Twenty-nine
Ariadnne
Sand billowed as Ariadnne landed in the training yard, her usually iridescent hide faded and wings aching with fatigue.
Melixanthe had commanded her to fly straight home as soon as they’d cleared the last of the dark fae from the valley, leaving Lucius to ensure the safety of its people.
Ariadnne was sure the gruelling flight back was only the first part of the punishment she could expect.
The weakened victims of the Wraiths were helped to the ground and led, pale and staggering, in the direction of the Healer’s wing.
Nieve was subdued as she dismounted, her usually vibrant features drawn and closed.
Ariadnne’s dragon-heart ached, wishing she could offer comfort for what must be a monumental loss.
As the last knight dismounted, Ariadnne shuddered back into her fae form, stepping delicately out of the harness that pooled at her feet and gratefully taking the tunic offered by a nearby servant. Exhaustion raged through every limb.
After a look from Melixanthe, Josef ushered the knights out of the yard. Nieve twisted her neck, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ as she was forced to follow the company. Ariadnne knew she would risk Melixanthe’s wrath a thousand times for gratitude in Nieve’s eyes.
Ariadnne braced herself and turned to face her handler, expecting to feel the full force of her anger. She was surprised to see Melixanthe breathing deeply—her skin clammy and pale with a faint sheen of sweat.
Melixanthe drew herself upright, favouring her wounded leg. There was a hardness in her eyes that Ariadnne hadn’t seen for many years.
‘You don’t look right—’
‘It can wait,’ Melixanthe clipped and Ariadnne prepared herself to take whatever her handler doled out. ‘What in nine hells was that, Ariadnne?’ she asked, dangerously low.
Ariadnne fidgeted, language abandoning her as she tried to form words.
‘Don’t gawk like a fish. Why were you out of your wing?’
‘I, uh.’ Ariadnne swallowed as her mind frantically sought any excuse. ‘I went for a midnight flight. I’m sorry. I know you forbade it.’ She cast her eyes down, hoping the partial truth was explanation enough.
To her relief, Melixanthe’s stiff form softened, and she released a deep breath.
‘I thought we’d put a stop to that years ago,’ she said, and stared at the sky.
‘Ariadnne, I don’t think you understand the enormity of what your actions might have cost us.
’ She closed her eyes and fell perfectly still, before speaking in a softer tone.
‘The Council doesn’t think I’m controlling you well enough.
They don’t think I’ve ever controlled you well enough.
They don’t want me to be your handler, Ari.
They never have. There are… reasons that they believe me an unsuitable choice.
So, you see, it’s not only you under scrutiny. It’s me.’
Ariadnne gaped, dumbstruck at the frank honesty in Melixanthe’s tone. She had never seen her vulnerable, but tonight her eyes were creased with uncertainty. It unsettled Ariadnne to her core.
With a shake of her head, Melixanthe turned to walk away.
‘You forced my hand today,’ she said over her shoulder as she left. ‘It was badly done.’
Guilt swirled in Ariadnne’s breast, but it was accompanied by a flicker of anger. The Council already controlled every aspect of her life. Now they controlled Melixanthe’s too?
She didn’t feel like playing their game anymore.
*
‘That sounds awful!’ Sascha exclaimed as she arranged Ariadnne’s hair.
A day had passed since their return—a day in which she’d been locked in her rooms. Waiting for Melixanthe’s inevitable wrath while unknown guards delivered meals.
When her handler never came, Ariadnne slipped into a fitful sleep, hanging onto the sense of Nieve that thrummed through their bond.
Her mate grieved, a spiralling well of emotions sharp as a wall of thorns, drawing closer with each breath.
Ariadnne could die from the need to be with her.
Comfort her—a need that cracked into her disjointed dreams until morning broke and Sascha arrived, apologising for her absence and informing Ariadnne that her training was to resume as usual that day.
Ariadnne fidgeted as Sascha’s fingers ran though her hair. It was impossible to know which of her handler’s moods awaited her and so far her punishment had been mild. Sascha tugged, the bite against Ariadnne’s scalp jolting her back as Sascha muttered furiously.
‘I hoped I’d never live to see Mordai in this kingdom.’
‘Have you heard any more?’ Ariadnne tried to twist her head only for Sascha to jerk it straight.
‘Not yet, but tongues are wagging. Everyone’s talking about the empty villages. Fields of livestock disappearing too. Tainted wheat and the like.’
Ariadnne fell silent. Sascha didn’t need to explain for Ariadnne to understand the fear. Eradiata had been free of dark fae for aeons, those left keeping to themselves and remaining behind the boundaries raised during the demon wars, but now?
Something was changing, a shift in the balance that held evil in check. Mordai in Miradael. Humans fleeing their lands. Dead villages—Ariadnne shuddered.
Something was very wrong.
According to Sascha, the Guild had been in turmoil since their return, the captains being called to multiple meetings and the knights clamouring to be allowed out on patrol.
Ariadnne longed to be anywhere but her rooms, smothered by walls and haunted by Melixanthe’s absence.
Yes, she might be angry, but Ariadnne couldn’t shake the insidious, creeping feeling that she’d put her handler in danger with the Council.
It led her to think—what if there was more to these ‘accidental arrows’ than Sol’s petty grudge? Was it Sol at all? Or perhaps Sol was following orders?
There were pieces missing, and she was struggling to put it together. Melixanthe was an excellent general. If they were that unhappy with her surely it made more sense to demote or retire her rather than go to such lengths to stage an accident…
Unless her loyalty was in question?
Ariadnne searched her memories. Her handler had never appeared to be anything but loyal to the Council. What was she missing?
Sol was the key, she was sure. Lucius had made it clear he wouldn’t talk to her about his handler, but perhaps another of his company would? If only she could find a way to speak to one of his knights. Alone.
She rose as Sascha finished, thanking her maid and mulling over her thoughts. Getting to the bottom of the threat to Melixanthe was her priority. Two arrows had found their mark already—too many to be a coincidence.
She sighed in defeat. Melixanthe would be waiting at the training grounds. Much as the thought of her anger made Ariadnne’s nerves jitter, she couldn’t, and shouldn’t, put it off.
Garth was waiting in the yard and nodded to Ariadnne as she took a pole and warmed up, loosening stiff muscles.
They both turned as Melixanthe limped in.
Ariadnne frowned. Her handler was pale, far more so than when she’d last seen her, and her skin was slicked with sweat. Ariadnne’s concern overrode her nerves.
‘Melixanthe!’ she exclaimed, words rushing off her tongue. ‘Have you been to the healers?’
‘It was just an arrow.’ Melixanthe bit back, but there was a catch to her voice. She knew it was worse than it should be.
Ariadnne threw her pole to Garth.
‘You’re not training,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m taking your stubborn ass to your room.’ She turned to her guard. ‘You. Get a healer. Now,’ she ordered.
Melixanthe grimaced, but didn’t argue, which was a worry all of its own.
‘You’ll have to show me the way, so don’t pass out on me, okay?’
*
‘The wound’s infected.’ The healer’s brows were knitted in concern as he examined Melixanthe’s leg. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent, a network of veins throbbing at his temples as he concentrated. ‘It’s not healing, see? It’s not responding to my magic either.’
‘What does that mean?’ Ariadnne asked.
‘It means, General,’ he addressed Melixanthe directly, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to ride this out. We can help with the fever, and our herbs will help contain the infection, but I’m unsure why the wound won’t respond to my magic.’
Melixanthe grunted. ‘It’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll be over it in a few days.’
‘Strict rest.’ The healer raised his arched brows. ‘I mean it.’
Ariadnne shot her handler a pointed look; Melixanthe wasn’t one for rest.
‘Fine.’ Melixanthe ground her teeth. ‘Ariadnne, you can let Josef know that he’s in charge for a few days.
’ She leaned back against the headrest of the bed.
‘This couldn’t have happened at a worse time,’ she groaned.
‘Best behaviour this week, I mean it.’ She fixed Ariadnne with a firm stare, and Ariadnne nodded.
But Melixanthe was wrong in her prediction.
She didn’t recover in a few days, instead getting steadily worse as the week progressed—until Ariadnne refused to train in favour of sitting at her bedside.
Melixanthe slipped in and out of wakefulness, a fever raging through her body resistant to any herbs the healers tried.
Ariadnne fretted hour after hour. This was no normal wound.
Her mind went back to the battle, replaying the scenario from every angle, her darker thoughts wondering if the arrow had been laced with poison. When she voiced these fears the healer avoided her eyes, insisting it was just an infection.
Ariadnne’s head was all over the place. None of it made sense.
Worry jangled through the bond and Ariadnne could feel Nieve’s concern.
She hadn’t seen her for a few days and missed her so much it hurt.
However, even as she missed her, an unsettling, traitorous thought slipped through the chinks of her mind.
Yes, Sol had been present at both of Melixanthe’s ‘accidents’, but so had Nieve.
She forced the thought out of her mind. She knew Nieve.
Her mate knew her feelings for Melixanthe and would never risk wounding Ariadnne by hurting her.
She clung onto every one of Nieve’s emotions that pulsed through her chest like a comforting blanket, trusting that Nieve was there for her even if she couldn’t see her.
A groan escaped Melixanthe’s chapped lips, bringing Ariadnne’s attention back to her deathly pale face.
Her eyelids fluttered and Ariadnne’s chest filled with lead.
If Melixanthe died, she would hunt the bastard who’d poisoned her and rip their entrails out of their throat.
Violently. Whoever it was had better pray she lived.