Chapter 48 #3
Ambrose then suggested Maeve and Mal show them all what Vaukore was teaching their children. Maeve noted to herself that none of what they were about to see was learned from any Professor at Vaukore.
Everyone was eager to see what The Dread Descendant and the young Bellator Optimum could do.
Maeve and Mal danced their duel as usual. Nowadays, most of their time spent practicing was no longer with dueling formalities, and they were freer.
She enjoyed herself nonetheless. Mal let her show off, showed himself off, and they both put on a show for the crowd. Maeve held on longer than Mal meant for her to.
She was growing stronger.
She sat back on her knees, breathing heavily as Mal stood over her with his finger pointed at her throat. Ophelia’s cheered for him above all the rest.
He smirked down at her.
“Well done,” said Mal extending his hand to her, pulling her to her feet. “You held on longer than usual.”
Hand in hand, they took a bow. Mal was swarmed at once as Maeve slipped through the crowd. She headed for the bar, where her father leaned, bragging on her loudly. She needed refreshing after that performance.
She overheard one of her father’s friends say that they had never seen a boy so young with so much strength.
“Dread magic is ancient,” said Ambrose. “Not unlike pureblooded magic, but something else entirely, too.”
Mal had one more duel, of which she knew he would win. The crowd never grew tired of watching him beat elite soldiers twice his age in a duel, though. They were just as captivated by him now as they were over the summer when he arrived.
Maeve was on the back balcony with Abraxas, admiring the illuminated butterflies that now lit up over the gardens.
“They were my idea you know,” said Abraxas.
“I should have known,” she replied.
“Maeve, darling,” said Ambrose, appearing at her side.
“I’ll give you a moment,” said Abraxas.
“No,” said Ambrose. “Stay. If you are to be Malachite’s hand, it is crucial, you understand the game.
” Ambrose wasted no time getting to the point and spoke openly to Maeve.
“I need you to go thank Xander for being here tonight and offer to see him out. It would mean a great deal. . . for appearances.”
“A game indeed,” shot Maeve. “So it can appear that I’m remotely interested in this nonsense?”
“I know you don’t want Xander. I know you don’t want Alphard.”
“Is that so terrible?”
Abraxas opened his mouth to speak and then closed it.
Ambrose gave him a nod.
“It’s not that it’s terrible, Maeve,” said Abraxas. “It’s that things are delicate right now. And everything we can do to ensure that Mal is crowned and we return to the Dread Lands is critical.”
Maeve looked to her Father. He inclined his head as if to say Abraxas nailed it.
Maeve found it difficult to argue. After she chewed her lip for a moment, she sighed. “Fine.”
Maeve pushed past them both and headed to find The Elven Prince.
“It was incredibly kind of you to have me tonight,” said Xander.
“Oh, I believe we’re the ones lucky to have you. We are overwhelmed by the Queen’s willingness to communicate and join forces.”
“I do hope we can see one another again. You turned out to be a pleasant surprise.”
“Oh?”
“Yes! That duel!”
This brought a genuine smile to Maeve’s face. But as quickly as it arrived, it vanished when he continued speaking.
“You looked beautiful.”
Maeve scoffed and couldn’t help but shake her head.
“Were you impressed with the duel itself?” Asked Maeve.
“Oh yes,” said Xander flippantly. “I was hoping to see some of that rumored mind work. . .” He said it like he didn’t believe she could do it. He came to a stop at the gate as it opened for him, taking a step towards her. “But you looked so-”
“Beautiful yeah, you said,” sighed Maeve coldly. “Goodnight, Xander.”
She turned on her heel without waiting for a response and returned to the house. Hey may have been an Elven Prince, but he was a shallow one. She couldn’t bring herself to play the game. It only took her a moment to find Mal sitting in the study. He spoke first, not looking at her.
“Where did you get off to?”
“Just doing us all a favor, apparently.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all it would ever be.”
The silence between them was thick. Mal wasn’t reading the book in his hands. He stared straight at the wall. Maeve studied him for a moment before asking where Ophelia was.
“He is going to pursue you,” said Mal, ignoring her question. “Lithandrian sent him for that reason. You for her army.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And the world looking at us would love to see that happen, wouldn’t they?”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
Maeve knew it was taking all his strength not to explode right there.
“Well, it depends on who you mean by ‘they’,” replied Maeve.
“The Double O- oh yes. My father- completely torn over his political duties and my own happiness. The Elven Royals, obviously my blood status is the appeal. The common Magicals would eat up such an affair, yes. My mother- through the moon for one of her own to marry someone so powerful, only I’m sure she wishes it wasn’t me.
Part of her whole campaign for my unhappiness, I suspect. ”
Mal didn’t laugh at her joke. “And you?”
She sighed, impatient now, frustrated with how the entire evening had gone.
“Goodnight, Mal. You are welcome to see yourself out.” She paused, needing a moment to muster the courage for what she was about to say. “My bedroom fireplace will be open to you tonight, should you really need an answer to that question.”
She walked away without waiting to even gauge his reaction. She began climbing to the third floor as the last few guests were stumbling their way down to the foyer.
“Goodnight, Maeve!” January Johnson hiccuped.
“Safe travels,” replied Maeve weakly.
Once inside her bedroom, she locked the door with a wave of her wrist. It wouldn’t be the first time a drunken guest had stumbled in mistakenly, looking for a bathroom or a closet.
She walked into her bathroom and began undressing.
The oversized, circular tub was already filled with hot water and what appeared to be lavender, as bright purple bubbles were escaping the edges.
Zimsy’s doing. Maeve thanked her audibly. The bubbles turned pink.
With a soft snap of her fingers, her hair was down, and she ran her fingers through it, massaging, frustrated. As the hot bath water hit her skin, her mind drifted.
It drifted deep into the memory of Mal’s hands on her, inside her. The feeling of their bodies pressed together, all the while knowing they shouldn’t, had been an intoxicating thrill.
But it had been weeks since that night in Albania. He had not pulled her close that way since.
Perhaps it was no more than a spell for him. A necessary duty to repair the Finder’s Stone. Maeve didn’t want to admit the pang in her heart at the thought. But it remained all the same.
Ophelia had his attention all night.
They didn’t dance. He didn’t kiss her before any of the guests. Abraxas was right. They had to do whatever it took to get Mal on that throne. Whatever it took to restore the Dread Lands.
She hadn’t realized it would come with the cost of her sanity, though. She allowed herself to soak until all the bubbles had long gone and resigned herself to go to bed.
She laid her head back and looked up at the night sky twinkling across her enchanted canopy bed, rattling off the names of constellations in her head. Her mind was too busy to fall asleep.
A loud crackling sound filled the room, and her sapphire room flashed bright green. She sat up to see Mal stepping out of the fireplace.