34. Ayna
Ayna
For long heartbeats, Myron just stands there as if he doesn’t own the silky voice I hear whenever I close my eyes.
“Have you ever wondered what happens if two fairies site-hop in different directions while holding hands?”
It’s not what I’d expected, but I’ll take it. At least, he isn’t asking if I’ve made up my mind whether I still want him.
Because I do. I’ll always want him. Just my body is confused, and I hate-hate-hate every last minute I’m hurting him.
The war in his eyes is killing me, so I decide not to watch. The ground in front of him is less dangerous.
“I suppose they’d end up separated?” I don’t mean to say it that way, but the words are out, and the uncomfortable silence stretching between us tells me he gets the double meaning.
“Perhaps.” His tone is light, the exact opposite of the painful knot forming in my stomach when I keep telling myself it would be so easy. That it’s all right to feel empty and still yearn for him. It’s all right to wonder if it’s better this way… “I suppose it depends on how strong they are and who is stronger.”
Stronger… Ha! I’m weak. Silas says it’s the un-mating symptoms messing with me, but my flesh is weak every time a male steps into the room. I hate it.
It will get better soon. Kaira is convinced, Silas is convinced—probably everyone but me is convinced.
“If one is stronger than the other, I guess the stronger partner will dictate the direction they’re going.”
Myron stops so abruptly I wonder if he is going to say something else—if he means something else—but he continues eventually, “If both are equally strong…”
I don’t give him time to make up his mind what might happen then. “They might never find the same path.”
Because that’s what happened to us. We were both strong. And now we ended up in separate places, the bond connecting us no longer durable enough to hold us together.
It ’ s all in your fucking mind, I tell myself. Give it a few days, and you ’ ll be fine. You won ’ t want to dry hump every other male, and you won ’ t shy away from your bonded partner anymore. You love him. You want him. There is no other person for you in the universe .
“Unless they decide they have a common destination.”
Fire burns in my stomach, flaring high at the question he’s posing. If I ’ m willing to meet him somewhere between where we used to be headed and where we’re headed now.
It hurts as fuck that I don’t have an answer.
“Is that something one can decide? What if it’s not us choosing our destinations? What if our paths have long been written in the stars?”
“What if it doesn’t matter because my love for you is stronger than the forces holding the stars in the skies?”
For a heartbeat, Myron stares at me, the weight of the universe in his gaze. I don’t need to look up at him to know his expression, but I do. Our eyes collide, and a spark of him ignites inside of me, leaving me raw, bleeding. It hurts to see him aching. Hurts even more to know I’m the cause.
I’ll be better tomorrow. I’ll speak the words on the tip of my tongue tomorrow, that I will never stop loving him either, that the frayed bond between us will heal. That I want it to. That I’ll cling to that hope until the day the gods decide I’m no longer worthy. “The gods made the stars, and the stars are eternal.” And we are the stars, you and I.
Something shifts inside of me. It’s minuscule and it results in a piercing ache in my shoulder, but it’s there. I want to reach for Myron, touch his hand if only for a moment, and it’s the first time I’m not paralyzed in his presence since the attack.
Before I can tell him, he rearranges his expression—so open one moment ago, so vulnerable— into all-business.
“I came here to let you know Recienne says the female we rescued is much better. He wants to talk to her today, and he offered for us to join him.”
The horrors of that cell beneath the estate flash through my mind, but one thought shines bright like a beacon. She survived. We saved someone. Our sacrifice wasn’t in vain.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I realize he actually came here to pick me up, not to discuss what happened to us. A weight drops from my chest, and energy fills my limbs at the prospect of having something to do that isn’t about me or him or about what our future might hold. This is about making a change in this war, and every last bit of information we can get might help us in the weeks to come. “You mean right now?”
I’m ready to leave, leaping to my feet so fast I almost stumble over the logs as I turn toward him. “Lead the way.”
Recienne does look after his court.
When we enter Tata’s—that’s the female’s name—room, it’s like walking into a puff of clouds. Light blue kisses along the cream walls like a summer sky peeking through sun-pierced clouds. A rounded glass vase holding white flowers sits atop an azure silk tablecloth on a low bedside table. A pale blue plush rug spreads in front of a carved bed covered in white sheets. Buried beneath the covers lies Tata, her thick black hair curled in a bun atop her head and the sleeves of her nightgown drawn back to her elbows to expose the bandages the healer is about to change as we enter the room behind the King of Askarea.
Tata doesn’t flinch or try to get up to kneel or bow. Instead, a warm smile spreads on her brown features, eyes sparkling when they meet her king’s. Thick black hair frames her face where all traces of bruises and cuts have been cleared away by healing magic and enough rest. I wonder about those hidden injuries, though, the ones only time can heal, if she’s braver than me to be able to smile like this after what she endured or simply better at concealing her brokenness.
“You look better, Tata.” Recienne flicks his fingers, and a carved birchwood chair appears next to the bed. He doesn’t sit down like I’d expected, though. With a smile, he motions for me to take a seat while he pulls two more chairs out of thin air, choosing the one closest to the bed for himself while he offers the other to Myron. The one closest to me. A shiver runs through my body as Myron’s thigh brushes my shoulder when he squeezes past to sit down, the sensation so unexpected my eyes snap to the side, half wishing for his to be waiting for me, but he’s smiling at the female, politely listening as Recienne introduces us as the people who freed her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Tata’s rich voice doesn’t sound like that of a female who went through torture and nearly died in a stinking cell a couple of weeks ago. “King Recienne told me your rescue mission wasn’t without cost though.”
“We didn’t suffer any losses,” I quickly say, chest aching at the thought that we might have lost any of my friends that day yet were spared, but Tata’s gaze lingers on my shoulder as if she can see through the light leathers I’m wearing.
“Not in the sense we count casualties on a battlefield,” she agrees, but her gaze tells me she knows what happened. “I am grateful for your sacrifice. If you hadn’t decided to come looking for us, I’d be dead like the rest of the scouts. You went into the belly of the beast to free us.”
“We’re grateful for the one life that was saved,” Recienne says like he isn’t the king who waged war on my people.
The fact that I am identifying as a Crow more by the day isn’t lost on me, and I have no idea how to feel about it when my feelings for Myron are confused on a good day and an outright disaster on a bad one. I’m nowhere near fit to be their Queen—three Crows or thousands, they deserve someone who will stand by their king no matter what.
As if reading my thoughts, Myron’s head snaps to the side, eyes finding mine, and days’ worth of suffering pour from his ocean irises. My hands want to reach for him, console him, but he pulls up his mask so fast I can’t take a full breath before he turns back to Tata, inclining his head.
“We are grateful for your bravery. Going out there full-knowingly that Erina’s sentries has been scouting the area, especially with his magic-nullifying drug at hand, is something only a hero would do.”
Tata grins at him, cheeks flushing a shade darker. “I’m not the only hero in this room then.”
Why it bothers me that he’s returning her smile is beyond me. Thank the Guardians, Recienne is here to keep me from making a comment and embarrassing myself.
“We didn’t know for certain it was Erina’s troops. Only that the Flames had been scouring the borderlands for something.” He laces his fingers together, bracing his forearms on his knees as he studies the scar running down the side of Tata’s neck climbing from the collar of her cream and light blue nightgown to her ear. That must have been a terrible cut if it leaves a scar on a fairy. Crows only keep scars from Crow claws, I’ve learned, but how scars work for Askarean fairies is something I’ve never thought to ask Clio or Tori.
Tata inclines her head. “We knew we were onto something when the scouts from the last mission didn’t return.” She smooths back her thick black braid with one hand, exposing more scars along her wrist and forearm. The horrors she must have endured…
Of course, she catches me staring and holds up her hand to let me assess her marred skin like it’s a trophy to show off. “Bastards burned my wrists before they strung me up to settle a debate whether it will leave scars.”
The tick in Recienne’s jaw is the only sign of his anger on the behalf of one of his subjects, but his lips remain a polite smile. “Those low-lives got what they deserved.” His pointed look is meant for both Myron and me, but it lingers on my face longer, a crease forming between his brows. “You said you had something you wanted to share with us?”
His words are clearly meant for Tata; still, the way his golden gaze bores into me makes my insides squirm. It’s not the thrill of a male’s attention, though, that puts my body on alert. It’s the way that look is drilling deep into the layers of me I’ve so desperately been trying to bury.
Shifting in my chair, I listen for Tata’s response, hoping it will release me from the Fairy King’s scrutiny, but he continues, speaking directly to me, “Tata woke a week ago. She was in such deep trauma that her body shut down until the mind was ready to catch up with the healing process.”
There’s a deeper meaning to his words than I can understand, but it’s resonating in a wild cacophony like a set of off-kilter bells.
“When I first woke up,” Tata says, her tone tired, “I couldn’t believe I was alive. I didn’t even want to be alive with all my comrades gone.” She glances between Myron and me. “It could have been any of them who survived, but it was me. Not the captain or one of the more experienced soldiers. Me, a female who stumbled into King Recienne’s army like a youngling into an armory.”
Recienne opens his mouth to say something, but Tata is already speaking again. “I’d never planned on surviving my service, yet here I am.” Her laugh is rough, only humorous in parts, but those parts come straight from the heart. “It seems the Guardians have plans for me.”
This female endured serious trauma and has picked herself up so fast, not a hint of bitterness on her features. I don’t know what bothers me more, how well she’s dealing with what life has dealt her or how poorly I am.
A soft knock sounds on the door, and Recienne waves his hand, granting access.
“Apologies…” Silas is halfway across the threshold when he realizes the room isn’t empty. “I can come back later. ”
In his hands, he’s holding a plate with one single piece of cake.
Not cake—fig-pie. I remember the scent from Myron’s palace in the Seeing Forest.
“It’s all right, Silas. Please come in.” Recienne waves the male over, simultaneously summoning a fourth chair next to mine.
Silas’s eyes wander between Tata, Recienne, and Myron before they settle on the chair, and he prowls over, unsheathing his hatchet and laying it over the foot-end of the bed before he sits down, small porcelain plate clutched in both hands like he has no clue where to put it or why he brought it to begin with.
“My favorite, Thanks.” Tata holds out a hand toward him, and for a heartbeat, I believe she’s reaching for him, but Silas pushes up a few inches, bending forward to hand her the dish.
Recienne’s lips twitch, and my stomach sours. Myron sits quietly like he hasn’t just witnessed one of his grumpiest warriors awkwardly hand a female a piece of cake.
Tata brings the plate up to her nose, inhaling deeply before she leans back against the stack of pillows, setting the plate on the bedside table, right next to the flowers. “For later,” she murmurs, a small smile on her lips. “I was just going to tell them about the weapon,” Tata says to Silas, who merely nods, face wiped clean of all emotions and the usual frown back in place.
“I’m glad you’re feeling brave enough to share today.” The words out of Silas’s mouth take me by such surprise that I don’t realize I’m exchanging a look with Myron until something in my stomach starts eating at me.
He averts his eyes first, training them back on Tata, and I follow his lead.
“Please tell us more about the weapon,” Recienne prompts, his tone gentle, cautious in a way I hadn’t believed the Fairy King capable of, but today seems to be full of surprises.
Loose black strands shift into Tata’s face as she lowers her head, a deep breath lifting her chest. “Some days were worse than others in the Flames’ dungeon, but the day we overheard the guards’ conversation about the weapons delivery was the worst.”
The air catches in my throat as I brace for details.
“They strung us up on the rings that day and didn’t take us down again. It was the day the first of us died.” She closes her eyes as that particular memory flickers behind her eyelids. “Some of us had been there for a while, captured during earlier attacks. But they were all alive, ready to fight our way out should the opportunity arise. After that day, no one believed we’d get out alive.”
Like a dark cloud, images of the dungeon return, making it hard to inhale a steady breath. But I’m not the only one. Myron’s fingers are digging into his thighs like he’s holding on for dear life, his eyes narrowed as if squinting away the horrors of his own memories—not from our rescue mission but from his days in Erina’s dungeon. His shoulders rise and fall with slow, controlled breaths. I might have not noticed it, had something inside my chest not alerted me to his discomfort. A flicker of a memory of that connection once brilliant and strong between us.
I don’t reach for him the way I might have two weeks ago. This isn’t his story, and I don’t want to embarrass him by bringing attention to him. I’ll ask him later.
It’s a promise I make to myself, and I pretend it’s as binding as any Crow’s.
“I’m sorry,” Recienne murmurs, his tone soothing and gentle. How many soldiers he has consoled like this in his long, long years, I can’t begin to fathom. He’s fought in both Crow wars, and so have his sister and his general. The history in this room is loaded and dangerous, but we’re all working together now, there’s no doubt about that.
“What did they say about the weapon?” Silas is the one to ask, but even his usually rough, sarcastic tone has smoothed into a quiet melody as he studies the female’s hunched shoulders, the crease between her brows, the lines bracketing her mouth as she searches for words.
Eventually, she heaves a deep breath, lifting her chin and straightening her back in defiance against the horrors haunting her. “There’s a delivery on its way. Erina and his Crow friend—the name of which I keep forgetting?—”
“Ephegos,” Silas supplies with a growl.
“Exactly, Ephegos,” Tata repeats as I remind myself that Ephegos supposedly is now leading Erina’s armies, and anything involving the traitor Crow and weapons can’t be good news. “They have refined the magic-nullifying serum and sending it to the Plithian Plains where their army is gathering. ”
Fuck…
Even Recienne loses his composure for a brief moment as he takes in what seems to be news to everyone.
“They are sending them in wagons. Vials of liquid, apparently, to apply to blades and arrowheads. It’s more potent than the version they used on you when they captured you.” Her gaze slides to Silas. Whatever happened in those few days since she woke again, Silas must have spent a lot of time in this room, sharing stories, or she would have never heard about how they got captured by the Flames.
“Ephegos is getting ready to equip his own army with the weapon, too, and if that happens, there is no chance we’ll defeat even a small group of Flames and Crows.” Her gaze wanders from Recienne to Myron to me before it returns to Silas.
His own army. The Crows, not just Erina’s legions.
“I knew that fucker would be trouble,” Silas grumbles more to himself. “I knew, if we let him live, he’d eventually fuck up our lives.”
“It’s not like we had a real chance to unlike him,” Myron points out with tone so dark I can feel the afternoon light fade from the room for a few breaths.
Silas shakes his head. “But I’d like to believe that we showed him mercy and could easily rectify that mistake. It makes me feel more in control.”
His admission is a hit in the gut, as are the black veins creeping into Myron’s eyes as he turns to the warrior, features hard as stone. “There will be no mercy next time we face him.”