Chapter 32
Derian
I’m on edge all morning. I lay in bed well past the time when I should get up. Truthfully, I’m paralyzed, tossing over every possibility in my mind of how the next few hours are going to go.
I don’t think I’m going to be able to do this.
When the Eshari came to my room last night, clawing at the door and releasing a roar that shook the furniture, I knew something was wrong.
I ran. Followed that damn cat without even thinking.
When I finally saw her, barefoot and bloodied in the nightgown I had left her in, ready to take on five of them by herself, I wanted to tear them apart limb by limb.
Then, when Mara was on her knees in front of me, I wanted to carve her punishment out of her flesh forever raising a hand against her.
How am I possibly going to survive watching her battle two highly skilled Fae warriors by herself?
She’s just a Mortal.
That’s what makes my obsession with her all the stranger. The Gods know I’ve had plenty of women before. All willing, eager, beautiful Fae who knew exactly how to please me.
Huntyr is different, though.
Despite the fact that she’s just a Mortal, weak and easily broken, she meets me as an equal. Not once since I met her at the masquerade has she ever feared or chased me.
Even Seraphina, for all her fire and independence, had initiated our relationship with the eager desire for the status that I would bring her.
It was that desire that kept her coming back.
I wasn’t delusional enough to think it was because of any affection for me.
Still, over the years, there have still been times I’ve recognized hesitancy in her eyes when my temper escaped me.
Huntyr didn’t look at me with fear last night.
Anger, maybe, possibly even disgust, but she hadn’t been afraid.
She could be greeting death himself, and she wouldn’t cower.
There’s a knock at my door, and I finally pull myself out of bed to answer it, tugging on a shirt as I do. The knock sounds again, and I rip it open, only to stumble back at the sight before me. “I didn’t know you were coming,” I tell the woman with a grin.
My Aunt, Ulna, seems shorter than I remember her. Or I’ve gotten taller. Either way, I have to stoop awkwardly to hug her before stepping aside to let her into the room.
By Mortal standards, she appears to be in her mid-thirties. She puts on a show of being any other married woman, wearing flowing skirts with her hair tied back, but she’s as formidable as they come. She’d called her own Conclave, refusing to tie herself down to anyone other than the very strongest.
She examines the dishevel of my room with a disapproving tut. “It wouldn’t kill you to tidy up once in awhile.”
I run a hand through my hair and gesture to the seats by the hearth. “I’ve been a bit busy lately.”
“So I’ve heard.” She smooths her skirts before sitting. “Aren’t you going to offer your dear old Aunt a drink?”
I chuckle under my breath with a shake of my head. “Whiskey?”
“Gin, if you’ve got it.”
I’ve got everything, and she damn well knows it.
“You’re sent to bring back a Mortal princess and you show up with a host of them? Just to force them into a Conclave with the Fae? It hardly seems fair to those girls.”
That thought had been sitting heavily on me lately.
I’d sentenced those five women to death. They’d never stood a chance. Huntyr survived this long because she’d been trained for this, honed into a weapon since she was five summers old.
The other women were just fodder, whom I destroyed in my misguided attempt at vengeance.
I hand her a glass, the gin filling nearly half of it, and she scoffs as if it’s not quite enough for her.
“I had my reasons at the time.”
“And now?” Ulna lifts her brows, as if she already knows the answer.
I sink heavily into the chair opposite her, running my hands over my face. “Now, I think I regret it.”
She’s quiet, letting me sit with that admission, that realization. She lets me fester in it until I down my own glass and drop it heavily onto the table beside me.
It’s my second of the morning, and it is doing absolutely nothing to calm my nerves.
“Taric tells me you seem fond of the Mortal girl.” Her voice is soft, inviting, offering me the space to talk through whatever I need to. She’s offering me the opportunity to come to terms with what I’m about to witness.
My mouth is locked shut, though, my jaw tight. Even if I want to open up to her, I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure I can let myself articulate the raging storm that is building inside me.
“It will be difficult,” she warns me, setting her own glass aside and folding her hands in her lap.
“In my five hundred years, I have watched two Conclaves besides my own. The final trial is always the worst. The competitors become ruthless. It’s a bloody fight to the death, and the crowd will feed off of it.
They will expect you to enjoy the show.”
“What if I can’t?”
She meets my eyes, her gaze a mixture of understanding and sympathy.
“You will know when it’s about to happen.
You will close your eyes for that brief moment.
Let your magic reach out to her so that you’re there with her in her final breath, and then you say or do whatever you need to until you are back in the privacy of this room. ”
I stand suddenly, my strength pushing back the chair behind me. Ulna flinches slightly but keeps those hands calmly folded, her position neutral even as I begin pacing, even as my magic stirs inside me.
She speaks as if it’s that simple, as if she has any real insight. She was in love with Taric the moment she saw him, and there was never any doubt that he would win. She has no idea what this is like.
She has no idea what it feels like to have your every instinct draw you to protect a woman, despite the fact that you know she’s about to be slaughtered, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
“Roland asked me to speak to you about what happens afterwards. He says you’ve refused to have that conversation with him.”
I scoff. So that’s the real reason she’s here. Not just a visit from my favorite aunt, but an official matter. “I’ll deal with that when it’s over.”
“People will look to you, Derian. You called this Conclave. You made that choice. Now, it’s your responsibility to uphold its traditions as every warrior in our family has done since the creation of the Fae.”
Her voice is sharp, snapping out like a whip and not leaving any room for negotiation. And even though I know she’s right, even though I know that I have to be prepared for the next steps, I can’t bring myself to focus on it, not when half of my mind is still somewhere else—with someone else.
“There will be a memorial for the fallen competitors,” she explains. “Both you and your betrothed will be expected to make offerings.”
“Fine,” I mutter, pulling my chair back to its normal position and returning to my seat.
“Typically, the wedding is held in Bridgemond, but ultimately that is your choice.”
No, not there. After all this, that cold castle—which holds nothing for me but sour memories—is the last place I want to go.
“My house in Springhallow. That will do.”
Distaste colors her features, but she nods ever so slightly.
“Then there is the matter of the favor.”
Gods, I’d nearly forgotten about that. Forgotten that whoever won would have the ability to demand whatever they wanted of me.
“Do not allow her to ask for the favor until you are prepared to give it to her.”
My brow furrows. “Why? What do you mean?”
She sighs. “The favor is a powerful magic. Almost primal. Those who came before me described it as being nearly as powerful as a mating bond. When she demands it of you, you will think of nothing else, want nothing else, until it’s done. Everything else will stop being important to you.”
I let the words settle over me. Let their meaning echo through my head. “You’re telling me that the favor will draw me away from here and I will be powerless to stop it?”
She nods, brown eyes tracing over me. “It could, if that’s what your bride demands of you.”
Which means that if Luceron is still here, I’ll be leaving him undefended far too close to the Wastelands.
I can’t do that.
So whatever favor my bride wants is going to have to wait until Luceron returns to Bridgemond.
I hear the distinct sound of Cal’s heavy footsteps traveling down the hallway, and every muscle in me tenses. The dead heart inside my chest clenches.
“Good to see you, Caldren,” Ulna greets him, looking over my shoulder.
I don’t bother to look back at him.
“It’s time,” he says, his voice measured and quiet. It’s filled with the same sympathy as Ulna’s voice.
Pity. They pity me.
I stand and Ulna follows me, taking my face in her hands and forcing me to look down at her. “Remember what I told you.”
Her advice is good, well-thought out, and appropriate.
I can’t do it, though.
“I won’t close my eyes,” I tell her. “She wouldn’t want me to. She would want me to watch every minute just as I would for any other warrior's death.”