by A. K. Koonce
Complex doors open wide. They feature intricate designs, some of braided ore and others are stamps of flame made from shining metal and bearing the same black stone seen on the large castle. One guard stationed at the door shifts and leans close to Bear, whispering in his ear.
Bear simply shakes his head and points down the long hall lined with bright orange lamps. “I’ll take her straight to the throne room.” His large grasp reaches back to find me, but I twist away from him.
I tilt my head up, not only from defiance and pure stubbornness, but out of necessity, as the nearest guard holds out a sword, the pointed edge positioned carefully under my chin.
“She is a guest,” Bear growls, shoving the blade away from my face.
With quick hands, he slices the ropes from my wrists with his blade. Little sparks glint off my bindings for mere seconds before I meet his dark eyes. He offers me his hand this time. I look down at it with a heavy frown.
“I can escort myself, thank you.” My wrists ache with tenderness, but I refuse to show it.
“If you must,” he grits out.
The guard slips his weapon back into his belt, melting back against the wall. I can still feel their eyes on me as we walk through the castle. The feeling only ends when I hear the low click of a closing door.
Unlike the black exterior of the castle, most of the inside is white. White porcelain floors look magically polished underfoot with little signs of our ashy steps left behind us as we walk. Archways and other long hallways veer off from the main passage. Each as quiet as the last.
Do people live in this castle? It certainly doesn’t feel like it. My father lived for loud events and parties to celebrate him and his kingdom. This kingdom . . . is dying in silence.
Finally, the ivory flooring gives way to red carpet on our left, and Bear turns to follow it. Miranda follows behind us.
My feet slow because I know soon, I’ll come face-to-face with the man who discarded me. The one who stripped me of everything I owned and . . . if I’m being honest, he embarrassed me more than anyone ever could.
I wasn’t worthy of him or his kingdom.
My heart burns with fury and fear as I walk down these halls.
At the end of the corridor, the walls just stop. No door to open, no posted guards, and no grand entrance. The room does not need a grand entrance, for it alone is so unexpectedly marvelous it makes my own father’s throne room look like a dungeon.
Gold images of the burning sun are woven throughout the red carpet, matching the glimmering gold curtains that hang over the six windows along the wall. Fire light floats in the air above us, spelled there, instead of hung. That, in itself, is an impressive touch. It’s so beautiful my gaze gets lost in the fiery star light magic.
But when I peer past the light, it is the art upon the ceiling that leaves me speechless. It is as if the room has no ceiling at all. The same starry night I saw here as a child greets me overhead, but somehow magnified. Every burning star appears larger, more detailed, and a thousand times brighter.
A fidgety man next to the throne paces back and forth. Long robes of orange-and-yellow hang from his portly body, swishing with every jittery move he makes. His bald head shines under the light, reminding me of one of the stars above.
Oh no. Is that Iri? Was the portrait I saw of the young red-headed man truly that outdated?
“Oh, thank the Goddess.” The round man rushes forward, abandoning the throne behind him. “I was so worried. This is the girl?” He jabs one of his little sausage fingers in my face.
Oh no . . . small hands. Small hands are never good for a future husband . . .
“This is her,” Bear says with a sigh.
“May I?”
“Go for it, Bartley.”
Bartley.
My heart calms. He apparently isn’t the King.
The man, Bartley, steps closer to me, his eyes examining my clothing, my hair, and my perfectly straight posture. Tutting under his breath, he circles me, before stopping to grab my face. With glinting, beady eyes, he narrows his gaze.
My cheeks ache from his grip. Releasing a short breath, I grab his hand, twisting his arm behind him. “Do not touch me like that again.”
“Oh.” Bartley hums. “Feisty.”
Bear watches, a slow smile pulling at his lip, his fingers tracing the thin lines of crimson that run down the arms of the throne like running rivers of blood.
“Just get this over with,” I bellow. “Introduce me to this cruel cursed king of yours. Let me be ruined, then murdered, and let me finally meet Goddess Nature.”
Bear taps his foot. “I don’t know. I like this, watching you squirm. The anticipation . . . the dread . . . even the—dare I say? Excitement.”
“Shut your trap, Bear.” I release my grip on his shaking friend to wag my finger at him. The air around me feels dry and warm. Much different than the dust-filled chill that we traveled through. It leaves my throat arid and scratchy, my body hurting for water. Swirling magic deep within my veins cries out for it.
In response, he clicks his tongue, sighing, walking past the throne to the sparkling crown resting atop a plush black pillow. With both hands, he lifts it up, blowing dust from the beautiful encrusted old headpiece.
And then, he drops it onto his unkempt dark hair.
I let my hand fall to my side. “What are you doing?”
His stiff posture seems more . . . regal now, with the crown atop his head. Is it just me, or is he more attractive with that one little accessory?
“What does it look like I’m doing, Princess Syren?”
Slow, painfully slow realization slaps me in the face.
“You are the king?”
“I am your Cursed King. Mr. Not Handsome, Legendary Werewolf Keeper, Could Pick Me Up At A Seven Elven Market, King.” Casually, he drops himself onto the throne, one leg kicked up over the gleaming arm rest. Two guards top his little display off by walking up to stand on either side of his pretentious ass. He’s a picture-perfect image of a king right now. His eyes shine with humor while my whole body trembles with rage before him.
“Why did you tell me you were some lackey? Why be deceitful?” He made me . . . he made me almost like him.
I hate him. I hate him!
“I never said I was a lackey. You assumed.” With a bored drawl, he picks at his nails. “So I let you think what you wanted to think.”
“You dirtying, lying, cowardly bastard. You should have murdered—”
“That’s enough.” His voice bounces from wall to wall with a power that makes my heart stall within my chest.
Every muscle within me stills when he speaks again. “I’ve wanted to do this since you caught me in your latrine.” He stands, with his fine, glinting smile somehow reaching farther across his face than I’ve ever seen before. “You will bow.”
“I will do no such thing. I am an equal Princess, and I bow to no one.” I barely manage the words, as they seem stuck in my throat. I do not fear him. I do not fear his powers. I will not tremble beneath him.
“Bow.” He tries again slowly.
“Bear . . .” Miranda spoke. “I don’t think that’s a goo—”
Bear turns his gaze on his friend, piercing him with an angry scowl. “I’m not Bear when I am here.”
Miranda closes his jaw tightly, his hands clasped in front of him, though to my annoyance he holds Bear’s attention, returning it with his own.
Bartley, still holding his pudgy arm at his elbow, steps to my side. “You will bow for your king, Miss Stormson.”
“I’m sorry, Bartley, just who the fuck are you? He is not my king.”
Bartley sputters at my rage.
Bear, now King Iri, blinks. His shoulders stiffen. That bloody throne accents the room behind him like an altar. Slowly, he walks closer to me. Rubbing his palms together, sparks flare and flicker from his hands. He places a firm grip on my shoulders, the heat of his touch blazing hot along my skin, but I refuse to flinch. Forcefully, h
e pushes down on me until my knees begin to buckle and my shoulders protest from the weight.
Unable to bear it, my legs bend. Looking up at what I was beginning to think of as a familiar face after the last couple days, I no longer see who I’ve come to know as Bear. King Iri shows no empathy as he sears two burning hand prints into my shoulders.
And I bow before the Cursed King.
Ten
Destiny
Syren
Two fading but tender handprints still adorn my shoulders. My skin tries to renew itself with stinging pain but the wounds aren’t cuts or scrapes. The burn is from magic and that will take time to heal. Water drips over the wounds from the sapphire hair slicked down my nape. I can’t quit watching the droplets crawl down my skin. Something about the way it hugs my body, flowing over every dip and curve of my form, reminds me of the how rain would fall over the leaves on my long-lost island.
As I sit in the warm porcelain tub, the water is a comfort. My mind begins drifting away. If I think hard enough, I can almost feel the sun beaming down on my freckling cheeks. But then I blink, and I come back to reality where everything is bleak and ashy.
When I’m not wiping my hands to rid them of the dirt, I’m coughing to clear my lungs of what lingers in the air from the curse that plagues this land.
The Northern Kingdom. My new home.
I shove out of the calming bath and wrap a towel around me before I can think too long about the mess my life is turning into. The bath is set at the center of my room. My room isn’t a dungeon like I thought it might be. It’s pink and frilly and far too girly. Though the materials chosen are quite exquisite. The rug beneath my feet is cream-colored with fine pink stitching that must have taken months to create.
A wardrobe reveals ball gowns of predominantly yellows, reds, and oranges. It’s like a peace offering.
Are fucking clothes really his way of wooing me after everything he’s done?
Consider me un-wooed.
I take a seat at the gold-trimmed vanity table with the plush white towel wrapped around me, glaring at the pretty clothes like they’ve committed carnal sins against me.
A quiet tap of knuckles against my door breaks my concentration on my festering frustration. The double doors swing open, and a small woman with icy blonde hair, blue eyes, and gorgeously tanned skin scuttles in.
Her beauty could rival my own, though I won’t let her know it.
“I’m sorry to burst in.” She curtsies. “The King sent me to tend to your wounds.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” My eyes roll up to the ceiling with a sigh.
They say men are dogs. At this point, I’m not sure if they mean that to indicate their dirty minds or their ignorance.
With a shaky laugh, she pulls a small bottle from her apron and wipes her palms with oil. The white smock looks out of place over the pearly pink gown with budding roses cascading down the skirt.
“May I?” Holding out her slick palms, she watches me in the mirror.
“You may,” I whisper, and I’m suddenly aware that it might be the most formal thing I’ve said to anyone in over a month. I roll the towel with my fingers to keep my hands busy.
I flinch as she skims the red marks along my shoulders. Much to my surprise, her hands feel cool against my skin, and what is left of the burns tingles like static under her grasp. The rigidness of my muscles eases beneath her hands.
“What’s your name?” I finally ask, after watching her work, her attention so fixated on the healing work of her hands.
“Aisha.”
Aisha . . .
Twisting in my seat, I look at her, really look at her, as I say, “You were the king’s most recent endeavor.”
Muscles tighten in her jaw, but she forces a smile. “Were being the key word.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask, why are you still here? In the castle, I mean. Wouldn’t it be easier to not be around for this?”
“That it would.” She turns me back to face the mirror, placing her hands on my shoulders again, slightly tighter than before. “But I’m a skilled healer, good with herbs, so I’m useful. That, and my father’s position in the court prevents us from leaving.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t wish to marry King Iri.”
“It doesn’t.” Her round lips press into a flat line, making her beautiful face look pointed and sharp.
He really is a cruel king to keep this woman here while he marries another. My stomach twists round and round.
I wouldn’t have stayed. If I were Aisha, I would have swum away from this kingdom and banished my own damn self, rather than watch him run through wife after wife.
I doubt I’ll be the last princess he sets his glaring gaze upon.
“And you’re like new again.” She rubs the excess oil from her palms against the apron. Absently, her hands draw up and begin twirling a strand of my hair between them.
The mirror reveals my now unmarred skin, looking ghostly, even with my tan, in comparison to her natural tone. Will his hands always scar my skin?
A shiver runs through me, and I can’t believe how disgustingly intimate that sounds.
“Do you still love him?” I ask, holding her gaze in the mirror when it meets mine.
“I’m not sure I ever loved him. It’s not easy to love a cursed man. Especially when it’s not you who can break the curse.”
“Right. You have wind powers.” I reach back, stopping the twirl of her hand.
“You know an awful lot for someone banished on an island with no communication,” she whispers.
“I’m resourceful.”
Aisha laughs and curtsies awkwardly as if she’s not sure if I’m a princess or not. She turns to the doors, but pauses. “Can I give you some advice?”
“I would be sad if you didn’t.” I lie easily. I doubt I can trust Aisha farther than I can throw her. There is no fury like that of a woman scorned, and I’m afraid King Iri has done a number on this particular undeniable beauty.
“Appease the King in public. Obey, dress the part, and don’t speak unless spoken to, and he will allow you what you want behind closed doors. You want a lover, it’s yours. You want to never see him, yours. Ball gowns, jewelry, books? Whatever is your fancy. Keep him happy, and it’s yours.”
I swallow the dry lump that’s forming in my throat. Even if I want to, I’m not sure I can keep someone like King Iri happy in public. I’m not sure I have it in me to keep my mouth shut. Part of the reason my father wanted rid of me so badly. And most definitely the reason I was rejected to begin with.
But for a chance at my own happiness, maybe I could try?
“Noted.”
“Oh.” She smiles weakly. “His favorite color is brown.” With a delicate finger she points to the closet with protruding gowns. With a swish of her wide skirts, she disappears from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Brown. My lips curl at the thought of the bland color, but it does sound like something Bear would like. I mean, Iri.
Rain rattles against the window, streaking the glass like angry tears. I pay no mind to the pitiful feelings of uncertainty and stroll over to the wardrobe.
Silks, tulles, and satins meet my fingertips. Greedily, I dig through them, forgoing the lovely red and purple gowns I would normally like until I find the only brown dress available.
It is a dark caramel color, the black laces crisscrossing the bodice in a corset design. The laces tie across the front under the bust in a large black bow, like my breasts are some sort of present waiting to be unwrapped. Small black gems like the stones of the castle twinkle in the chaotic arrangement.
I drop the towel, slipping into the undergarments laid out for me, and then into the dress. It’s much heavier than I remember new dresses feeling. I look weaker in it. A tall mirror leaning against the wall shows my pronounced collar bones and my slightly sunken cheeks.
Another rap against the door announces the handmaids, who come right in, instantly
poking and prodding me. They lace up the dress, murmuring about my need for a warm meal before ushering me back to the vanity to braid my hair into an elaborate arrangement atop my head.
The sleeveless neckline of the dress leaves my shoulders bare and makes me wish my hair was down again. Something to hide behind, away from the snide comments. The women pinken my cheeks with a warm rose blush. Steady hands transform me into the princess I once was.
I don’t recognize her now.
“Off you go! Best not to leave your king waiting.” A portly woman with orange hair says in warning.
Right. My king.
My stomach turns, but I square my shoulders and stand. The maids scurry off at my dismissal, only the guards holding the doors open for me now.
His castle feels like a maze. No obvious directions with only random dark hallways and never-ending flickering yellow lights.
My heels click with each step, mirroring the nervous patter of my heart. I’m not sure how many steps I’ve taken through the castle’s labyrinth, but I can feel sweat forming along my hairline. Too many more, and I might not make it to dinner on time. Had I known it would take so long to get to the banquet room, I would not have pouted at my reflection in the mirror for so long.
The guards lead me around a turn, and the hall opens up into a long dining room. People mill about the space, taking Champagne flutes from the servant’s onyx-colored trays.
I pause in the doorway. The murmuring voices slow until there is nothing but silence. For some reason, I expect to see the court attire similar to what was worn when King Doverrett, King Iri’s father, ruled. I remember over-the-top costumes and theatrical dresses, with brilliant reds and vibrant yellows, large puffy sleeves, and long, perfectly fashioned tailcoats. At first, this dress felt like it wouldn’t meet the expectations of the court, but now it feels as though I may have overdressed.
Every person here wears varying shades mourning: grays, blacks, deep blues. Not a single sleeve is puffy nor are the tailcoats trailing the floor. The gowns are mostly form-fitted, and the men’s jackets are tailored to enhance their muscular builds.