Chapter 20
Chapter
Merrek, stop reading my journal.
“Bloody hell!” Rhidland jumps from where he’s seated on a fallen tree as Frog and I traipse out of the thicket toward the dwindling fire, both of us soaked to the bone. “What happened?”
The other knights, all startled from where they’d been resting, scramble for their blades. Their sleepy eyes sharpen with alarm.
Heat floods my cheeks as I shrink beneath my cloak. “Well…” I stutter, searching for the least embarrassing way to explain how I’d momentarily lost my mind, when Frog steps in front of me.
“Miss Sunday touched a rose by mistake and became disoriented. She was standing close to the falls when she fell. I pulled her out before any harm could come to her,” he lies perfectly.
Too perfectly.
My gaze narrows, but if he feels the heat from my stare on the back of his head, he doesn’t show it. Nor does he dare to meet it.
Rhidland, however, challenges me with one of his own. “Disoriented? By the roses?”
Crap. I shoot another scathing glare at Frog’s head. Had he let me in on this little lie, I would have been able to tell him that Rhidland knows about my immunity to the poisonous petals.
All I can do now is hope the old guard isn’t in the mood for a lecture, and for a quick recourse of the current conversation.
“You pulled her out of the water?” Wolfe asks, his expression unreadable.
So much for letting this go.
I watch as Frog’s fingers rub together at his side in what I can only assume is annoyance for being asked such a question. Or perhaps he too was hoping to move this conversation along. Regardless of how he feels about it, he isn’t given time to answer.
“Of course he did! Would you look at the man! He’s magnificent,” comes Merrek, his arms outstretched wide as he goes in for a hug. But Frog shifts his shoulders and steps to the side, leaving the loud knight’s arms to catch little more than the air beneath them as he stumbles.
“Forgot! This one’s got a hands off rule.” He thumbs toward an amused Frog, tossing his red curls out of his eyes. “Not that you’d know anything about that one, aye Princess?” He winks, laughing at the way mine and Frog’s backs straighten. “I think you two need a drink.”
“And I think you’ve had enough.” Says Myrrdin.
“A drink would be lovely.” I chirp, cutting their debacle short as I rush between them and the old grumpy guard.
Thankfully, everyone is contented to find their seat around the fire whilst saying little else.
I choose the spot closest to the waning warmth, sitting on a fallen tree trunk next to Wolfe, who’s far too busy watching the fire to notice the lingering heat in my cheeks.
Leaning forward, he stokes the kindling, revealing dark bruises that dot the length of his arm from where the old lady had grabbed hold of him.
I shift, twisting the dampened ends of my dark curls between my fingers as I search for the right words to say.
Thank you feels insensitive. But an apology would be a lie. I’m not sorry he helped that woman when she so clearly needed it.
But I do regret his pain was the price.
I open my mouth to say just that when a small metal tin is thrust into my face, its brownish gold liquid sloshing into my lap.
The muscles beneath my skirt tighten as the cold liquid seeps through.
“And for the fair maiden, I bring you a drink.” Merrek rocks on his heels, entirely unaware that he’s also dressed me in one too.
The cup barely makes it into my hand when Myrrdin pushes his brother onto the trunk beside me, mumbling curses beneath his breath as he pulls a small, green handkerchief from his pocket. “Excuse my brother. He’s both drunk and a fool.” Myrrdin sighs, offering me the handkerchief.
I graciously take it, smiling as Myrrdin’s six-legged companion crawls its way back into the pocket it was just dislodged from.
“I don’t mind,” I say, and mean it. “My skirts were damp anyway. And besides, I rather like having the company. Regardless of how drunk. Or how small.”
Myrrdin follows my gaze, his lips quirking at the small sliver of antennae reaching out from his pocket. “You know, I’m actually training him to be a scout,” he whispers.
“Oh?” I lean back, eyeing my drink. “That’s—”
“Weird? And would you believe it’s not the booze talking? That’s just him. But I’m— hiccup— the one they call a fool.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“One hundred percent.”
The other men chime in, all chuckling at the lopsided frown stretching across Merrek’s face. All except Rhidland, who’s stony expression seems to have permanently taken residence beneath his bushy brows.
“Then best get your eyes checked you feeble-eyed canker blossoms.” Merrek grunts, searching for the cup of ale still in his hand.
Across from us, Frog leans into something Wolfe just said. But with Merrek rattling off about how his twin brother stole his ale in my ear, it’s impossible to hear what, or who, they’re talking about.
My gaze lingers a second too long when their eyes snap to mine. I jerk my gaze away. Pretending to be keenly interested in the ramblings of the drunk knight.
Or at least, I was pretending.
“Did you see the siren when you fell into the screeching falls?” he asks, drawing out the word fell.
My gaze snaps back to his. And right there, sitting in the center of his blood shot blue eyes, is what I feared I’d see.
Suspicion.
Looking around at the men’s expectant faces over the rim of my cup, I’m starting to think Rhidland’s not the only one to doubt Frog’s little story.
Right. I might as well dive in with both feet.
Not like I haven’t already.
I gulp down a large swig of the tart tasting liquor, wincing as it burns my nose.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I did.” I cough, slamming the cup down on the tree.
“Wicked,” the drunk knight slurs.
I shake my head, recounting the experience as anything but when my mind loops back to something Merrek said earlier. Something that, drunk or not, doesn’t make sense.
“Merrek, earlier you called it the Screeching falls? Did you mean Singing?”
Merrek’s brows furrow and for a moment I think he might be too far gone to answer. His mouth opens then shuts. Once. Twice. His tongue catches on something. On—
“Oh!” I gag, choking on the strong, syrupy burp that’s just erupted from his stomach. Straight into my face.
“You dankish-drunk buffoon!” Myrrdin seethes. But it appears I’m the only one with enough sense to flinch at his warning, as Merrek still blissfully sways from side to side in his seat, eyes fixed on the branches above, their twisted limbs bending beneath the weight of the Evil Queen’s roses.
“They used to sing,” he murmurs. It takes me a moment to realize what it is he’s saying.
“The Sirens?” I ask, fanning away the lingering fumes.
He turns to me and I swear, if not only for a moment, he’s sober as he says, “Then they turned against the fairy godmother.”
My hand falls in time with my face. “What—”
“Now, they just eeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh.”
I wince, covering my ears along with the rest of the group as Merrek proceeds to demonstrate the unnervingly high pitch of the Siren’s new song.
With one hand still pressed firmly to his ear, Wolfe reaches around me and socks Merrek square in the shoulder with enough force to have the poor drunken knight toppling off the tree trunk and onto his back in the dirt.
The pity barely forms in my chest when his pained groans turn to a ravenous symphony of chortled snores. Well then. I stare, blinking at his disheveled form.
“He’s a daft drunkard. But he’s not wrong.” Wolfe speaks up beside me.
“Aye.” Myrrdin chimes in, staring down at something small and blue crawling across the forest floor toward the warmth of the fire. “A lot changed after what they did to the fairy godmother.”
There it is again. That name.
I shake my head, not understanding. “Who is the fairy godmother?”
I wait for Myrrdin to answer, but once more, my curiosity is greeted by his voice.
“She was Lucius’s first wife. She was the first Queen of Riches.” Frog speaks behind his mask, his head tilted toward the sky. “And he betrayed her for granting wishes to the poor.”
My neck bends as I lean forward, as if seeing him from a different angle would make the words coming from his mouth any more clear. It does not.
“You’re telling me that the Evil Queen was granting wishes? To the poor?”
Frog shifts, pulling his knees to his chest. “She’s not evil.”
“Not evil?” I cough out a laugh, certain this is a jest.
But the men don’t laugh. They don’t even crack a smile.
My expression falls flat.
“You can’t possibly be serious.” I stand, no longer able to sit beneath the weight of his words. “That woman cursed our kingdoms. Cursed our people. She destroyed everything.”
“Destroyed? Or saved?” Wolfe cuts in.
I turn on my heel, my good sense dulled by the bitter booze in my cup.
“Saved? Have you not looked around? Why, the very tree you sit upon is littered with the bright blue vines that stem from her scorn. A revenge so cruel and calculated that she took what our people valued most and she ripped it away.”
Wolfe says nothing as he stares into his now emptied cup. But I am not so quick to let this go. Not when the very foundation of my beliefs is being questioned for a second time this week.
Something has got to give. And I am so tired of it being me.
I look to Rhidland, waiting for him to tell the knights they’re wrong. For some semblance of sense to be made. But he says nothing as he hangs his head low in his hands, his shoulders slumping on a heavy exhale.
My mouth parts, my feet faltering as I find my way back to my seat. Anger feels too tepid a word to describe the uncoiling in my chest.
“I can’t believe this. I won’t. But if it’s fables you want to tell, then riddle me this. What was the fairy godmother trying to save by doing all of this?”
I gesture, arms outstretched toward what remains of the once whimsical world surrounding us.
“Oh! I know this one!” Merrek grumbles, rubbing the notch on his head. “The realm’s magic was already fading because of the kings,” he says, trying and failing to get on his feet.