27. Maybe The Queen Doesn’t Hate Me
CHAPTER 27
Maybe The Queen Doesn’t Hate Me
Melinda Mayweather
Kellan leads the way out of the garden. Footsteps sound on the pathway ahead of us. I tense, my hand tightening around Hawke's, and he gives me a returning squeeze. “It’s just the other Knights.”
Sure enough, four familiar figures emerge from around the corner of the tower, their dress armor glinting in the soft light. The knights–Hawke’s friends.
Wraith’s onyx skin sharply contrasts with the gleaming silver of his armor. He moves with a fluid grace and his golden eyes are fierce, alert, and staring straight at me.
Beside him is Fen, his armor adorned with intricate knot-work and runes that seem to glow with an otherworldly power. His long, brown hair is braided back from his face, and his eyes are the color of a stormy sea.
None of them can compete with Hawke for my attention, but I wouldn’t be alive if I didn’t recognize how beautiful they all are.
Boaz, the Tolkien-esque Elf, (at least that’s what I’m guessing he is) is a vision of ethereal masculine beauty. Pale silvery skin, aquiline features. His long, blond hair, tucked behind pointed ears, falls in a sleek curtain down his back, and his eyes are a piercing silver-blue, filled with ancient wisdom and a hint of mischief.
And finally, there is Ares, the God of War himself (supposedly), his armor polished gold with highlights of crimson and rubies. His eyes are a rich emerald green, and the wide smile he presents to the world doesn't hide the simmering anger just beneath the surface.
A shiver runs down my spine as I study him. His barely buried rage resonates with something deep inside me, a recognition that makes my skin prickle. My magic is always just beneath the surface, always threatening to burst free. Both of us are fighting a war for control.
"Hawke, Melinda," Wraith greets us, his deep voice carrying down the path. "I’m glad we found you."
"How did you?" Hawke asks, his brow furrowing.
Fen steps forward, his blue-green eyes flickering to me briefly before settling on Hawke. "Elen and Lydia saw the encounter with Darkwood and your parents in the marketplace. They followed you to the garden and reported back."
I glance nervously at Hawke, searching his face for a reaction. I’m not supposed to be drawing attention to myself. I shouldn’t have asked to go to the festival. We should’ve just stayed hidden in the kitchen. It won’t be long before whispers of "unstable" and "dangerous" are following me again.
"We were just on our way to meet with my mother," Hawke explains, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a soothing gesture. "She's requested Melinda's presence in her chambers, to prepare for the Changing of the Guard ceremony tonight."
Wraith nods, his face solemn. "A wise decision. Your parent’s support will send a strong message."
I blink, surprised by Wraith's words. The queen's invitation, which had initially filled me with dread, suddenly takes on a new light. Could this truly be a show of support? The knot of anxiety in my stomach begins to unravel, replaced by a cautious hope.
"We'll ensure you reach the royal chambers safely," Boaz adds, his deep melodic voice filled with a quiet confidence. "Darkwood won’t approach again with all of us present."
Emotion wells up in my throat, gratitude and affection for these fierce, loyal warriors who have welcomed me into their midst. "Thank you."
Hawke presses a soft kiss to my temple, his arm slipping around my waist as we fall into step with his knights. Kellan takes up a position directly behind us and we make our way between buildings and back toward the main keep.
With each step my anxiety mounts. I'm not ready for this confrontation. All the reassuring words have been forgotten. My palms are slick with sweat, and I barely resist the urge to stop and vomit.
We enter through a side door and the Knights lead us through a maze of twisting corridors. I try to steady my breathing, to prepare myself for what's to come. But how does a girl prepare to face the rulers of a realm, especially when you're the outsider who's captured their son's attention and ruined their plans?
Suddenly, we're climbing a grand staircase, its granite steps gleaming in the soft light of enchanted sconces. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a countdown to the inevitable meeting.
Before I can fully brace myself, we reach the top of the stairs. Magnificent, ornate doors swing open ahead of us, and my breath catches in my throat. There they are—the couple I saw earlier in the market, Hawke's parents—standing regally before us.
Time seems to slow as I take in their appearance up close. The King's stern gaze, the Queen's evaluating eyes—both fixed squarely on me. Another wave of inadequacy washes over me. What must they see when they look at me? A dangerous liability? A threat to their son and kingdom?
The queen turns to the king, and the moment their eyes meet the very air between them ignites.
The king's stoic expression melts away like frost beneath the sun's rays, replaced by a smile of such tenderness and devotion that it steals my breath. "Theon, my love," the queen says, her voice a melodic caress, "won't you take the boys elsewhere? I wish to spend some time getting to know our new guest."
My heart lurches in my chest, a cold spike of panic shooting through me. Alone with the queen? My gaze darts to Hawke, silently pleading for him to stay. The thought of facing his mother alone makes my magic stir uneasily beneath my skin.
Hawke steps forward, gently guiding me with him. His touch is steadying among the unfamiliar sea of royal protocol, etiquette, and pure unadulterated panic. "Mother, allow me to introduce Melinda Mayweather."
I bow my head, heart hammering against my ribs as I attempt a curtsy. But my nerves get the better of me, and I stumble, pitching forward in a graceless tangle of limbs. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but Hawke's strong hands are there, catching me, righting me before I can fall.
My magic stirs, responding to my heightened emotions. More panic grips me—losing control again, in front of the queen, in front of his mother, would be disastrous. I take a shaky breath, trying to center myself, to push the magic back down.
A gentle voice whispers in my mind. Steady, Domina. You are not alone. I am here.
"Thank you," I whisper under my breath, hoping the others will think I'm merely expressing gratitude for Hawke's well-timed catch.
I straighten, meeting the queen's gaze with renewed determination.
The queen approaches. "Please, call me Isolde," she says. His mother’s voice is warm honey, sweet and comforting as she takes my hand in hers. Her skin is soft, her grip gentle but firm, a friendly communication of welcome and acceptance. "Come, Melinda. We have much to discuss, you and I."
With an elegant wave of her hand, Queen Isolde dismisses the men. As they begin to move away, my gaze locks with Hawke's, and I see my own reluctance mirrored in his eyes.
He takes a step towards me, his hand brushing against mine in a gesture that seems both reassuring and longing. "It'll be alright," he murmurs, his fingers intertwining with mine for a brief, precious moment.
I cling to his touch, drawing strength from it, until the last possible second when we have to let go.
Kellan, standing just behind Hawke, looks torn. His brow furrows and he takes half a step forward as if to protest. "Your Majesty," he begins, his voice tight with worry, "perhaps it would be best if?—"
"That will be all, gentlemen," Queen Isolde interrupts smoothly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Kellan's jaw clenches, but he bows stiffly. As he straightens, he catches my eye, his gaze intense. "We'll be close by," he says, the promise clear in his voice.
The men walk away, Hawke casting one last glance over his shoulder. I watch them go, my confidence evaporating and loneliness wrapping around me like a wet blanket.
"Come, dear," she says, patting my arm.
With a deep breath, I follow her through the magnificent doors they just came from.
We step into a sitting room that seems to have been plucked straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Lavish tapestries adorn the walls, their vibrant colors and intricate designs telling stories of love, loss, and triumph. The plush carpets beneath our feet are so thick, so luxurious, it’s like we're walking on clouds.
The air is heady with the fragrance of fresh flowers, their delicate petals arranged in stunning bouquets that grace every available surface. Candles flicker softly, their golden glow casting dancing shadows across the room, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and warmth that wraps around me like a comforting embrace.
From this opulent sanctuary, Queen Isolde guides me into an adjoining bedchamber, the sheer size of which takes my breath away. A room fit for a goddess. Along the far wall, six ladies stand at attention, their smiles radiant and welcoming, their eyes sparkling with excitement and curiosity.
Two of the faces are familiar–Elen and Lydia. My chest heaves a sigh of relief to see them again.
“I sent for your maids, hoping to make you feel more comfortable.”
“Thank you, your majesty. You are… so kind.” I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it.
“Mmmm, call me Isolde, Melinda. We are to be family, are we not?”
I swallow hard and freeze in place. She’s not mad? And she’s not still planning to have Hawke marry Vencia like he’s worried about.
“No, love. I’m not mad. And we’re not going to make our son marry that viper of a woman. We had no idea her character was so lacking.”
I put a hand to my mouth. Did I speak out loud? How? No!
She turns toward me and the corners of her mouth turn up in a teasing smile. “You did say all that out loud.” Her smile widens. “I rather like your forthrightness. It’s refreshing. I’m sure my son appreciates it as well.”
Queen Isolde's words hang in the air, a gentle amusement dancing in her eyes.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I realize the extent of my verbal blunder.
When I search her face, I find no judgment, no disapproval. Instead, there's a warmth, and a kindness that wraps around me like a soothing balm, easing the tightness in my chest.
"I... I apologize, your majes–Isolde," I stammer, my tongue tripping over the unfamiliar informality. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn."
Isolde reaches out, her slender fingers gently grasping my hands, her touch a grounding presence amidst the whirlwind of my emotions. "Never apologize for speaking the truth, Melinda," she says, her voice a melodic caress. "It is a rare and precious gift, one that far too many in these halls have forgotten."
A conspiratorial smile plays on Queen Isolde's lips. "Now, let's see about getting you ready for the ceremony, shall we?" With a wave of her hands, the ladies-in-waiting spring into action, their movements graceful and efficient. They bustle about the room with the energy of honey bees.
I stand frozen, overwhelmed by the sudden activity. One attendant rushes to a large wardrobe, throwing open its ornate doors to reveal a dazzling array of gowns. Another heads to a vanity, arranging an intimidating assortment of cosmetics and hair accessories. A third appears with a measuring tape, eyeing me with professional interest.
My gaze moves from one lady to another, uncertainty gripping me. Am I supposed to do something? Say something?
Elen and Lydia approach, kind smiles of encouragement on their faces. Elen reaches for the fastenings of my outer gown. "We were so glad to be called by the queen, Domina . This is an honor."
I stiffen, suddenly very aware of all the eyes in the room. They’re going to undress me… right here… in front of everyone? Heat rises to my cheeks and my hands move to cover myself, even though I'm still fully clothed.
"I... um.” I look around for a private corner.
Lydia leans in close. "It's alright, Domina . We'll be quick and discreet."
With a deep breath, I force myself to lower my arms, allowing Elen to begin unfastening my gown. Her nimble fingers work quickly at the clasps. "We saw the confrontation in the market. We followed to make sure they got you safely away from the Darkwoods."
I meet her gaze, surprised by her candor. A small nod is all I can manage, but relief washes over me. It’s good not to have to keep secrets from everyone, and to have familiar faces here with me in the queen's rooms.
As Elen and Lydia gently ease the gown off my shoulders, Queen Isolde moves behind a nearby dressing screen, her own attendants following close behind. The soft rustle of fabric and the gentle clink of jewelry fill the air.
"Tell me, Melinda," Isolde calls from behind the screen, "where are you from?"
I freeze, my eyes darting to Elen and Lydia. Their hands pause in their work, and I see a flicker of curiosity in their eyes. Elen gives me an encouraging nod, while Lydia's lips curve into a reassuring smile.
"You need not fear, child. This is a safe space. Speak freely."
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how much to reveal, my heart fluttering like a caged bird against my ribcage. "E-earth." Lydia helps me step into a shimmering undergarment, the fabric cool and slick against my skin. "I was born in America."
Elen and Lydia exchange a quick, wide-eyed glance, their hands resuming their work. I can see the questions forming in their eyes, but they remain silent, allowing me to continue at my own pace.
There's a pause, a momentary stillness from behind the screen. Isolde emerges, resplendent in a gown of deep, rich blue, the color of a moonlit sea. Her hair is adorned with a delicate crown of silver and sapphires, the gems catching the light like stars plucked from the heavens.
"Earth." Her eyes are distant, like she’s lost in memory. "It's been many centuries since I last walked on that planet. I’ve never heard of the land of America." She focuses her gaze on me, a flicker of understanding dancing in their depths. "Nimue brought you?"
"Yes. My mother searched for Avalon her whole life because…" I trail off, the full truth lodged in my chest like a lead weight. Part of me hopes that admitting this will bring understanding, acceptance, maybe even help. But another part fears rejection, fear, or worse—that they'll see nothing more than a threat to be neutralized.
I take a deep, shaky breath. This is it–the moment that could define my future here. "Because my magick is dangerous and I don't know how to control it," I finally manage. I keep my eyes lowered, afraid to see the reaction on her face. "She thought Avalon would be the answer. Nimue thought bringing me here would help."
I force myself to meet Queen Isolde's gaze. "But my magick still hurts people here too."
The moment is broken when Elen drapes a gown of shimmering gold over my head, the fabric cascading down my body like a waterfall of molten sunlight. As the weight of the gown settles on my shoulders, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions surges through me.
Hawke wants to marry me. The thought should fill me with joy, with a sense of belonging I've craved my entire life. But then, like a dark cloud obscuring the sun, the memory of my curse crashes over me. If I bond with Hawke, marry him, if I get pregnant, he'll die when the baby is born. The golden gown suddenly feels suffocating, its weight a crushing burden rather than a badge of honor. How do I balance that?
Isolde approaches, her steps measured and graceful, a whisper of silk and satin against the polished floor. Elen and Lydia back away, their heads bowed in deference to the queen. "You were why we felt sick earlier in the market?" Isolde asks, her voice devoid of accusation or judgment.
Her statement snaps me out of my spiral. I have to focus on right now. On the fact that if I don’t bond with Hawke… I will lose him to the darkness.
She reaches out, gently adjusting the fall of the gown, her touch feather-light and soothing, like a mother's caress. Something I’ll never feel from my mother again. "This is perfect. The color matches your eyes."
Tears well up in my eyes, hot and stinging, and cascade down my cheeks. The weight of my guilt and the burden of my uncontrollable power presses down upon me. My mother died to protect me. My father. Everyone. I cost everyone their lives. How many will die because of me? "I'm sorry. I try really hard. My guardian helps a lot. And Kellan. I don’t want to hurt anyone."
"Shhh, dear girl." Isolde wipes away my tears with the pad of her thumb, the gesture so tender, so maternal, that it sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing over me. "You're from Earth, but you're not Fae, at least not entirely. Which in and of itself is odd. There have never been hybrid births between peoples."
I jerk my head back and forth. "No one seems to know what I am."
"Many other people stayed behind when we were forced to abandon Earth." Isolde’s brow furrows in contemplation, as if she's sifting through piles of old memories. "What can you do with your magick?"
I scoff and look away, my gaze skittering across the room, desperate to land on anything but the piercing blue of Isolde's eyes. "I hurt people. I can't do anything."
Isolde leans closer. "You make my son happy. He loves you. I can see it in his eyes. He thinks you have the missing piece of his soul inside you."
I touch my chest, just above my heart, my fingers trembling against the smooth fabric of the gown. "He says he can see it inside me." The words escape my lips in a hushed breath. "I can't see it."
"He's struggling with control over the darkness inside him. He thinks his father and I don't know that Ares is slipping them all ambrosia." Isolde's face grows solemn, her words falling like stones in still water.
She knows Hawke is struggling. Of course she does. I could never hide anything from my mother either.
Fear catches fire inside me, burning through my hesitation. "Nimue said he'll be executed if they find out he's losing control." I take Queen Isolde's hands, my fingers curling around hers. "He's not dangerous. I promise. I–"
"I would never turn in my own son. His father and I would destroy anyone who tried to hurt him." Isolde's eyes flash with intensity, her stance transforming into that of a lioness protecting her cub, a queen defending her child. She slows, relaxes, and tucks a loose piece of my hair behind my ear. The gesture is so intimate, so familiar, that it steals my breath for a completely different reason.
“But the councilman–” I cut myself off, the words dying on my lips. I don’t know whether telling her Darkwood sent an assassin is too far. Accusing someone like him could be more dangerous than keeping it to myself.
I can ask Kellan. Siva's voice filters through my panicked thoughts.
Yes.
"We were trying to make a strong political move for our family with the betrothal to Darkwood's daughter. But Theon and I didn't realize…" Isolde pauses, her gaze turning inward, a veil of pain and regret settling over her delicate features. "Hawke tried to tell us and we didn't listen. But after what we witnessed earlier, we understand now."
Elen and Lydia guide me few feet to a cushioned stool. As soon as I settle onto the seat, they begin to work on my hair. Elen weaves intricate braids and Lydia pins it. It’s a perfectly synchronized team and in no time at all, my hair is completely up off my neck.
Once Elen and Lydia finish with my hair, the queen beckons to one of her maids, who steps forward with a glistening golden box, the surface intricately carved with swirling patterns and ancient symbols. The maid opens it to reveal a breathtaking golden chain with a large dewdrop ruby pendant and a set of matching earrings, the gems gleaming like captured fire in the soft light of the room.
Isolde traces her fingers along the edge of the golden box. "These blood rubies have been in the Stormblood family for thousands of years." Her words are hushed, almost reverent.
"They are too much. I–" I start to protest, my hands raised in a futile gesture of refusal, but Isolde silences me with a gentle touch, her fingers cool against my lips.
"They are yours now." She tips my chin up, forcing me to meet her gaze, to see the unwavering determination, the unshakable belief, that burns within their depths. "This is important to me. Are you going to offend me by not accepting this gift?"
"No! I would never want to offend you, it's just–" The words tumble from my lips, a rushed and jumbled mess.
"Good." Isolde takes the necklace from its velvet-lined box and fastens it around my neck. The chain settles against my collarbone with the pendant cradled between my breasts.
I’m wearing a family heirloom, a symbol that the family has claimed me as their own. Not just Hawke.
This is real.
Kellan says they told Theon about the assassin. You can tell Isolde. Siva's voice echoes in my mind once more.
A small sigh of relief escapes me, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. But how do I tell her? And when? Those are the new questions plaguing me.
Isolde hands me an earring, the ruby catching the light and throwing a dazzling array of crimson and gold across my skin. I put them on, my fingers trembling slightly, my heart pounding in my chest with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
This is so real. He’s really going to announce we’re to be married.
I do believe so.
"Perfect. They look beautiful on you." Queen Isolde clasps her hands together in front of her face, her smile wide and genuine, a radiant expression of joy and approval that warms me from the inside out.
I have to tell her. I have to ruin this moment. I can’t wait.
"Darkwood tried–" I take a deep breath, my lungs expanding with the weight of the words. "He sent–" I falter, the confession sticking in my throat.
Isolde's brow furrows, a flicker of concern darting across her delicate features. She steps closer, taking my hands once more in hers, her grip firm and reassuring. "What did he do?"
“A woman snuck into my room this morning and tried to kill me. She claimed Darkwood sent her.”
Queen Isolde gasps, her eyes widen and she shakes her head. “I never would’ve thought he’d go to such lengths to make sure the betrothal to Vencia went through. Does Hawke know? I need to tell Theon.”
"Hawke knows. All the knights do. And Kellan told your husband."
Good job, Domina. I nod, a sense of relief washing over me at the knowledge that I'm not alone in this.
“Ah, I see. Good.” She paces the room, her dress swishing with each step. “Hawke says you're his soulmate. Darkwood would never have tried to kill you if he knew. You’re the first soulmate match in the eight worlds since…”
“The evil queen?” I offer.
Isolde looks up at me, her expression one of surprise. She shakes her head. “She’s not evil. What do you actually know of Aena’s story?”
I lower my eyes, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. "Just the story the puppeteer told at the festival," I reply, the words barely more than a whisper.
But Isolde just smiles, a sad and wistful expression that speaks of a pain that runs deep. "Aena's story is a tragic one, a tale of love and loss, of darkness and despair. The loss of her mate brought on madness. It took Herculean sacrifices to lock her away and save Earth from further destruction. But it came at a great cost to the world as a whole."
“The knight’s souls.”
Queen Isolde's eyes hold a distant, haunted look. She takes a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling with the weight of her revelation. "And Earth. The Fae lost Earth because of her. There were two great Fae families once upon a time. The Pendragons and the Stormbloods. Arthur and his family stayed behind. He blamed himself. He gave his crown to Theon and we left, taking Camelot and the Realm doors with us."
“King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. There are so many stories about him,” I whisper, hardly believing the woman in front of me knew him.
Isolde's lips curve into a sad, wistful smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm sure there are. He was a magnificent man. Kind. Wise." She pauses, her gaze drifting to the translucent glass window, where the soft light of the setting sun casts a golden glow over the room. "Our people have never truly recovered, even after all these years."
I shift my weight, my fingers twisting the fabric of my gown, gathering up the courage to speak. "Hawke said no one really knows who she was, though." The words come out slower and softer than I intend.
Isolde shakes her head, her expression hardening with a fierce determination. “No one wants to admit it, but we witnessed her bend reality to her will. Only a Fae can do what she did.”
“But?” I ask, feeling like there’s more she wants to say.
Isolde begins to pace the room, her dress swishing around her ankles, her hands gesturing emphatically with her words. "But I was there when we–when my father and Arthur's father–built the portals. Our Realm doors are merely bridges between the worlds. We fold time and space, and we can walk from one to another. But we did not connect the worlds. Yggdrasil is what binds the universe together. It always has."
She stops abruptly and looks right at me. "Nimue is wrong. Closing a door we made didn't break the siren's ability to match souls. And it shouldn't have taken the sacrifice it did to lock?—"
A sharp knock at the bedroom door cuts through the air like a knife, shattering the moment. One of the maids scurries over to the door, her movements quick and nervous, and opens it just a crack. She exchanges a few hushed words with whoever is on the other side, then closes the door and returns to the queen's side.
Isolde straightens, her whole demeanor changing in an instant. The warmth from our conversation vanishes and she slips back into her role—queen. "It is time?" Her posture and tone is regal and intimidating.
“Yes, your majesty.”