Thirty-seven
Ariadnne
Kayla delivered Ariadnne into Sascha’s arms with a hushed whisper, devastation crashing across Sascha’s features as she learned what happened.
Ariadnne trembled, deaf to her attempts at comfort, locked in a rictus of grief as Sascha led her to the couch, fussing round her, plumping cushions and arranging blankets round her shoulders.
Pointless gestures that barely registered.
‘What can I do?’ Sascha wrung her hands, hovering. ‘I hate to see you like this.’
Ariadnne lifted her head, voice cracking as she tried to form words. ‘Please… I need to be on my own.’
Sascha’s face crumpled as she smoothed the blanket around Ariadnne’s shoulders.
‘I understand. Just… I won’t be far if you need anything. Just call, okay?’
She let herself out quietly, leaving Ariadnne in solitude. Her mind whirled, silent tears shining on her cheeks. It wasn’t fair… to lose Melixanthe now seemed so cruel. So pointless.
Nieve’s distress tugged at her ribs and she gritted her teeth, lacking the space to care about anything beyond her own pain. She was far from interested in knowing how Nieve felt.
Melixanthe had been the one constant in her life, her companion and guiding hand.
Her dragon was beside herself, roiling beneath her skin. Demanding action. Revenge. But Ariadnne was frozen. Immobile.
Hours passed, failing to soothe the hollow pain of each breath, but the numbing frost protecting her mind began to retreat, and she recalled the letter burning a hole in her pocket.
It was the last piece of Melixanthe she had, whatever it contained.
With shaky fingers, she pulled it free, jaw tightening at the blood staining the edges.
She wondered if it would be something mundane, a receipt for a purchase, or note to send to the outfitter in town. As she teased the letter from the bloodied envelope, she held her breath as her eyes skimmed over Melixanthe’s looping script—
A,
Many thanks for your missive.
I’ll admit, after your people attacked mine, on neutral ground, I might add, I feared you were no longer willing to maintain your part in our arrangement. However, since then I’ve been into the cells and I saw him. I understand, now, why it was necessary.
I can assure you he is alive.
I was pleased to hear you still want to help, though things are more complicated now. There is another I suspect will wish to travel with her. My apologies for the short notice.
By the time you read this, I will have informed my daughter of our plan, and gods willing, she will be on her way to the site we previously mentioned.
I hope this reaches you in time to collect her. I know you have your ways of moving unseen, but I beg of you, as one mother to another, look after her. Keep her from the clutches of this godforsaken Guild.
Regards
M.
*
Ariadnne stayed shut in her rooms all night, restless and refusing to see anyone except Sascha the following day. Not even a summons from Councillor Vesta got her to move. What were the Council to her, but monsters.
The letter had been the final blow. Proof that Melixanthe had been willing to do anything for her daughter, even arrange an escape.
She read it what must be a thousand times, weeping as she clutched those last penned words to her chest. That good news Melixanthe had wanted to share…
a way out, now dissolved as though it had never been.
Whoever ‘A’ was would remain a mystery, the letter proof that Melixanthe was not the loyal general she appeared. Had secrets. Contacts.
Only Nieve had got to her before the Council. They must be so happy.
The loss of both her mother and her mate left a gaping chasm in her breast that made it hurt to breathe.
Ariadnne missed Melixanthe with every fibre of her being, and she missed Nieve, though she hated to admit it.
Now, all she had was the letter. She didn’t speak, barely ate, food turning to ash in her mouth.
However, there was something her grief-addled mind couldn’t grasp, something that didn’t quite make sense through her dragon-fuelled rage.
Nieve’s face, struck by shock, haunted her. Ariadnne couldn’t get that beautiful, treacherous face out of her head, the anguish that flitted across her brows.
A little voice nagged that Nieve appeared shocked before she’d noticed Ariadnne standing in the doorway.
Why? If she had intended to kill Melixanthe, why look shocked by her death?
Nieve was too in-control to lose it in an argument.
Ariadnne kept trying to quash the thoughts—of course her mind would make excuses for her mate. But they were excuses.
Only, what if they weren’t? What if her dragon had reacted without thought, the way it had when she’d accused Nieve of hurting Melixanthe.
Another wave of Nieve’s grief crashed through her, plaguing her with doubt.
What if the Council had succeeded, after all?
She vividly recalled Nieve’s stance as she stood, swords drawn over her mother’s body.
Defensive. Eyes searching the room. Ariadnne had been overwhelmed and not thinking clearly, but now she forced herself to examine the agonising memory for details: Nieve’s hunched posture, the brilliant edges of her blades, flickering in the faelit room.
Brilliant edges.
Clean edges.
There had been no blood on her swords.
There had been no blood on her swords.
With clarity, Ariadnne recalled Nieve desperately trying to speak, a seed of doubt worming into her mind, interrupting the well of despair she’d been sinking in.
Nieve’s swords had been clean.
She should have listened—with the bond between them she would have known the truth if it was uttered from Nieve’s lips.
Her seed of doubt erupted into splinters, each taking root. If Nieve was innocent Ariadnne owed it to her to find out. Instead, she’d let her be taken, manhandled and bruised.
Cursing her dragon’s volatile emotions, Ariadnne forced herself up, dragging fresh clothes onto her body.
She couldn’t, and wouldn’t wait—not if Nieve suffered.
The halls echoed as the surprised guard reluctantly let her out of her quarters at her request for air. He fell into step, muttering to himself about volatile reptiles. Ariadnne smoothed her hair as she went, her features arranged in the deadly calm mask she wore to battle.
She stalked the main corridor with reptilian grace, her eyes flashing at every sudden movement, every flutter of curtains or creak of a door enough to set her hackles on end.
As she passed the great oak doors to the dining room she paused, drawing a shaky breath. They had done a good job erasing all traces of metallic blood from the air; she could scent nothing. She nudged the door open. The hall looked like nothing had ever happened, everything in its place.
There was a new rug.
Somehow that was worse than if it was still in disarray.
It took all her will not to carry on when all she wanted was to scream.
At the entrance to her wing, two more guards stood at rigid attention. They jumped as she barrelled through the doors, her own guard protesting as soon as he realised she was attempting to leave her wing.
Ariadnne wasn’t in the mood for niceties.
‘Take me to where they are keeping my handler’s killer.’
She growled, an earth-tremoring rumble that seeped the blood from her guard’s faces. Pale, fearful glances were exchanged.
Ariadnne tapped her foot, fingers curling into claws at her sides.
‘Should we send word to the Council…’
‘Now.’ Ariadnne snarled and the smallest guard quivered.
Her eyes flashed, her fingertips briefly elongating into silver talons.
‘Of course.’ The big one on the left saluted with wide eyes and gestured to his skinny companion to lead the way. Another glance was shared between them, but neither seemed willing to stand against the force of her dragon.
Good.
They escorted her through the marble rooms and courtyards.
One in front and one behind. The rooms blurred, and then they were heading out of the main building, across the parade grounds stretching before the grand front of the castle, towards the dingy little door that provided access to the south wing and cells; the oldest, most crumbling part of the castle.
Flickering torches lit the plain stone of the corridor beyond, thin, slit-like windows allowing glimpses of the ocean crashing into the rocks below, while threadbare tapestries did nothing to mask the cracks and holes in the brickwork.
Ariadnne was led through a dark archway, a dank stairwell taking them down, deep into the subterranean levels where the air was stale and cloying.
A tired-looking guard sat at the entrance to the cell block on a small wooden stool. He jumped to attention as they approached.
‘The varanya has requested a few words with the General’s killer,’ the skinny guard said.
The prison guard stared at Ariadnne in a slightly leering way that set her on edge.
‘Has it been cleared with the Council?’ he drawled.
Her guards eyed each other.
‘Ok, then I’ll have to clear it with my superior.’
The prison guard sighed and disappeared through the door behind him while Ariadnne waited in uncomfortable silence.
It didn’t take long for the miserable fellow to come back with a greying, stout guard holding an air of responsibility.
‘What’s this?’ he said brusquely. ‘I understand you’re here to see the White Knight?’
‘I am, sir,’ Ariadnne replied. ‘My dragon demands I look into the face of my handler’s killer. She won’t take no for an answer.’
She let the scales ripple. The captain stared at her, before turning to the prison guard.
‘I don’t see the harm in it, providing she is supervised.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You two.’ He pointed at Ariadnne’s guards. ‘Take her down the corridor. She’s in the last cell on the left.’
They opened the door, the creak echoing through the chamber. Ariadnne’s jaw clenched as she stepped through.
It was time to face the truth, and her mate.