Chapter 2 #3
Typically, only Sovereign kings are born from the Sovereign Tree.
But, if a sapling is adopted, their heartwood—a dryad’s soul—is grafted with the family tree in a druidic ceremony.
Mine was the first Sovereign adoption, and it shocked and delighted the kingdom.
The Sovereign Tree had stopped producing heirs years before.
Durian and his brother, Cyperus, were the final two.
My adoption should have been a promise of posterity, but then, Cyperus hadn’t known the Sovereign Tree would retaliate.
Hadn’t anticipated it would turn me into an abomination.
“What do you mean by ‘were’?” I repeat, standing now.
“She’s gone,” he states.
Realization slips over me. Hot blood roils in my veins as the dark truth looms. Dahlia wasn’t just sent out as a courtesy to the patiently waiting subjects. She was sent to death. “You had her killed for a throwaway threat she clearly didn’t mean?”
“Treason is unacceptable, Castor,” Durian states simply. “Casual threats of violence against the Sovereign Tree are not to be tolerated.”
My fury is immediate. I want to draw on all my rotten power and send it barreling into my brother’s chest, to break this goblet in my fist and drive the jagged edges into his face.
If the Sovereign Tree would allow it, that is.
Its magic keeps Sovereign heirs from harming one another—a protective mechanism given the power-hungry nature of so many fae royals.
A quality I most certainly did not inherit when my heartwood was grafted to this most ancient giant.
“I did not have her killed, Castor. She was meant to be jailed in the Bloodwood Tree.” His words are slow and pointed, as if he’s speaking to a child who is on the verge of a meltdown. “But by the time they closed the cell, she was already gone.”
“How—”
“You said you weren’t close to her, but did she feel close to you?”
The implication in his words crashes over me. All the fury I wish to direct at my brother turns inward, eating away like flames in the heart of a lightning-struck tree.
It was my curse.
Dahlia must have gotten too attached somehow.
From just those few extra nights. She was among the most empathetic of those I’ve paid to spend the night with me.
Too empathetic, it seems. While it wasn’t my hand that took Dahlia’s life, I have an uncanny way of drawing lovers into danger’s path.
Almost as if my curse seeps into their thoughts, whispering words of compulsion.
Even if it’s not in their nature to do so—like storming to the Crown District and shouting treasonous remarks in front of an ogling crowd.
Sinking into my throne, I cradle my head in my hands. “It’s my fault.”
I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. A tight squeeze. “Seems it is growing stronger,” he says in a sympathetic murmur. “Ah, dear brother. There is no need to feel guilty. Your curse is not your fault, as I have told you time and again. It cannot be helped.”
I shrug away from him, but it’s half-hearted. The pressure builds in my eyes, a lump starting in my throat. My teeth clench so hard my jaw pops. Don’t.
“Cyperus should never have adopted me. This all could have been avoided.”
Durian’s hand moves from my shoulder as he sinks, straight-backed, on the Sovereign Throne. “Are those tears in your eyes, brother?”
As if spoken into existence, the tears spill over, burning my cheeks with their treason. Every muscle tenses up as I will the emotion away. Stop. Please just stop.
“Don’t give up all hope now. The Sylveris Solstice is over a fortnight away. There’s still time to find a mortal to fall in love with you.”
“I’ve gone to a mortal town nearly every week for months,” I grind out.
He nods slowly, a wry smile showing itself. “Perhaps if you borrowed time from your sojourns to Magesté?”
“Thank you so much for the helpful advice, brother.”
Durian’s smile flickers. “You think I want you to end up in the Bloodwood Tree if you fail to complete the heartwood pact? A single week in there was enough to turn you into an anxiety-riddled nepenthe addict. I shudder to think what a year would do.”
My teeth grate painfully together. We both know exactly what a year in the Bloodwood Tree would do.
It would drive me to madness. Utter insanity.
Two dryads from the same family tree cannot kill each other—even adopted abominations like me.
Mere involvement in the other’s death would destroy their heartwood as swiftly as that of the brother they’d slain.
But if I fail to complete this pact, I will be as good as dead.
And, if I succumb to madness, Durian will be the final heir.
The Sovereign Tree’s magic will cease, the wards will fail, and the kingdom as we know it will fall to ruin.
And nepenthe—an ancient fae psychoactive drug—is the least of the vices I’ve acquired since my time in that cursed tree.
“Can we speak of anything else? Tell me of your journey to the City. The Iron King still up to his old tricks? Has Archer managed to steal you another mortal or two?”
“Why the subject change? Do you not wish to fulfill the pact? To rid yourself of this curse that’s haunted you for so long?
” His voice has a smooth, melodic quality to it.
I’m convinced he could enchant a tree siren with that golden tongue of his.
Even I fall under its spell from time to time. Such as now.
Because here I am, allowing myself a moment of thought on how it would feel to be uncursed.
Unbroken. People smiling rather than grimacing.
Shaking my hand instead of avoiding my gaze.
Gentle, casual touches in place of desperate nights.
To be cared for, truly cared for. Maybe Durian is right.
Maybe I should focus on it. Maybe that’s all I should do for the next two weeks.
I’ve been too in my head. Too concerned about the mortals I’m meant to enchant.
The sand in my hourglass has dwindled quickly down, and I’m no closer to fulfilling this pact than I was a year ago.
Meanwhile, my curse seems to be growing more powerful.
Who knows, soon people could drop dead just by speaking to me or fall ill after looking me in the eye.
Like that mortal myth with the snake-haired woman.
My ever-present anxiety spikes to a fever pitch. Without speaking, I leave my throne, descending the dais on unsteady legs, panic and desperation powering my muscles now.
“Ticktock, Castor,” Durian calls out. “I’m sure there is a lovely mortal somewhere out there just dying for you to sweep them away.”