Chapter 22 #2
Alder stood, drawing Mireille near him as he stared at the queen. “I no longer care what you have to say. I will break our bargain, and the law will protect me. You intend to take Rivenwilde either way, but you cannot prevent our union.”
A loud, harsh breath came out of the queen. Her arms had shifted wide, but Alder was right, she could not attack him or Mireille. They were all under bargain. And as for the people they cared about, well, the queen was a guest on Rivenwilde land. She was as bound as Alder.
He turned to the officiant, a tall man in ceremonial robes who did not appear in the least ruffled by the goings on. “Wed us.”
The officiant nodded, placing one hand on his chest and raising the other where Alder and Mireille’s were joined. The dais cracked in half.
“You cannot marry her!” Maeve screeched.
It was an actual, literal screech, and the entire crowd lurched backward.
Something changed in Alder’s expression; he looked from Maeve to Mireille.
She squeezed his hands tighter; there did not seem to be time to explain before the curse clock ran out, and Maeve had no intention of allowing Mireille to say it.
Alder might not understand why the queen was so angry, but he was certainly clever enough to see that if that if she wanted to prevent the ceremony so badly, he should complete it, even if it only meant it might force her to act against him and break fae law.
He pulled Mireille against his chest, eyes on the queen, and ordered, “Do it.”
The officiant began to speak but Maeve shrieked, “Cease, you fools!”
They did not cease. The ceremony carried on.
Maeve’s chest heaved in a great wave.
Alder shoved Mireille behind him, commanding the officiant not to stop for anything.
With every word, Maeve breathed harder, until her body began to thrash.
A screech tore through the air, and in the crowd several candles dropped to the ground, guttering out as fae scattered, some to safety, others to stand by their prince.
Nisha herded Thomas and the other humans behind her, swords drawn, as Kin frantically signed toward the courtiers near the dais.
Noal calmly released the buttons of his coat.
Maeve’s form warped and grew, twisting itself into a shadow creature like the one that had attacked at the sacred pond, but far, far worse. The remaining fae spread out into fighting stances while others watched from the shelter of the trees.
Mireille wasn’t certain even the trees were safe. They swayed with the rumblings of magic, their tall trunks creaking and groaning in an unearthly way.
The creature that was Maeve stood twice as high as any in the crowd and knocked two of the largest fae near the dais aside with such force they landed in the distant shadows. The thing charged, and Alder moved for it.
Mireille had to stop him; they needed to finish the ceremony.
Too fast, the creature rose on its unfathomable haunches, long, knife-sharp talons bursting from its shadow hands. Alder’s own hands drew back, but he was too close. The beast would tear him to shreds.
Mireille moved without thought, throwing herself between Maeve and the prince. A roar tore through the air, echoing off the trees bordering the lane. Shadowy claws rested a hair’s breadth from Mireille’s throat.
She stared up at the monster. “The laws of your land may allow you to act first, be punished later, but you and I have an agreement sealed by bargain. I have done exactly what you asked of me. You cannot harm me, nor can you harm my father, my kingdom, or the people of Norcliffe.”
Mireille took hold of Alder’s arm where he stood at her back, his chest rising and falling in angry, violent breaths.
Her jaw tightened. “You may bring no harm to those I love. And I love the prince.” She felt Alder melt against her, the way his body and his magic seemed purr in welcome and regard.
He might believe his reign was about to come to an end, but it was clear he treasured the moment nonetheless.
He was barely touching her, but she had never felt more embraced.
Mireille vowed, “Soon, the Rive will come down, and Rivenwilde will ally itself with Norcliffe, and Westrende, and even the kingdom of Nordhelle.”
The statement was not truly hers to make, but no one called her bluff, so she went on. “When the officiant finishes the binding and we are wed, what price must you pay to Alder?”
“Her lands will be forfeit,” Nisha said from the steps of the dais. “They will belong to Alder, but Rivenwilde will remain severed due to the curse, so those lands cannot be joined with ours.”
“She will be queen of nothing,” Alder said with disgust. He slid a hand over Mireille’s waist. “And it would be worth my crown to see that alone come to fruition.”
Mireille felt sick. She’d seen how close the sands were to running out.
She did not know how much longer the prince and Rivenwilde had left.
It had truly been his last chance. The fae had not known the details of the curse, that the Rive would not fall unless he married someone of noble Westrende blood, only that if the Rive did not fall, Alder would never be king. Rivenwilde could never be free.
Nisha and several others stepped slowly closer, and the beast that was Maeve breathed its rattling breath.
Alder’s grip drew Mireille against his chest. “So the question remains,” he asked Maeve. “Why is it so important to that you prevent us from becoming wed, when to break fae law would cost you even more?”
A voice rose from the crowd. “I think I can answer that.”
The creature whirled, baring its teeth and releasing a ragged snarl. Nisha flipped a sword forward, seemingly from thin air, and waggled it toward the beast. “It might not kill you, but it will certainly hurt.”
Magic rose from the earth, stronger than Mireille had ever felt, shaking the entire platform and warming her to the core. “It might not kill you,” Alder said. “But I am still Prince of Rivenwilde, and I will.”
The creature’s shadowy, malformed muzzle twitched, but it did not attack. Mireille wondered precisely how torturous being torn apart by fae magic was, given how even Maeve reacted to threat of it.
She tore her gaze away long enough to peer into the crowd, lit by flickering torchlight. The voice had come from the marshal of Westrende.
The marshal gave a little wave of acknowledgement. “You said he must marry a princess of Westrende.”
“Yes,” Mireille started. “He doesn’t know.”
“Ah,” said the marshal.
Mireille turned to face her prince. “I hope you can forgive me. It was the only way we could think to keep me safe. You see, at first, we did not understand why a fae queen would be so set on ruining our kingdom, why she cared so much about the heir of a castle by the sea.”
The creature gave a snarly little huff of air. Its skin was shifting into something like the bark of a hawthorn tree.
“The assault was relentless, and it cost—” Mireille swallowed hard.
“It cost so much. When it became clear that her true target was me, Thomas and the others began an investigation. It seemed the queen had attacked neighboring kingdoms in recent years, all with one thing in common. But we had no way to defeat her. Clear was that she would not stop, even when Norcliffe was destroyed. So, we had to come. We had to find answers. We had to hope.” She gave him her most earnest gaze.
“My mother was not born in Norcliffe. She was from Westrende. A distant line, yes, but, well, there has been no one closer to throne for ages, given the misfortunes that have befallen nearly everyone of a royal line.”
Alder’s expression was one of true shock and, inexplicably, his gaze found the Westrende officials in the crowd.
“It’s true,” the marshal said. “You know they make officials study all the lineage and trade agreements. Perhaps I not as much as the magistrate here, but between us, we do have to have a thorough grasp of the law.” The dark-haired man beside her stared on and the marshal said, “So that is your answer. The fae have kept a king from coming to power since long before Mireille’s mother left for Norcliffe.
She is the last Westrende princess, now that the others have been married off. ”
The prince stood in silence. The other humans present, representatives of Nordhelle and friends of the marshal, gave him a little wave.
The marshal crossed her arms, a bit smug that the prince hadn’t sorted it all out. “Well, who’s the clever one now?”
The blond-haired man beside the marshal tipped his chin toward the queen. “That’s why she doesn’t want you to go through with it. The wall will come down. The Rive will heal. She won’t merely be the queen of nothing. You’ll be the king of…” He gestured vaguely. “Everything.”
The prince stared at the man, then the marshal, clearly in shock, but his hand did not loosen from around Mireille. His voice dripped with distrust. “And Westrende would allow that? You would cede its lands to me?”
The marshal’s stance shifted, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “No.” A breath came out of Alder, as if he had known it was too good to be true, but the marshal’s gaze fell on Mireille. “We would cede it to her.”
Thomas had clearly been able to get Mireille’s message to Westrende—the favor she’d asked of him before—and though she had hoped their council would vote to support the union, and grant the marshal and magistrate leave to negotiate on their behalf, given that the Rive would fall regardless, it was in their best interest to have an ally in the fae and their new queen.
A noise came from Alder, seemingly rusty and disused, and Mireille glanced back to find that it was laughter.
He had lifted his face to the canopy of sweet blossoms, letting the surprised, buoyant sound free.
The crumbled pillars shook into dust as moonlight slid into the opening of the canopy, lighting the broken dais in a silvery blue glow.
Then his face turned down toward Mireille, still alight with a joy she could not truly believe, and he swung her around, arms locking her to him, and kissed her, long and deep. Beneath them, Rivenwilde sang, its magic humming through the earth and into every blossom and tree.
When the kiss finally broke, leaving Mireille breathless and wondering, the truth of their situation finally started to sink in. They were free. There were no more bargains, no more curses. Only her, and Alder, and safety for all their people.
On the dais behind them, Maeve had shifted back to her previous form, gown torn, crown askew.
She was on her knees, no longer a queen, as the officiant had finished his declaration and the vows had been sealed with a kiss.
Behind her, dagger in one hand, Noal reached forward and removed the woven crown with such satisfaction that Mireille had a sort of dastardly desire to watch him do it again.
The corner of his lips twitched, and he tossed the crown. Alder caught it with one hand, giving it a long, silent glance, before returning his gaze to Mireille. “Highness,” he whispered, then placed the circle gently on her head, and leaned forward to kiss her again.