Chapter 27
Ash lifts his hand from my mouth, pushes off his elbows, and gets to his feet. He offers a hand down to me, and I stare at it stupidly, half-blinded by the terror pumping through my veins. Before I take it, he reaches down, snatches my arm, and hauls me up so violently I nearly go flying in the other direction. A sharp whiz slices into the ground where I just was. Another black arrow.
I’m going to be sick.
He tucks me behind his back, keeping a hand wrapped like iron around my upper arm. “Come now!” he calls into the woods. “Is that any way to greet my new wife?”
I curl close to his back, not brave enough to peek around him and see who he’s talking to. It takes all my willpower to bite back a frightened little whimper, but I’m not completely successful. Ash’s grip tightens in response. I wince, grabbing hold of the back of his tunic for security.
“Why don’t we all put down our weapons and just have a nice little chat? I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement. What do you say?”
Another arrow flies, and this time it goes straight through the edge of my skirts not hidden by Ash. I let out a squeal, squeezing closer to his back.
“How unfortunate”—he gives a sigh of long suffering—“that you all are determined to be unreasonable. Things might get messy now, and my laundress will give me such a talking to. Don’t you know how difficult it is to get blood out of clothes?”
Why is he provoking them? My heart pounds like a hammer against my chest, threatening to climb right out of my throat. I look around, searching for some place to hide—
A fae in all black eases against a tree not far away, and as I watch, lifts his bow. A clear shot at me.
“Ash!” I scream.
His head whips to the side, and before I can react, flings his arm toward the fae, toward the arrow zipping toward me.
The arrow disintegrates into powder that floats away on the wind. I stare, rendered immobile, as that long, glowing sword I’ve seen Ash carry once before appears in his hand. It looks impossibly heavy, yet he doesn’t even grunt as he throws it with deadly precision into the chest of our enemy. Blue blood spurts as the fae cries out, falling to his knees.
As if that wasn’t enough, Ash’s hand closes in a fist around air, twisting. The blade in the fae’s chest twists in response, and a pained scream rings in my ears. I tear my eyes away as Ash makes a hacking motion with his hand, his flintlike jaw clenched.
He yanks his hand toward himself, and the sword comes flying back, its hilt sliding into his grip. I cling to his cloak, breathing hard, as he faces the rest of the men sent after us. Specks of blue blood fleck his cheek. His voice is that of death itself.
“It’s your own fault if you don’t run.”
They don’t run.
Ash’s back twists as he throws his sword once more. I try to block out the sounds, but instead of burying my face in his cloak, I have enough presence of mind to turn around. I keep my back pressed against his, my hands gripping his belt through his cloak, and scan the forest. Looking for any sign that we’ve been surrounded.
It gives me something to think about, to focus on besides the screams and the awareness of Ash’s deadly movements.
“No one is b-behind that t-t-tree,” I stutter to myself, forcing my eyes to stay open as another pained cry splits the air. “O-or th-th-that one.”
At last, silence falls. I quiver, still clinging to his belt. He lowers his hands and twists his head back toward me. I take that to mean it’s safe. Still, I cannot quite find the strength to let go of him.
Then, his commanding voice rings out, and it’s not addressed to me. “Return to my father. Tell him that if he wishes to hurt my wife, he’d better try harder.”
Footsteps scramble off, making at a run, and my breath turns shallow and short.
Ash turns around, slowly, so I’m forced to relinquish my grip. I stare up at him, my eyes feeling much too wide for my own face. His expression is hard as stone, and even colder. That coldness softens a little as he meets my gaze. Then he glances down and clucks irritably, rubbing at a blue stain on his tunic.
“Poor laundress,” he says. “Well, enough of that. Come along, darling.”
He takes my hand and guides me through the bodies littering the forest. As if this is a regular occurrence for him! My knees almost give out about seventeen times in the first dozen steps, as though I’m a newborn lamb. These nerves of mine better put themselves in their proper places before I am forced to ask my husband to carry me the rest of the way.
“I don’t want your father to try harder,” I mumble under my breath.
Ash looks down at me in surprise, a bright smile replacing his hard-edged expression. “I like it when you say what you think. You have many amusing thoughts.”
“I . . . what?”
“Let’s hurry back. You’re looking a little pale. I’m afraid I’ve overtaxed you.”
We make it back to the palace with no more incident, slipping back through the servants’ gate in the garden. Ash plucks a pine needle out of my hair before we reenter his quarters.
Ash’s rooms only became mine just yesterday, but slipping into them is like pulling a cozy, well-worn wool blanket around my shoulders. They’re familiar, and—for now—feel safe.
A manservant comes to take the cloak from Ash’s shoulders, and the hood from mine. He’s human, and he works with efficiency. Did he make a bargain with Ash like that man back at the Small City? That Milton Andrews? Or a bargain like what I think Ash’s former manservant made with him regarding Mama Bagogs?
“Where is Edvear?” Ash asks the manservant.
“He went out, but he should be back soon.” He whisks away the garments, and I’m about to make a beeline to my own room when warm fingers touch my forehead, slide down my temple, and tuck a stray hair behind my ear. I glance up, startled.
Ash regards me with a solemn expression. “Are you alright?”
Something about the question halts me in my steps, makes my lips part as though I have something to say—but I have nothing to say, right? My hands still shake, but that’s to be expected when one was just shot at multiple times.
I purse my mouth, attempt a nod. My neck remains upright, unmoving. It’s been a few seconds before I realize I’m just gaping at him.
His own mouth tightens into a line. Then he drops his hand from my face and leans back against the doorframe, eyeing me with that startlingly intense expression of his. “When I married you, I promised to be good to you.”
I’m not sure what promise he’s referring to, if that was the gist he got from the vows he pledged me at our ceremony. My throat goes dry anyway.
“But I fear I may be overwhelming you.”
It’s not him, so much as everything being new. And his father trying to kill me. Sure, Ash can be larger than life when he wants to be, but he’s given me far more attention in the span of the last two days than I’ve ever had in my life.
His attention is probably clouding my judgement. It would be better if I slipped into the background somewhere, out of his way. Then I’ll think more clearly.
“Stella?”
I blink. “Pardon?”
“Where did you just go?” He slowly wags a finger in front of my face, and I go cross-eyed following it. “You left the room a moment ago. Where’d you go?”
My eyes lift from his finger to his face. I cannot read his expression. There’s a perceptive gleam to his vibrant irises, a gleam that studies me intently. How much has my face revealed? “F-forgive me. I am merely tired. There is much for me to pr-process.”
“What troubles you?”
“Pardon?”
“Something is troubling you. Are you afraid?”
The question almost makes me snort. I restrain the undignified sound and only allow a small smile. “Of course not, my lord.”
He blinks at me, as he always does when I lie straight to his face. Usually, a grin is quick to follow it, but this time it doesn’t come. Instead, he takes another step toward me, narrowing the distance between us. My heart picks up a staccato rhythm as he slips a finger beneath my jaw, lifting my chin so our eyes meet. “You are my wife, Stella. It is true that my father wants your life and will take it when given the chance. But you are my wife, and I will fight with everything I have for you. I will—”
“You hardly know me!” I burst before I can help myself. “We’re practically strangers!”
Strangers married to each other, attempting to forge some semblance of a life together in a hostile world. Our situation is so insane, so ridiculous, it could be comical!
His eyelids lower. “I don’t want to be strangers, Stella. I wantto know you. And I want you to know me. I don’t want this to be a mere political alliance, a transaction where I purchased you from your spineless father.”
My lips part. He cannot know what that means to me. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he’s saying it. Because he knows I’ll fall for it. Confusion roils in my gut. For a world of people who supposedly cannot lie, I feel as though I swim blind and deaf through a sea of falsehoods and half-truths.
His hand slides from my jaw for his fingers to curl around the back of my head, as he comes closer, closer, until I can hardly breathe. “I don’t want you to be afraid.”
Not knowing what else to say, I merely nod. He can wish all he wants, but that won’t change anything. We stay like this for some time, until my eyes drop, and then he lets me go.
“I sh-should like to take a rest, my lord,” I mumble.
His jaw flexes. He nods.
I turn and make my escape, fleeing to the refuge of my room. I shut the door behind me and breathe deeply. The knot in my throat thickens, sharpens, until I cannot hold back the tears anymore. I flop onto my bed, stuff my face into a pillow so no one can hear me, and let the dam loose.
I thought if I just approached this with simple practicality and acceptance, everything would be fine. But I’m so confused. I don’t know up from down in this world, left from right. At least if I’d been married off to Prince Brochfael, I would know exactly my place in the world. I would be the quiet Isabelle Louise who submitted to the whims of her husband, just as I submitted to the whims of my father. I knew my role: to take whatever was given to me, to give whatever was asked of me, and to do so without complaint.
It would be a miserable existence, but I would know exactly what to make of it. I’d hardly have to speak a word, and once Prince Brochfael grew tired of his new wife, I could slip back into the shadows where I belong. I’d find a quiet way to pursue a proper interest besides growing little potted plants in windows. Needlework, perhaps.
Here? With Ash? I don’t know my place anymore, and it deeply frightens me. Who am I, if not quiet, docile Isabelle Louise? Why do these unexpected flashes of will, of anger, plague me? Why do I want to test and prod the identity I’ve had for so long?
Ash doesn’t want me to be afraid. Well, neither do I! But how else am I supposed to face this terrifying new world? A little fear seems like a healthy thing, right?
But I don’t want to be afraid.
I want to stand on my own two feet, to face arrows without a flinch of fear, to not shirk from my imposing, charismatic husband. Maybe I should tell him what I think! Maybe that will give me the boldness I long for.
Maybe I’ve spent too much of my life letting others decide my path. Maybe I’ve considered myself too much a victim of my father, and now, of my husband, Faerieland, and the High King.
But perhaps I can face these things head on.
What if my spine didn’t have to bend? What if . . . what if I wasn’t afraid?
Who would I be if I let go of the chains of fear binding me?
I throw aside the pillow, launching to my feet. I pace the U around my bed, back and forth, and then—because I still don’t want anyone to hear me—I growl under my breath. “Don’t tell me what to do, Vivienne. Don’t tell me what to say, Jacquelle. Don’t tell me who to be, Yvonne. I’m sick of it! I’m sick of your nagging, and the way your nagging has carried with me to Faerie. Go away and nag yourselves!”
I stop, breathing hard, but more invigorated than I have been in a long time. Uncurling my arms from around my middle, I put them at my sides and clench my hands into a fist. “I really like you, Ash, but I’m not going to be your pawn. I’m your wife, not a piece on a gameboard. So don’t think I’m just going to capitulate to your every whim!”
This feels good. Really good. I prowl to the other side of my bed, nearer to the window, and stick a finger in the air.
“And you, High King . . . well! Don’t think you can kill me or my husband without a fight—from both of us! You think I’m just Ash’s pet. Keep thinking it, High King, and let’s see what happens when you discover you’ve underestimated us!”
This is ridiculous, part of my brain insists. You’re making a fool of yourself.
“So what if I am?” I demand aloud. “What if I don’t want to care anymore?”
My lungs heave with every breath, as though I’ve just run to Mama Bagog’s house and back with no breaks. But I am alive! Electricity buzzes beneath my skin, igniting me. A grin spreads across my tear-streaked face, and I cannot suppress it. I don’t want to suppress it! This is glorious!
But then I find myself facing the patch of floor between the window and my bed’s floorboard. My grin fades, my shoulders slightly hunching as tension radiates back into my body. Every instinct tells me to bow my head, to fold my hands in front of me.
Father.
How can I face him? It goes against the code written into every bone in my body.
I bow my head.
I clench my fists.
There is no more cowering. I’m not Isabelle Louise anymore. I’m Stella. There’s nothing left for me back in Aursailles. Faerieland is my home now. Ash is my home now. Father has no power over me. His memory cannot hurt me.
I lift my head, glaring into the empty air where I imagine his eyes to be. “I’m done making myself small so you can feel strong. I’m done being afraid of you. I’m done fighting for your fickle approval. I’ve had enough! Enough, I say!”
They’re only whispers, but they leave me breathless. Breathless and alive. My shoulders are lighter. My whole being is lighter than it ever has been, as though I’ve shed a massive burden. I stare at the empty space that represents Father. My chin quivers, and I don’t fight the tears as I bow my head. “You were supposed to protect me.”
I shudder, stumbling back to the bed, falling onto it, and burying my face in my hands.
Father didn’t protect me. Not in the way he should have. The sobs that wrack my shoulders aren’t sobs of helplessness or frustration. They’re made of mourning, of realized loss.
They’re also a goodbye. A severing.
No part of me belongs to him anymore.
Cathartic tears wash away the pain, until I’m left spent and exhausted on my bed, folded in the soft blankets and staring at a damp spot on my pillow. Then I close my eyes, and a warm peace blankets my soul in darkness.