Chapter 20
Odja isthe only one from Erina’s court I see for the next week. No matter how many times I beg him to let me talk to Myron, or to ask the king to let me see my husband, he remains adamant about executing his orders of keeping me secluded in my room. At least, I have Clio who visits twice per day with the task of getting me dressed in the morning and dressed for bed as if she weren’t a princess. Today is no different.
When she steps into the room, her sepia maid’s uniform clashing with her copper hair and jade eyes like it’s actively trying to, I sit up where I’ve curled into myself on the broad bed to forget the world and the impossibility of escaping my fate.
I tried to sneak out of the room three times the first night without success. The palace guard caught me the first two times, and when I opted for the window and climbed down the ropes of Tavrasian wisteria along the palace wall, Herinor was waiting at the bottom, a frown on his features and an apology on his lips as he marched me back to my room. He doesn’t have a choice. His life depends on keeping me in line.
After everything I’ve learned about him, I no longer know if I even want him to consider giving up his life to save me. Myron did that.
Yet, he’s alive somehow. I haven’t laid eyes on him. Haven’t gotten the confirmation I’ve begged of everyone who’d listen for seven days in a row, to no avail, that he’s truly alive. That he is here in this palace. They have been drugging me at every chance, making certain my magic remains dormant and me compliant through weakness.
I can’t remember how many full meals I’ve eaten—and how many I’ve vomited into the porcelain toilet in the adjacent bathing chamber. Clio says that if I eject one more meal, I might no longer be much of a bride to marry.
Her good humor is the only thing I’m looking forward to when I wake in the same pompous prison as every morning for the past week. And Herinor… He spends his days outside my door as a backup for the human guards who failed to contain me the first two times.
It’s the eighth day when I finally wake without the usual headache and nausea. A tingle in my shoulder reminds me of the tattoo, and I roll out of bed, bracing my hand on the edge of the table as I stand in front of the mirror in the corner. The fact that my head is a little clearer today is enough to make me question everything Erina said. Myron can’t be alive. I watched him die. I fucking cried onto his still chest. His heart wasn’t beating.
The flicker of hope having come to life inside of me won’t go away. And hope is worse than fear or hatred or even anger. Once it takes root, it can destroy the strongest armor established around a shattered heart. It creeps between the pieces like poison, tugging and pulling on them so when the final blow hits to destroy, whatever protection kept it safe will no longer stop anything from eviscerating.
I can’t allow for that to happen.
Yet, my heart is lighter than it has been in weeks. It doesn’t matter what Erina wants from me as long as Myron is alive—as long as the guilt of being responsible for another loved one’s death is lifted from my shoulders and I can breathe again.
“Good morning.” Clio enters on silent fairy feet, startling me as I take a step toward the mirror. Naturally, she is there before I can fall to my knees, my balance still disturbed from the drug.
“Why do you look like a goddess even after being drugged every day?” I ask her with the same disgruntled tone I have ready for Erina should he ever show his face again. “And why haven’t you bolted from this place? You’re apparently still fast enough to outrun any human.”
Clio heaves me onto the sepia sofa, sitting next to me as she places my hands in my lap and brushes back my hair like a mother does with a child.
“The drug affects fairies differently. We recover faster from the side effects. But trust me, I’ve hurled up my guts more than once since I was brought here.” Her sympathetic expression is more than disconcerting. It’s nothing like the fierce warrior princess I remember. What has this place done to her?
“Does your magic return faster, too?” Again with that hope. The drug is doing its best to destroy me before Erina can deliver the final blow.
She bobs her head, copper braid sliding over her shoulder and covering the wooden button of her apron. “They have resorted to injecting me with the drug.” A grimace distorts her beautiful features as she pulls up her sleeve to expose the cluster of red dots in the crook of her elbow. “Apparently, King Erina is all for innovation and progress. He has a group of people working on new drugs to use in war. I overheard the guards when they brought me in for my daily dosage.”
“Why haven’t you tried to run?” By the way her shoulders cave, I know I shouldn’t have asked. “I’m sorry…”
“No… It’s all right.” Straightening her spine, she sits back a few inches, facing me fully. “I was half dead when they brought me in. I can’t even remember what happened and how I got here. It was Ephegos who told me about the explosion and that I got caught in the rubble of the destroyed palace and a rain of magic.”
Half dead. I hate the way I want to thank Ephegos for saving her even when he made her a prisoner—a slave.
“Then he locked me in a cell to test variations of the drug on me until he was sure it had the right effect to take out the strongest fairies at mere skin contact.”
I hate where this is going. “They used you…”
“To create a weapon. Something that will take out fairies the way a punch to the nose can take out humans.” Fear crosses her features, but she masks it with the face of the sassy female I met back at Myron’s palace. “A weapon against Askarea.”
“Guardians—” If this is really what Erina is doing… “He wants to attack the fairylands.”
“He’s far from finding a solution. Producing the drug takes too long to create large amounts. But eventually, yes. I believe he wants to attack Askarea.”
And with a weapon like that, the fairies would lose their advantage. How I can feel sympathetic toward a people I feared mere months ago, I don’t even want to understand. Myron, Royad, and Clio made a difference in the way I view the fairylands. They might be dangerous and powerful and cruel if need be, but they are also my friends. My family.
“Is Erina telling the truth? Is Myron alive?”
Clio shakes her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t been in the dungeons since those initial days. I tried to escape too many times for them to let me go anywhere on my own. The only reason they allow me into this room without supervision is because Herinor is standing guard outside, and his fairy ears pick up every word we’re speaking.” Her hand finds mine in a comforting squeeze. “I can’t fathom even trying to run again now that you’re here. I won’t leave you behind. If we escape, it will need to be together. And I know you’re listening, Herinor,” she adds a little louder. “If you say one word to Ephegos, Erina, or anyone, I will cut your tongue out, magic or no.”
I believe every word she says, and oddly enough, for once, my rage isn’t on my behalf but on that of the female who has suffered because she stepped in to help in the Seeing Forest. She suffered because of me. It’s my responsibility to get her out of here.
We talk more as she helps me dress for the day—not that I can’t do it on my own, but there is comfort in the silent companionship of this task. My thoughts circle around the extent of cruelty both Ephegos and Erina are capable of and around the probability of Myron being held in those same dungeons.
If he’s alive, truly alive?—
Erina could have simply let me believe it so he has leverage over me. It could be all there is to it, I try to smother the flame of hope growing inside my chest with each passing day.
If I could talk to Herinor in quiet, perhaps he could give me the answers I seek, but he only ever escorts me places, and the night I tried to escape, he only shook his head in denial of my request. I’m not getting anything from him because Ephegos doesn’t allow it. Herinor’s life depends on his silence the same as it did with the drug.
A drug—at least, I’m not slowly dying with every time I drink the laced water. My magic isn’t coming back to life either, though, so the situation doesn’t improve.
If Kaira would visit, maybe she could shed some light on the mystery of Erina’s words. She was there, at the Flame estate. Perhaps she knows something.
I’ll ask Odja about her the next time he drops by my room to deliver a message from the king or Ephegos about the daily schedule—sit around and wait—or bring in a seamstress to measure me for my wedding gown.
I hate that man for his blind compliance to a king who’s forcing a woman to marry.
And I’m one hundred percent certain Erina is not a cursed king. He’s merely a man who places his own needs above those of all others. He needs a bride, a queen, to continue his bloodline.
Clio nearly pulls my hair out when Odja knocks on the door an hour later and lets himself in. I’m wearing the shimmering brown gown Clio brought in for this morning, and I can’t help but gasp when the corset keeps me from properly breathing.
“Apologies, Lady Wolayna.” He bows at the waist in the same manner he bowed to Erina. Now that the engagement has become common knowledge, everyone who enters the room does. Except for Clio and Herinor—I refuse to let them even try. “The King is ready to see you.”
I’m so perplexed that I barely notice Herinor’s tight features as he glimpses over Odja’s shoulder.
Something is up, and it can’t be good. Why that surprises me is beyond me. I should be prepared that nothing good ever comes my way anymore.
We leave Clio behind as Odja leads the familiar way to the throne room. Instead of entering the pompous space, he turns into a side corridor where the sunlight doesn’t reach and shadows hide the ornate details of the tapestries covering the walls. I spy a portrait of the late king and queen woven into the cloth and do a double take at the similarity between Erina and his father.
At the end of the hallway, a small round table is carrying a vase of Tavrasian wisteria, the blossoms hanging over the edge in a waterfall of pink. The image would be stunning were it not for the man standing in the doorway beside it.
“Wolayna.” Erina holds out a hand in invitation as he steps back into the room.
I’m tempted to spit in his face as Odja leads me past him, inside, before retreating with a bow.
I’m alone with Erina. Not even Herinor is here to witness whatever the king has to say to me. The male was the one to close the door after Odja, probably taking up post outside with his Crow ears listening to every breath I take.
“You wanted to speak with me?” It should be my question to ask, but Erina beats me to it.
I bob my head.
“So Odja told me. You’ve been asking for an audience all week.”
He knows damn well I have been wanting details on Myron, confirmation of some sort that he’s alive and well, but he must humiliate me by making me repeat myself.
Too bad I no longer care about my dignity. If Myron is indeed alive, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he’s all right. “I need to see Myron.”
Erina cocks his head. “Interesting how deeply in love you are with a man who forced you to marry him. Do you believe this is something you might be able to repeat?”
The audacity… And he doesn’t even mean it as an offense; I can tell by the way his features remain open, no hint of cruelty. Only curiosity. Similar to when we were children eating croissants under banquet tables and he offered for me to get one every day.
“Myron was different.” I keep the fury out of my tone, the hurt and the pain. “Take me to him.”
“I will.”
My heart leaps.
“If”—there’s that cruel smile—“you put on my engagement ring.”
“And why would I do that?” I glare at the golden band he pulls from the sepia velvet box he picks from the desk by the wide window. It’s an office of sorts, small enough to feel only cozy if it wasn’t for the hard and straight furniture and the assortment of sabers and rapiers displayed along the left wall. I swallow hard. One of those blades could save my life. If I could make it to the wall and get one short saber into my fingers, I could injure Erina and climb out the window. This is only one level above the ground floor. I might survive a jump. And then I could hide in the corners of the gardens until nightfall and I can sneak off the premises. I just need to keep him distracted long enough to make a move. “There is no logical reason for you to want to marry a traitor daughter, a traitor herself.”
“But you’re wrong.” Erina weighs the jewelry in his palm. “You might be a traitor, but you know nothing about the current state of Tavras, do you?” Lifting his gaze for a moment, he perches on the edge of his desk, shoving a stack of documents aside so he can brace his free hand behind him. “Tavras needs stability. And stability demands for a clear line of succession.”
“Succession,” I repeat like a parrot because that’s the only thing I can do at what his words imply.
“Succession,” he confirms. “Your mother was a firm believer of the union of our two houses, you know. She was the reason my father contracted yours for business—to get to know the … competition.”
“Competition.” Again with the repeating. I can’t help it, my brain is in overload. “What are you talking about?”
“Wolayna Milevishja, daughter of Ivan Milevishja and Elenja Milevishja.” The way he states my name and heritage like it’s something to wonder about—or something to fear. “Haven’t you ever wondered why a king would be so close with a merchant? My father didn’t pay this much attention to all of his business partners. Your father was a very special case.”
“He traded for the Crown,” I blubber. “Special acquisitions…”
“Special tasks for a special man,” Erina agrees, but disdain is all I find in his eyes rather than the sort of admiration one would expect connected to a man deserving of a king’s attention. “My father needed to keep an eye on the last surviving male Milevishja.”
“What do you mean?” I’m trying to piece his words together into something that fits my memories of Tavaras. “There are thousands of Milevishja’s in Tavras. The name is as common as the average street merchant.”
“And for good reason.” Erina picks up the top paper from the stack behind him, putting the ring back in the box he placed beside him on the desk. “There was a time when Tavras needed to forget how special the name truly is.”
I come up blank. There is nothing special about the name… Only, there is. “Remember who your father was, Ayna,” my mother used to say. She said it even after he’d been executed and we’d moved away from the capital and prying eyes. But I was too young then to understand the meaning of her words.
By the Guardians…
“There was a line of Milevishja kings, Wolayna. You remember that, don’t you? Long before the House Jelnedyn came into power. It was a time when all Milevishja were executed until they found that hunting the heirs down caused more hatred toward House Jelnedyn. So my ancestors used a trick to make the importance of the Milevishja line disappear. Over a hundred years ago, my great-grandfather had random families in Tavras renamed to the name of the former ruling house. Merchants, farmers, nobles, even whores. The families were paid off for their silence, of course, and over the years, people stopped asking about whether someone belongs to the royal Milevishja line because, at times, every third person in the room carried that name.”
By everything that’s holy and unholy. After killing most of the royal Milevishja line, Erina’s family took away their importance by making their name common. No one thinks of the early Milevishja kings anymore when hearing the name on the streets. Not even in the palace. All traces of their rule have been erased.
“There are no royal Milevishja left when it comes to public knowledge.” Erina rolls on, and I wish I wasn’t alone with him in this room. Hopefully, Herinor is hearing all of this. I need a witness, someone who knows what’s going on, what the House Jelnedyn is capable of. “But there is one left if you know where to look. One last royal Milevishja.”
I don’t dare think for fear I already know where this is going. It can’t be.
“Your father agreed to never expose his true heritage and claim the throne of Tavras, Wolayna. That’s the reason my father allowed him to carry on his business. It’s also the reason he kept such a close eye on him.”
My father wasn’t a merchant. He was the last male royal Milevishja. I need a moment to breathe, or I’ll black out. My body is already showing me the limits after a week of barely keeping down food and constantly being drugged. This could very well be one huge hallucination, and I’ll wake with a massive headache and regrets over the last meal I’ve eaten.
“He made a mistake, though. He didn’t stick to his promise to keep his hands off the throne.” He holds out the paper for me to read, and I take it with shaky hands.
Numbers are scribbled in a table similar to the shipment papers my father used to write in his office.
No—this is one of those papers. I recognize his handwriting, the dark green ink on yellowed parchment. It’s one of the shipments for the Tavrasian King.
“Read it.” I don’t need Erina’s order. I’m already halfway through it, the blades on the wall forgotten.
One thousand Tavrasian gold in coins. Seventeen thousand silver pieces. A cerulean vase from the neighboring human province of Cezux, derived from a chest of carved oak.
I remember the shipment. Not the list or this exact paper but the contents. That’s what I witnessed him loading into the carriage. Gold, silver, and a large cerulean vase of Cezuxian making. Cerulean vases are rare, even in Cezux.
Guardians—
“Sound familiar?”
I don’t react, too busy piecing everything together. There is nothing odd about the shipment. Just usual items and money. Lots of money.
“Who was it for?”
My mind wanders back to the day the Tavrasian soldier bullied me into admitting I’d seen my father load exactly that shipment. It’s the reason he was executed for treason.
“What was in that shipment that made my father a traitor?” I don’t care if my emotions are plain on my features. This is a whole new level of intrigue. If what he’s saying is true, my father was royalty. A rightful king of Tavras. The Jelnedyn line murdered their path to the throne.
Erina’s smile is handsome and painful because the blow will land so much harder now that I understand everything might have been a lie—my entire childhood, my life, my family.
“The shipment was for an assassin to murder my father, my mother, my uncle, and … me.” The smile slips.
I grasp for the single chair next to the door, sitting without permission before I faint.
“You’re lying.” It’s the only way he can be saying this. It can’t possibly be the truth. My father would have never?—
“I’m afraid not, Wolayna, last living royal Milevishja.” Pushing away from the desk, he picks the paper from my hands and reads out loud. “To be delivered to Harian Aleji upon completion of his assignment.”
I glimpse my father’s signature at the bottom of the paper as he turns it over one last time before placing it back on the desk.
“Harian Aleji was executed the same day as your father upon questioning. This was found days later in Alex’s home. He was one of the most feared assassins of my father’s era, running errands even for His Majesty himself.”
I don’t have words even to comment on the fact of Erina admitting that his father employed an assassin—the same assassin my father hired to kill the King of Tavras.
The lump in my throat grows larger and larger with every detail coming back to my mind.
“My father wasn’t a tyrant, Wolayna, you know that. You met him several times.” Erina’s expression softens as if the memory of his father is dear to him. “He offered your father a fair deal long before he became a traitor. You.”
“Me?” I don’t care that I stare at the current King of Tavras like a fool. He caught me off guard, and this is eradicating all capacities to remain composed.
“Consolidating the Milevishja line into the Jelnedyn line by marrying the Prince of Tavras to the … would-be-Princess of Tavras.” The awkwardness is heavy in the air as if there was a time when a younger version of him considered the merits of marrying me on a romantic level.
“Our parents agreed to a secret engagement. I was told at a young age you’d be the girl I’d marry. I have the contract right here.” He picks up another piece of paper, holding it up for me, and I recognize my father’s signature at the bottom. “You should have been mine, Ayna. But your father made a mistake…”
His words fade as I remember that day we shared a marzipan croissant under the table when we were kids and he invited me to the palace.
“I could show you around. Menia could tailor a dress for you, and we could walk the hallways like we’re the pair destined to ascend the throne one day.” A smile plays on his lips, his roundish cheeks forming dimples. He’s pretty for his age, not overly tall or stretched in awkward proportions like some boys his age. Like from a picture from fairytale books. Even his sepia and gold jacket looks like he stepped right off a miniature version of a throne, no matter if he’s hiding under a table with a merchant daughter.
“Wouldn’t that be considered treason?” I whisper, the fingers of my free hand half-covering my mouth.
The smile on Erina’s face slips. “For you, not me.”
He’d known. Guardians, he’d known back then. And my parents had left me oblivious to a duty they expected of me. My heart breaks for a whole new reason, cracking in places I didn’t even know it could shatter. I’d always believed in the wrongness of his execution, in some sort of ploy that had put him at the king’s mercy. And now… now I don’t know what to think, except for: I was supposed to marry this man all along. My father intended to have him killed. To clear the throne of the Jelnedyn line.
And I have royal blood.
“I want to see Myron.” Because if he’s alive, I know that this is all a dream and I won’t need to deal with the truth of it.
Erina purses his lips, picking up the ring again and shoving it onto my finger in a not-so-gentle motion. “Don’t worry, Wolayna. Everything is as it was meant to be. Even if you love your Crow King, you’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of it.” His gaze hardens as he holds my hand like in a vise. “The Jelnedyn line will not be challenged ever again.”
I breathe in through my nose, forcing down air as the room closes in on me. “Why not kill me? You already sent me off to die in the fairylands. Why not kill me now and save yourself the trouble?”
Erina cocks his head, pulling me close to his side so I stand beside him like a bride marching for an altar. “Trust me, I’ve considered it. I was considering it the day you were brought to my palace. But when I saw you”—his gaze creeps over my face, lingering on my mouth—“I decided you’d be more valuable by my side than forgotten in a grave. By marrying you, there will be no heirs of your line that won’t be of mine as well. No heirs of the House Milevishja who could one day question my claim to the throne, even if the Guardians have been hiding another unlikely heir of your line in the pockets of this realm. The Milevishja royal line will disappear, assimilated into the House Jelnedyn, and when I’m done with you, there will be nothing left for your Crow to mourn.”
There are no such things as fairy tales. Life simply delivers one blow after the other.
Until even hope is smothered and the only thing living inside your chest is a wasteland.
The ring feels like a shackle, and I can’t muster the courage to look at Erina as he pulls me to my feet and leads me from the office.