr, which I suspect you do, then perhaps you can do the same. Imagine, a real union between our kingdoms? One based on trust? There’s nothing that could stop us.”
If he suspects the festival plan, this is a clever move. Offer mercy before I commit the sin. Entrap me into revealing myself.
He waits for a response, but I remain silent.
“Why did you call me Queen Mayah?” I ask instead, crossing my arms and bracing against the brisk wind. “Faramir will be king, not Zev.”
Varad rakes his incisors over his lower lip, and again, the gesture is so reminiscent of Zev that my heart misses a beat.
I hate him.
I hate this man who murdered my mother, yet bears so many similarities to my husband.
“Faramir is … unhinged, to put it mildly,” Varad says, brows knitting together. “It’s my fault. He didn’t receive the same maternal warmth that Zevayr did. My eldest is unnecessarily cruel. Malicious. He’s not the right king for Arbinj.”
Varad’s words turn my blood to ice.
“You want Zev to be king?” I whisper, eyes wide. He nods. “What about Faramir? He won’t just step aside.”
Varad scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “No. No, he won’t. If I can secure the alliance with Volca, he might be content to wed their princess and rule their island. If not…” He trails off, a grim look crossing his face.
My blood burns hot. “You’d ruin an innocent girl’s life by marrying her to him?”
Of course he would. He’d been perfectly happy for me to wed his deranged son. Until Zev ruined his plans.
Sharp green eyes cut to me, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I do what I must. You may think me a monster, Mayah, but I do love my sons. Both of them. And as I said—Zevayr loves you. Move on from past wrongs, and think about what you want. It could all be yours.”
I mull over his words. After a few minutes, he rises and returns to the palace.
I lose track of how long I sit there.
My son is in love with you.
I blink back tears. Unbidden, my gaze falls to my wedding ring, a mirror of my mother’s necklace.
With a shuddering gasp, I clutch the pendant tightly, the sharp point of the teardrop digging painfully into my skin. The storm that killed her is still inside me. Nothing can quiet the thunder in my chest.
He might be able to forget the past.
But I cannot.