Chapter 35 #2
Because every bargain has a price. Because every deal requires sacrifice, the words thud around my skull, but they are dull and flat, as if the riddle is weary in its abandonment.
I had not given thought to it in several days, but it is clear now.
Every bargain and every deal. Even the ones not bound by fae magic.
I made the deal with myself. I chose to cross an uncrossable line. And now I must pay the price.
The various guards we pass do a double take, at my commoner’s garb as well as my strange companions. But no one stops us as we make our way to the great hall.
The great hall is where our meals are served.
It is indeed great—it’s more suited to host a dance or dinner party.
With high ceilings braced by ornately carved rafters and beautiful, narrow stained-glass windows that cast perfect rainbows of blinding morning light if the sun permits that day.
My father’s most prized art is hung on the tall stone walls here—for whom to ever see other than the two of us, I do not know.
Often when I eat here alone, with only a kitchen servant on hand or a guard or two stationed at the grand doors, I feel minuscule.
The dining table—too large, too empty. The room—too large, too empty.
Me—too small, too insignificant. I do not hold space in a room this size.
As the guards open the doors for us, my anxious intake of breath is audible.
Now dark outside, the hall is lit by its usual plethora of torches and candelabras.
My father sits at the head of the table.
Simon, clad in black robes and as greasy and despicable as always, sits at his right side.
There are two figures seated opposite of Simon, but between the dim, flickering flames and the high backs of their chairs, I cannot see much other than the tops of their heads.
The guards close the doors behind us, the jarring sound of metal against stone raising the hair on my arms. Between the four figures seated at the table, my three companions, plus Alma and Edwin, this is the most people I’ve ever seen in here at one time.
The guards, I note, do not stand inside the doors as they usually would.
Odd.
Simon sees us first, my father distracted and in deep discussion with whoever sits to his left. He pushes his chair back, the sound grating, and stands.
“Ah, Princess Thea,” Simon says, offering a small, cordial bow.
He walks around the table to stand before us.
Brynn and Glo, flanking each of my sides, stiffen at his casual approach.
But Simon only has eyes for me. “Glad to see you out of bed and well—though…” he notes my attire with an upturn of his birdlike nose, “I thought you’d at least dress nicer for the occasion. ”
“Simon, pray tell, what is the occasion?” I ask, cringing at the haughty voice I adopt when speaking with Simon. It feels like I wear a skin that does not belong to me.
“Why, Your Highness—your wedding, of course.”
A scraping of chairs across stone draws our attention to the dining table.
My father stands and approaches us. He wears his usual maroon robes, his gaudy rings, even his silver crown now—which is only brought out for rare, special occasions.
But his jaw is too slack, his shoulders too droopy, his eyes too vacant, his unnatural movements reminiscent of an exhausted puppet. I take a step in his direction.
What has happened to him in the last three days?
But the sight of the other two figures rising from their chairs stops me in my tracks.
Tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Father and son. Wearing matching suits of black and no doubt glamoured. The father appears indifferent, but the son wears a venomous smirk.
King Kerron and Asan step closer, too.
“Daughter, so good of you to join us,” says my father. His words are welcoming, but the tone of it is all wrong. His voice is a ghost of what it once was.
“What is this?” Brynn demands. I turn to stare at him, as though he will somehow make sense of what my mind cannot, but his eyes are as wide as the sun.
His golden irises burn with alarm. Somewhere behind me I hear Glo curse under her breath.
I whip around to see her hands ablaze. Alma shrieks.
I struggle to connect the pieces, the various threads here.
Nothing comes together except a singular thought: is this a trap?
“Oh, I know you so enjoy being Vir’s fiery guard dog,” Asan says. “But trying me would be most unwise.”
Two menacing tendrils of smoky shadows seep out of Asan’s right hand.
I watch in frozen horror as they slither across the cold stones toward Glo.
They curl and twist up her legs, enclosing her palms like gloves, snuffing out her flames instantaneously.
Her glamours drop as she struggles against Asan’s bindings, desperately fighting to call back her fire—her magic already weakened from conjuring a passageway between realms. She flails, pointed canines clenched, eyes wide and frantic.
A feral growl echoes across the great hall as Brynn launches himself at his half-brother.
They collide with a violent CRACK that reverberates in my very chest. No one moves.
Asan lays flat on his back as Brynn wails on him.
The sickening sound of Brynn’s fists connecting over and over with Asan’s face turns my stomach.
My confused panic only rises. I step closer, but when Asan’s hands move to Brynn’s throat—
“Stop! Stop this at once!” I cry.
It is a mistake. My plea—my command—distracts Brynn, halting his assault on Asan’s face.
In his brief hesitation, Asan releases two more tendrils.
One coils around Brynn’s neck in an instant, yanking him off and away from his brother’s prone body.
Brynn thrashes savagely with all his strength as the second shadow works its way up and around his kicking legs, binding his arms tight to his body. It roots him to the spot.
“YOU BASTARD!” Brynn roars. “I will take your head if it’s the last thing I fucking do!”
“Ah, come now, brother,” Asan says, breathless as he pushes himself into a sitting position. With a lazy flick of his hand, the slinking shadows ascend, covering Brynn’s mouth like a gag. “Only one dimi bastard stands in this hall, as far as I am aware.”
Slowly, Asan stands. In the chaos, his glamours have dropped.
A tail—much like his mother’s barbed one, but gray and more lethal-looking—whips back and forth behind him.
He spits silvery blood onto the stone at his feet as he steps toward me.
Brynn did a number to his mouth and nose, both already bruising and swollen, but it’s the gashes that rattle me.
Four deep cuts carve a path from his hairline to his neck above his tunic’s collar.
They are discolored—purple, green, black—and ooze a thick, smoking pus.
Brynn’s beating undoubtedly reopened them, but they are fresh.
Cursed, magical wounds that appear to have been left by brutal talons.
Asan’s derisive laugh rings out as I stumble backward.
“Oh, do you like these?” he asks, gesturing to his ruined face.
I shake my head and continue my retreat, backing toward the rest of our companions.
Brynn watches us, bound and powerless, eyes wide with terror, from over his brother’s shoulder.
I bump into Glo, who too remains anchored by Asan’s magic.
“Compliments of your lovely old friend.”
I blink. Talons. “Mavick? You took Mavick?”
Asan comes closer still and Edwin brandishes his shortsword, moving to plant himself in front of us with a courage I did not know he possessed.
But the withering grin Asan tosses his way chills me to my very bones.
He turns from Edwin with a dismissive wave, as though he is no more than an obnoxious gnat, here to play witness to whatever comes next.
I look to my father, a mere shade of himself, unaware of what unfolds before him.
He stands as still as a statue. Simon wears an uncharacteristically animated smile, the likes of which make his sullen face appear disturbed.
King Kerron sighs, unsurprised by this turn of events, like this is a normal spat expected between two brothers.
“Before these two so rudely interrupted,” Asan speaks again, gesturing toward his captives coolly. “King Tobias was about to sign a marriage contract. I think you’re going to want to see this, brother.”
With another flick of his wrist, Asan’s shadows haul Brynn along the stones. His horns have reappeared, and his entire body convulses as he fights to loosen Asan’s hold. I reach for him and Asan tuts.
“I would not touch him,” he warns, clicking his tongue. “You’ll only make his pain worse.”
Brynn’s eyes dart back and forth between Asan and me. He’s trying to communicate something to me wordlessly, but I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this—
“Where’s Mavick?” I demand. Mavick is not dead, I tell myself. They can’t be.
“Ah, Mavick,” Asan says with a grim smile. “Concerned about that menace of a faerie? Yes, well, they turned out to be quite the hurdle. It took me years to discover where their Gate sat. Years. I finally made it there, and what do you know? That old bat has sharp claws.”
I say nothing. I hope his wounds sting for all eternity.
“I showed up at Mavick’s unannounced. The goal was simple: to rid the Gate of its Keeper, letting my father slip into the Kingdom of Clouds unbeknownst to anyone in Sanctuary.
So that he could move unseen by prying minds or meddling faeries—to meet and sort out a trade with good King Tobias here.
” He slaps my father on the shoulder, who does not react whatsoever.
“But Mavick’s magic is ancient. And despite their quirks, they’re a damn good Gatekeeper.
I barely managed to get myself out. But alas, I did—and took Mavick with me. ”
King Kerron sighs, as bored as ever, even with his favored son’s antics. “Asan, get on with it,” he commands.
Asan laughs, unbothered. He gestures to his face like his grueling wounds are insignificant and continues, “It took time to heal—or at least stabilize these cursed faerie scratches. You see, it takes quite the mage to be able to conjure a passageway inside the wards of a Gatekeeper’s domain—to return here—so Father had to have some patience while I was on the mend.
In the meantime, I figured any information Mavick could spare about King Tobias and Gale might prove useful.
It took some unusual methods, but Mavick finally cracked.
And what do you know? They let slip that Tobias’s own daughter had betrayed him.
That the king was under the influence of Yield! ”
Asan claps as if giddy at the old news. My throat burns and my stomach twists. It feels as though I swallowed that dagger.
“Imagine my surprise when a mortal, of the same name and age as the mortal princess, just showed up on our doorstep with my dimiblood brother—you really helped us get back on track with our original plans, Thea. And Simon here—indispensable. But he wanted something in return, of course—”
King Kerron clears his throat, shooting his son a threatening glare. Asan again laughs, the sound sending an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. Simon, however, shakes with eager anticipation.
This cannot be happening.
“All right, Father. Fine then. Let’s carry on,” Asan concedes, still smirking.
Without a word, King Kerron produces a golden, glowing scroll out of thin air and hastily unrolls it. He passes it to Simon, who holds it in front of my unmoving father.
“Father?” I plead, my voice cracking as I move toward him.
For the most fleeting of seconds, emotion flickers across his face at my voice. Recognition. Heartbreak. An unspoken apology. But with an unnatural jerk of his arm, he signs the magicked paper with a ringed, twitching finger.
I turn back to Brynn, and his golden eyes bore into me. Panic. Despair. A promise. Everything he cannot say as he fights against his brother’s magic. I round again on Simon.
“You orchestrated this, Simon?” I demand, anger overpowering sheer terror.
My body grows hot as rage blinds me. But he wanted something in return.
Marriage to me? A seat as king? He could have gained that without King Kerron and Asan’s help, with my father’s altered state—what does he gain in binding us in a magical contract?
“Actually, no—as I just told you in so many words, I did,” Asan says. He tsks with feigned annoyance. “I truly expected you to be more intelligent, wife.”
His words hit me like a sharp slap.
No, no, no, no.
Anyone but Asan. Give me Simon. This is far, far worse. A primal sound stirs from deep within Brynn’s chest. Tears stream down Glo’s face. Jasmeen shakes her head in utter disbelief.
My head swims. The room tilts. I am drowning.
“Now that that’s over—Simon? As you requested,” Asan says flippantly.
Simon produces a small blade from his belt and with one fluid motion, slices Father’s throat. Mortal blood, red and hot, spurts across my face. A scream rips from my own chest that I do not register. I unravel—crumbling, crashing to the ground with my father’s corpse.
“Queen Thea of the Kingdom of Clouds, you are being imprisoned for High Treason—for using a forbidden elixir on your father, former king, Tobias Gale,” comes King Kerron’s lofty voice from above my head.
All I hear as my world fades to black is Asan’s velvet demand:
“Oh, and kill the spare mortals, will you? They’re useless.”