by J. Levi
“I think I found a way into the royal wing, but it was guarded. I couldn’t charm my way through,” I explain.
“No surprise there.”
“I’ve been told I’m a peach.”
“Posie doesn’t count. That old bat calls everyone a peach,” Ricon retorts. The mention of Posie is always bittersweet. Her kindness rarely extended beyond that. “And if I recall, she also called you a street rat.”
I scoff, “Look who’s talking.”
“Find anything else?” Ricon asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. “I think I found a good place to wisp. We won’t have any witnesses in the stable house.”
Ricon narrows his gaze through thick lashes that barely contain the blue from his eyes. “Something’s up,” Ricon says.
The pristine image of forest green eyes and dark hair manifests as if summoned by Ricon’s inquisition. My heart rate picks up. I’m thankful Ricon can’t read thoughts.
I clear my throat softly before saying, “I saw the prince at the stables. He’s visiting his aunt, the duchess.”
“Will it be a problem?”
“No,” I shake my head. “It shouldn’t be. You know how royals are. They’re cocky and arrogant. They think they can’t be touched.”
Ricon studies my face as though he knows there is more. “What else?”
I swallow audibly before recounting everything I overheard from the antechamber closet. Ricon is silent for a long while after while he thinks everything over. Finally, he says, “I ran into Leluna during the winter solstice in Rhenstadt.”
“Oh? And how is our fabulous assassin? Still poking people with sharp things?”
A shiver skitters down my spine at the reverie of another old friend. I haven’t seen Leluna in nearly a year since our adventures in Coldwater Bay.
Ricon chuckles. “We reminisced over ale and mead at Beggar’s Alehouse.” Ricon’s favorite pub. “You know how she gets after a few pints.”
I nod carefully, afraid my face will reveal how well I know his words to be true. After a very long night and a lot of ale, I somehow ended up tangled in sheets with Leluna. It wasn’t until the morn after, when I awoke to the uncomfortable dried evidence of what transpired the night before, that I knew without a doubt that I preferred the company of men. When I said as much to Leluna, she laughed raucously to the point of falling out of bed. We don’t speak of it since but remain as close as ever.
“Leluna let loose a few details involving the Assassin’s Guild and the Duchess of Laenberg.”
I raise a brow in question, curious at the tidbit of information.
“The guild has been bought and paid for lord Montares and the duchess’s rebellion.”
I scoff, “I wonder what the prolific and privileged need of a rebellion.” Ricon eyes me accusingly and makes an obnoxious effort to look around at my home’s prestigious qualities.
“It’s not the same. I work for what I have. The lords and ladies of Edonia have everything handed to them. Their babes get a silver spoon in their mouth before their mother’s teat.”
“Bias aside, shit’s getting tense. The crown is marching into the northern demesne, enforcing the purge. It’s already here in Richtenfel. It was only a matter of time before the capital diverted their efforts south of Fenewald.”
“The time is nigh, apparently,” I say gravely. A long pause settles in the room. The sounds of trotting horses outside the open balcony. A warm breeze flows through the sheer curtains. The heat settles in my chest and limbs like a heavy blanket, reminding me of how exhausting magic can be.
“Are you scared?” Ricon asks, startling me from dozing off.
“Hmm?” I hum. “As if. It’ll take more than clowns from the capital to scare me.”
“This isn’t a joke, Nova. Things are getting dangerous, especially for you.” I can feel the worry soaked in his words. I hit him in the shoulder once, and then twice for good measure to snap the sappy tension from the room.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good.”
“Anything else…Dad?”
“Yeah. Return the shit you stole today.”
4
Merida
“Two parts scullcap, dash of ground amethyst, one part lacewing flies, vial of lythenian venom.…”
– longevity recipe from the Archenon Grimoire of Greisllys A’vicar 124 B.M.
My ears twitch at the clang of iron chains. My prison, a small cell barely large enough for me to lie on my side with knees tucked into my chest. I sing a raspy hymn, my throat arid from thirst. I’d cry if my tears didn’t dry up…I’m not sure how long ago. It’s impossible to know the passing of time when the only sliver of light is the faint flicker of torch fire from beyond the thin slat on the door.
I pant heavily until I laugh, my throat dry and rough like a coarse stone. The laughter morphs into dry sobs. Solitude does something to the mind. It wasn’t so bad at first until boredom set in. The restlessness feels like an itch that can’t be satiated. I phase between sleep and consciousness and lose track of time. Minutes could be hours and hours could be days. The mind is a fickle thing.
My warden is a wretched, foul creature of royalty, King Veryn of Orgard. Veryn loves his cruel and unusual punishments. “The Hole,” as he likes to call it, is merely one of many ways he likes to break me.
I run my grimy fingers through my hair, catching matted knots as I reach the ends. I scowl at the loose white strands that tangle in my fingers. I run my grimy fingers through my hair, white and wild like spider silk, catching matted knots at the ends. I scowl at the loose strands tangled in my fingers, clashing harshly against my dark skin, before rubbing the base of the short, onyx horns that protrude above my brow—a doe vylorian trait.
I lean toward the drip drip sound at my feet, light splashes tickling my toes with every drop from the cell ceiling. I greedily slurp at the condensation, chasing the rush of quenching my thirst. I can see the wet sheen of my reflection on the cave floor. In it, my deep blue eyes seem nearly purple in the wanning reflecting. My mother used to say they were blue like the Azure sea, but I’ve never seen the sea before.
The heavy footfalls of armed boots shake the cell floor. A moment later, the iron door slams open and gloved hands reach to pull me out. I think to fight, but the sweet relief my body sings from finally stretching out beyond the curled shape I took in the cell is too much to ignore.
A guard fastens iron shackles around my wrists and ankles before dragging me faster than my weak limbs can carry me. I fall to the ground in the dark cavern, but the guards don’t falter. They drag me against the rough floor, scraping my bare legs.
The guards escort me out of the cavern through a series of corridors and large iron doors with the ancient language scribed into the metal. We climb a staircase that ascends from the depths of rock and into the bright halls of black marble and décor. We reach a washroom I’ve only visited a handful of times. Bathing is a luxury that Veryn only allows for good behavior—something I rarely show. The guards shove me against the wall while removing my bindings.
“Hurry the feck up. You smell like piss, y’mutt,” one of the guards sneers.
Without the decency of privacy, I cover myself as well as I can while removing the thin rags I use for clothing. I step into a wooden casket. The water is tepid, offering no relief for my aching bones. I work quickly to scrubs the grime and soot from my skin. A fae slave steps into the washroom, squirming her way through the guards that block the exit. She carries a tray full of odds and ends. The girl retrieves a brush and works on my tangled hair with ease. I think to thank her for the gentle touch, but the words fail me.
When my tangles are tamed, the slave moves on to scraping my nails, plucking my brows, and helping me into a new set of rags, slightly less tarnished. I notice the slave’s clothing is in better condition than my own. When the slave girl’s work is finished, she recedes from the washroom.
“The king requ
ests your presence,” a guard announces.
“Obviously, or you morons wouldn’t be here,” I say succinctly.
The soldier’s jaw twitches. I almost smile, but I know it’ll only escalate. The guards return the iron shackles to my limbs and continue to drag me through the black onyx palace. My stomach drops when I realize where they’re taking me.
The cavernous throne room is overbearing, its ceiling ornamented with natural stalactites that glow a soft ember tone—a grand chandelier with orbs of arcana cast enough light to illuminate the vast space. Pews line the elongated throne room, stages for an audience when Veryn invites his court to the palace.
I stop just before the dais, where king Veryn sits on his throne of obsidian glass. High above his throne, the golden etchings of twin serpents woven in a knot, consuming eachothers tail. It’s Veryn’s royal insignia.
A soldier kicks a steel-toed boot to the back of my leg, forcing me to my knees. I wince at the pain but bite my tongue to keep from growling. Another soldier grabs me by the hair and shoves my face into the polished granite floors.
Veryn grins approvingly. His skin color is a putrid, dark shade with black, deep inset eyes. His hair is long and white like mine, but the thick horns spiraling from his skull are that of a vylorian bull—much more distinguished. An onyx crown sits perfectly above his brow, darker than his black eyes. His ears are long and pointed, just like mine. I despise how much we look alike.
Veryn sniffs the air and grimaces. “Even after bathing, you wreak of filth.” His cold and conniving voice skitters down my spine. If words could be poisonous, his would be the deadliest.
The king sneers at the guard with a firm grip on my hair, jerking a fistful of white strands from my scalp, and I gasp at the pain.
“Do you appreciate nothing I do for you? Such insolence,” Veryn taunts.
I fight the tears welling in my eyes. I won’t give Veryn the satisfaction of watching me cry.
“Thank you,” I sigh.
Another violent jerk from my scalp, and the soldier jabs a fist into my ribs. The sound I make is guttural, animal.
I collect myself again, arching my back and holding my chin high. I say, “Thank you—your majesty.”
Veryn knows I don’t mean it with respect, but the submissive show gives him a sick sense of satisfaction.
“Good,” Veryn says, “I was worried that you’d lost your manners.”
The king stands from his throne. The soldiers in the room adjusting their postures into their royal salutes. Veryn approaches until he stands an arm’s length out. He scans me up and down with his black, glossy, soulless eyes.
“I expect you to behave from now on,” Veryn warns.
“It won’t happen again,” I mutter, “your majesty.”
“Please—don’t sulk so hard, my child. You’ll crease that face with wrinkles before your first century is through.” His conniving and taunting tone returns. “I’ll need you to be presentable before the ceremony.” The look on my face must reveal my confusion because then he says, “Ah, that’s right. It must have slipped my mind. I haven’t even told you the good news yet.”
Silence falls between us yet again. Veryn loves his overly dramatic and foreboding silences.
Finally, too anxious to sit in suspense, I ask, “What good news?
“I’m glad you asked. There are duties that every princess is born to uphold, and I expect you to uphold yours, no matter how wild your temperament,” he sings.
I don’t reply. I’m paralyzed, unable to properly comprehend the meaning in Veryn’s words.
“Change is coming to Orgard. Soon I’ll take back the lands the filthy humans stole in their conquest in the north,” he coos. “The fools on the human throne have outlawed magic and have sent fae-folk alike running to the hills. Our hills, to be exact. Every day we get more of them smuggling through the mountain ridge. More of them to fill my armies. We grow stronger while they crumble from within.”
A wicked grin curling his lips upward. His fangs are so white that I can see the reflection of the nearby hearth.
“Wh—what does that have to do with me?” I ask.
“I’m getting there, impatient child,” his brows pinch, annoyed.
He snaps his fingers, and the swarm of servants returns to remove the platters filled with food and dinnerware from the table.
“I am seeking alliances with the arcenian trolls within the Crimson Jungle. Their numbers are great, and each troll is stronger than ten humans.”
My heart beats faster. My hands clench into fists—nails digging sharply into my palms. I brace them against my thighs to hide them from view.
“You will marry the arcenian heir. A union to solidify my army so I can march upon the mortal realm and reclaim the land they stole from my grandfather.”
Despair clogs my throat. The tears that threatened to fall earlier cascade down my cheeks. I summon as much strength I can muster to fight back the tears, but I’m too weak.
I loathe the satisfaction he preens himself with the sight of me crying.
“You—you can’t mean that I—” I try to say, but he interrupts.
“Of course, I do. You are a princess, I am your king, and I command you. And if you don’t obey, I will gut your mother like the fae-mutt bitch that she is.”
His lips curl into his sniveling grin.
“Of course, after I fuck her and allow my entire army a turn with her afterward, that is.”
White fuzz blurs the peripheral of my vision. The threat is deep-seated—a stain on my heart.
Not a threat, but a promise. A promise I have no doubt Veryn will keep.
Disgust wells inside my gut, threatening to spill its contents onto the tabletop. I bite back nausea. I just need to suffer through this until I get back to my chamber, I tell myself.
“You are excused,” Veryn says with a careless wave of his hand.
I don’t dare look at him, much less speak to him as the guards escort me back to my chamber.
“Oh, and Merida,” the king calls for me. I peer over my shoulder to match his gaze.
“Please do try to act like a princess.”
Before I can muster a snark reply, the black iron doors shut behind me as I’m escorted back to my main cage in one of the castle towers. We climb the tower stairs. The guard unlocks a series of bolts on the door and shoves me inside, locking the door behind me.
The room is silent and wreaks a musky scent of ash. My mother stands near the tower window. She’s tall, slender with long, fire-red hair and eyes like sapphires. Her skin is pale from years without sunlight with lips dry and cracked like mine. She’s lived for centuries but still holds the trace curves of youth. When fae offspring are born, they age naturally like humans until settling, a maturation process their body endures that immediately slows their aging process. I’m only seventeen, which means I’ll undergo my settling in a few more years. My mother has never given me a direct answer when asked how old she is.
I rush to my mother, her arms held open for our embrace. The moment her arms wrap me into a tight hug, I begin to weep into her bosom. She softly shushes me while stroking my hair and twisting her body slightly to force me into a rocking motion. I think to tell her about Veryn’s plans with the arcenians, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been standing here. Still, before long, the pounding groan of metal clamored from the bottom of the prison door. Two trays of slosh slide across the stone floor, staggering against a woven rug.
Dinner time.
“How long was I there?” I ask.
“Nine days.”
“Nine? That has to be a record.” I’m not sure if I want to wince or scowl.
“You did kill one of the king’s guards.” Her words sound quipped, but her tone reveals her pride. “With a spoon.”
“A dull spoon,” I add.
Mother tucks loose curls from my face behind my ear
s. Even after years of abuse, she is still beautiful. I envy everything about her.
There is a reason we look so different. Mother is lythenian, the beast fae. And I’m vylorian, a hideous creature of darkness.
“Where are you, my little pup?” My mother coos.
“Sorry,” I wince. “I’m just tired.”
I slink into a wobbly stool. After a while, I ask, “Why do I look like Veryn?”
Tears threatening to swallow my vision. I hate that I look like him and not like my mother. She gracefully crosses the room, cups my face, and gently tilts my head back until I meet her gaze.
“You are more beautiful than you will ever know. Not just with your face, but with your heart.” She says assuredly.
“I—hate him—so—much.” I sob. My mother hushes me once more.
“Do you still remember everything I’ve taught you? About your heritage?” She asks.
I nod because I do. I remember it all. The lythenians of Riverpeak. The beast fae that shift into magnificent creatures.
“You have the beast within you, don’t forget that. You are as much of mine as you are his,” my mother soothes.
“I’m more of yours. I will always be,” I proclaim.
“Then we will bide our time. The air of Orgard is turning foul. Something is coming.”
“A storm?”
“Of sorts. Change is beyond the horizon. I can feel it, Merida. Don’t give up hope.” Mother pauses, glancing out the window again, “—when we’re ready, we will leave this place…and go home.”
“How?” I ask.
“We shift.”
“I have no control over my wolf,” I whine. It’s wild and blood-raged. I’ve lost control and shifted in our tower. I blackout every time, but when I’m cognizant again, my mother is covered in wounds.
“The wolf cannot be controlled,” my mother says. “It must be respected. The wolf is primal, faithful, honest, powerful, and merciful. Never whole without the other.”
I sulk, allowing her words to wash over me but hold no belief in them.
“Perhaps another demonstration.”