Chapter 47
Anya Delemond
Anya lay back in a steaming claw-foot tub, a heavy floral scent hanging in the air as an Elven maidservant, Sage, helped her bathe.
It took every fiber of her being not to cry as Roderick’s scent was scrubbed from her body.
Bubbles gathered around her face as she stared out the window to the east, where the sun was barely a sliver over the horizon.
Pale light covered every surface of the unfamiliar room.
He must have found her letter by now. Her heart throbbed at the thought. He was past the Gates of Hav, hoodwinked and heartbroken, but surrounded by friends. She was certain they would care for him, see him through, and before he knew it, she would be just another sailor’s mirage, a siren song.
She hoped he would sail with the Lupus Star forever, search for treasure, adventure, far-flung places, maybe even love. Happiness was truly all she wanted for him, even if the thought of him whispering sweet affections to another made her chest tighten.
A delicious ache was still nestled between her thighs from the night before. She’d never been so desperate, so hungry. It was like trying to wrap a lifetime of love up in a single night. But if anyone could, Roderick did.
A chill breeze tore her from the memory as Sage helped her out of the tub and into a soft woolen robe before guiding her to the vanity.
After some drying and brushing, Sage asked, “Up or down, My Lady?” bunching and twisting Anya’s hair to visualize the end result.
Anya watched herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still puffy and raw from crying on the way back to Solenergi.
While she had allowed herself those tears, there would be no more.
Now was the time to settle into the lifelong charade set before her.
She couldn’t let the maidservants feel like pallbearers.
Especially not with the way they were positively buzzing around the suite, chattering about how excited they were to have a lady of the house again.
She wanted to play the part of a joyful young maiden for their sake, but for now, quiet numbness would have to do.
Sage was sweet. Young. Almost as young as Blackbird was when she was first brought on to be her lady-in-waiting. A small, melancholy smile curved Anya’s lips as the first words twelve-year-old Blackbird ever said to her swirled in her heart.
“I don’t have any magic. But I promise I’ll always do my best for you, My Lady!”
“My Lady?” Sage peeked out from the back of Anya’s head, smiling at her in the gold gilded mirror. Ornate jewelry boxes and perfume bottles covered the glossy wood vanity.
Anya blinked back to the present and straightened. “Up, thank you.” If she was going to marry the Winter Prince, she would have Roderick’s fang marks on full display—a final reminder to the Prince that she only had one true mate.
Sage worked quickly, pinning and primping with practiced precision. She’d hold sections out with soft pink magic, tuck, twist, and repeat. In a matter of minutes, Anya’s hair was tied in a woven updo, her face framed by two wavy strands of blonde hair.
Sage loosed a little hair to curtain Anya’s forehead, then looked upon her handiwork with a critical eye.
“Willa?” Sage called over to the Were maidservant, who was wheeling in a gold cart of cheese, pastries, and tea. “How does this look?”
“You look radiant, My Lady!” Willa parked the cart and clapped. “So elegant. His Highness will love it.”
The two girls fussed over Anya until a knock echoed through the door. Anya’s heart leapt, immediately hoping Roderick would burst through the door. But only a cordial voice followed.
“My Lady? Sir Bayard is here to see you.”
“Sir Bayard?”
Sage whispered, “The Captain of the Guard.”
“Send him in.”
A tall Elf stepped in, clad in well-worn armor bearing the Solenergi crest. He removed his ornate helmet and bowed low, revealing long, tapered ears poking out from his dusty-violet hair—just like Marg’s. Deep crow’s feet lined his friendly eyes.
“Your Highness, may I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.” Anya nodded and dismissed the maidservants.
Sir Bayard stood tight and formal. “I am sure you are curious why I am here.”
Anya rose. “You are Marguerite’s father.”
“How did you—”
“She has your hair,” Anya said with a soft smile. “And your ears.”
Sir Bayard beamed with pride. “She—she does? Aye, Sweet Spirits. What I would give to see her.” His face fell.
“Or even hear from her again. She has not written to me for over a year. I have sent letters at least a dozen times with no reply. She has never failed to reply before. Please, Your Highness.” He knelt and lowered his head in humility.
“My daughter spoke of you often. Did she say anything to you? Is she upset with me?”
Anya opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, quickly running through the gesh in her head. The Prince had been concerned with the marriage, the stones, and the gesh itself—not Marguerite’s letters.
She cautiously said, “No,” then took a deep breath to test the gesh. Her analysis was correct. “She is not upset with you. In fact, she has been writing to you a lot. Or, she thought she was.” She sighed. “The Winter Prince has been intercepting your letters. And her replies.”
Sir Bayard lifted his head, shock plain on his face. “His Highness knew?”
Anya nodded. “Yes. He used Marguerite to get information about Valeria.”
“Why? Does he think me a traitor? That I told her of Aquillas’ weaknesses?
I have been nothing but loyal, I swear it.
I did use His Highness’s kelpie, but my darling Celeste—when she told me she was with child, I couldn’t just disappear when my time in Valeria came to an end. ” The helmet shook in his hands.
“Sir Bayard.”
The knight lifted his head.
“I am afraid I cannot answer that right now.” She stared into his eyes, so, so like Marg’s, tears pressed the backs of her own. If only a look could convey all the words barred from her tongue.
He did it to use me. To trick me. To rip me from my kingdom and my mate.
“All I can say is I understand the pain of being forced to part from a loved one. If it eases yours, I am happy to speak with you about Marguerite any time. And as your Princess, I will do my utmost to allow a continuation of your letters.”
Sir Bayard stood and squared his shoulders. “Thank you, Your Highness. I may not know what circumstances brought you here, but I pledge my utmost loyalty to you. Marguerite spoke fondly of you. There is no higher appraisal in my book.”
“Thank you, Sir Bayard.” Anya tipped her head. “I accept your pledge, and look forward to your acquaintance.”
With that, Sir Bayard departed, and the ladies’ maids swarmed her once again, fussing with her claws and her makeup, finally fitting her into the white gown with tight, matching slippers that strangled her toes.
Sage turned Anya to face the tri-fold mirror.
“Oh, My Lady, you look radiant.”
Anya stared in the mirror, hardly recognizing herself under all the glamour. The gown had sleeves that flared at her wrists, a gold, lacy bodice, generous, low heart-shaped neckline, and a waistline that accentuated her hips—a gorgeous gown to go with the mask she’d wear for the rest of her life.
Let the show begin.
The Prince’s court scarcely differed from the day before, save for a rich, purple runner spanning the length of the hall.
Only a handful of guards stood in the shadows of the arcade, barely illuminated by the weak morning light.
Mage lights, apparently, were too festive for the occasion.
But at least the somber shades fit how she felt on the inside.
The Winter Prince stood tall on the dais in a navy ensemble with a silver cape and crown to match. An elderly Were in priestly garb stood in the center, holding a cord of rope.
Anya squared her shoulders and strode confidently down the runner, keeping her eyes trained on the stained-glass windows beyond the Prince where the sunlight was slowly brightening.
“My bride,” the Prince crooned, offering his hand. She accepted with a stoic expression and stepped up to meet him.
There was no happy crowd, no smiling faces. Not even Sir Bayard or her ladies’ maids were in the arcade. Just the Prince, his guards, and the harrowing eyes of the Prince’s bird.
She would’ve given anything for one friendly face.
So she closed her eyes and imagined the people she desperately needed. Blackbird, Marg, Ornella, Annette—Bernard, the Captain, Sir Oshfeldt, Gail…
While the elderly Were recited verse after verse, wrapping the cord around Anya’s wrist, she was far from this place: barefoot on the bow of the Lupus Star, salty sea air tousling her hair, wearing a simple linen gown with a tiger’s eye bead hanging from a necklace at the center of her chest. The hands joined with hers would be rough and calloused and scarred and gentle, and utterly made for her to hold.
It would be midnight, not morn, with the moon and stars witnessing their union.
There would be more than marriage, there would be love, between them, around them, tying their souls together in a way she could only pray Mother Moon would make true.
Then the cord tightened—and the doors burst.
Roderick Bryson
“Anya!”
Anya whirled around at his call.
Roderick’s heart thundered as he ran toward the dais, sword drawn, hair wild and windblown. Lady Rowan and Octavio were just paces behind him.
“Guards!” the Prince shouted. The guards in the arcade drew their swords and charged. Roderick turned and readied to fight, but the guards only got a few steps before a stream of silver magic froze them in place.
With a shrill caw, the Prince’s eagle flew toward Octavio, radiating its master’s magical aura. Octavio reached to envelop Lady Rowan in his arms, but she threw herself in front of him with a shout.
Beautiful violet magic surged from the ground, arcing over them in a protective shield. The eagle scratched, screamed, gnashed and thrashed against it, but Lady Rowan held fast, despite her trembling hands.
As Roderick charged toward the dais, his eyes locked on the cord binding Anya’s hands to the Prince’s in some kind of ceremonial weave.
With a swift, precise slice of his sword, the cords piled to the ground.
The priest stumbled away. Roderick threw himself between Anya and the Prince, levying his sword at the Prince’s throat.
Roderick’s chest heaved from adrenaline as the Prince slowly raised his hands and smiled wickedly, his eyes flicking to the stained glass. Anya’s followed, filled with terror he’d never seen before. But what? Why? What was it?
The sun’s full intensity shone through the lead-lined panes.
The Prince laughed, low and hollow. “Go on. Take her. See what happens.”
“Roderick, you can’t—” Anya wheezed. “The Prince, he—” She coughed so violently she fell to her knees.
“Is it the gesh?” Roderick knelt in front of her.
Anya didn’t answer; only lifted a hand to his scruffy cheek and held it there, seeming to revel in the warmth of his skin.
Like a goodbye.
“Tell me what to do!” He gripped her shoulders, then noticed the stillness of her chest. All the color drained from his face. She wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t. Breathing.
Another derisive laugh came from the Prince.
“I can’t hold this much longer!” Lady Rowan cried.
“Roderick! Hurry! Grab her and go!” Octavio grunted with effort.
Roderick’s mind picked apart the room, almost in slow motion as he strategized.
The guards were slowly regaining the ability to move, testing their limbs in quicksand-like motions.
If the Prince’s eagle broke through and attacked Octavio, the spell would surely shatter.
But he couldn’t worry about that. He needed to get Anya breathing first.
He lifted her into his arms. Everything blurred. Sight, sound, smell, even fear—except for her. She was his home. His family. His pack. Her eyes grew heavy with surrender as she pressed a hand over his heart. He looked down at the spot where she touched, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Hurry!”
“Sir!”
The Prince’s shoes clacked on the marble floor as he took a step toward them. “Hand her over, let us complete the ceremony, and she will live. I swear on my honor.”
Roderick looked at Anya. She shook her head weakly, tracing a hand down his cheek with a look of finality he couldn’t accept.
“Anya, I…” his voice trailed off as his eyes fell to her wrist, right where Annette had been rubbing her own earlier. His vision was blurred with tears, but he swore he could make out a faint glow under her skin.
The gesh!
His thoughts raced. He didn’t know much, if anything about magic. The most he’d experienced was in the last hour, in truth. He knew nothing about the bounds and abilities of ethereal love. But if there was anything capable of a damned miracle, it was that.
He lifted her wrist to his lips. “If this doesn’t work, I’m going to find you,” he whispered shakily. “I promise. In every life, in every body. This isn’t goodbye. This is only the beginning.”
Anya gasped as he bit down, plunging his fangs directly into the glow.
The gesh writhed and resisted, shoving against her skin, but he held fast, swallowing her white-hot blood with a pained furrow on his brow.
Anya took deep, heaving breaths, and he finally felt not one, but two distinct rushes of air in every inhale—his own, and hers.
He could feel the clip of her breath, the muscles in her chest, the very life in her lungs right alongside his own. He released her with a final gulping swallow. A sanguineous mix streamed down his chin as he smiled at her.
Then his left fang clattered to the marble floor, buzzing and rattling with all the magic of the gesh.
“Worth it,” he lisped, swiping his lips with the back of a hand.
“We’ll see about that!” the Prince snarled and shifted, stalking toward Roderick. By the time Roderick turned, the Prince was in the air, teeth bared, jaws wide.
“No you won’t!” Anya roared. Before Roderick could react, she’d shifted and leapt from his arms, colliding with the Prince in a vicious, growling tussle of fur and teeth.
She ripped into everywhere she could reach with beautiful, reckless abandon—chest, neck, ears, flank—all the while dodging the Prince’s snapping maw.
“Anya!” Roderick started to reach for the fray.
Don’t! she warned.
“It’s breaking!” Lady Rowan shouted. A sharp crack echoed through the hall. The eagle thrashed against the shield with angry shrieks.
A boom filled the hall. The barrier shattered. The eagle went straight for Octavio, breaking his spell on the guards, who rushed the dais.
But before they reached the scuffle, an Elf with long, honeyed hair and a golden crown and staff stalked down the runner with fire in her eyes. A knight followed behind her. Sun-like magic froze them all in place.
“You have a LOT of explaining to do!”