Closing the cape around herself, she fell in step beside the Warrior Fae who she recognized as Lieutenant Elwen. A tall, slender female with golden hair hanging down her hair in two neat braids, Elwen had taken the lead in ensuring Snowbank remained secure.
“Any new developments?” she asked as they navigated the main road through the village.
The residents paused in their tasks to bow and curtsy to her, many calling out her name. She did her best to smile and greet each one with a wave or a nod of her head as she worked to keep pace with Elwen’s long strides.
“The market opened for the first time yesterday,” she replied, gesturing toward the wooden stalls now filled with wares for sale. “Some of the merchants will take time to return, and many of the tradable goods will have to be escorted back and forth between villages, but it’s a start.”
Inhaling the scent of freshly mulled cider coming from one of the stalls, Desdemona smiled. “It certainly is.”
“Hot cider for your majesty,” the owner of the stall called out, extending a steaming tin mug to her with a wide grin.
“Oh, no, I shouldn’t,” she insisted. “My clothes burned away and I don’t have any money.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” the woman replied, nudging the cup closer. “I never asked you for any money.”
Desdemona accepted the cup and nodded her thanks before taking a sip. Her eyes widened at the taste, the tang of clutzia fruit mulled with spices dancing on her tongue.
“It’s exceptional,” she murmured between sips. “Quite possibly the best I’ve ever tasted.”
The woman’s eyes lit up, and her smile widened. “Hear that?” she said, giving the owner of the stall beside her a smug look. “Her majesty says my cider is the best she’s ever tasted.”
Finishing the cup, Desdemona handed it back to the woman, who pitched it into a basin full of the other dirty ones.
“When things have become a bit more stable, I plan to host a grand event at Semran Hall,” Desdemona said. “I intend to purchase several barrels of your cider for my guests. I thank you for your kindness.”
“Oh, bless you, Your Majesty!” the woman called out, executing a swift curtsy as Desdemona continued through the market.
Others called out to her, wanting to give her samples or gifts of their wares, but she kept pace with Elwen once she realized another of the Fae Warriors had fallen in step behind them and begun accepting the gifts on her behalf.
“We patrol the woods surrounding Snowbank every night,” Elwen continued. “Aside from the stray Shifter, we have yet to encounter Eranna’s minions. For the moment, they seem to have retreated.”
“I would not expect it to last long,” Desdemona warned. “If my mother is not yet aware of what has happened here, she will be soon. There is also her lover, Kalodan Longspear, to contend with. We must be ready for an attack at any time.”
Elwen nodded in agreement. “Of course, Your Majesty. That is why we’ve taken care to send all those who are willing to learn to fight to Semran Hall for training.”
“They are progressing nicely,” she replied, thinking of the scores of Fox and Werewolf Shifters who had appeared at the gates of Semran Hall, waiting expectantly to train with the Warrior Fae for battle. “Every morning, my courtyard is full of trainees learning to become soldiers. Captain Hala works diligently to compose a strategy for castle defense.”
“We will continue to watch for movement of any kind from the east,” Elwen declared. “Our swiftest Undays’e are prepared at all times to fly to the castle and deliver news if need be. If they should decide to attack, we are ready.”
Desdemona gave the lieutenant a nod, mumbling something absently in response. She had lost her focus on the conversation, as a blur of reddish brown hair caught her attention at the end of the lane.
Malachi.
Craning her neck, she watched as he neared one of the market stalls. He spoke for a moment with a man Desdemona realized must be a toymaker, before crouching to pull a small pouch from a pocket in the side of his boot. Producing a handful of coins, he paid the toymaker, accepting a wrapped parcel in return. Nodding his thanks, Malachi moved on, tucking the toy beneath his arm.
From this distance, his expression appeared passive as he slowly walked between the long row of stalls. Somehow, she knew that his indolent pace was only a façade. He was working—guarding those buying, selling, and trading in the market. His senses missed nothing—eyes, ears, and nose attuned to every sight, sound, and scent.
She wondered what new toy she’d bought for Leven, and realized with a pang deep in her chest that she might never know. Any why would it matter? She would not be there when he opened it, nor would they play with it together. Like Malachi, the boy she had mothered as if he were her own was no longer a part of her life.
The thought brought tears to her eyes, and before she knew it, her cheeks were soaked with the evidence of her pain and grief.
Beside her, Elwen frowned, reaching out to grasp her shoulder. “Your Majesty?”
Shaking out of her reverie, Desdemona swiped at the tears pooling beneath her eyes. “Well done, Elwen,” she said, forcing her voice to remain even and commanding. “I’ll return for another report in a few days. Carry on.”
Brushing past the lieutenant, she continued on her path, searching for escape before Malachi could spot her. Spying an opening between two stalls, she rushed for it, keeping her steps quick and light.
Just before she could duck between the wooden structures, she raised her gaze and found him staring right at her. There was a hard set to his jaw, and a turbulence in his gaze as it collided with hers.
Ducking her head, she turned and fled, determined to put as much distance between them as possible. Footsteps crunched over the snow behind her, and she knew that he pursued. Tears continued to sting her eyes as she gripped the edges of her cape to keep them closed; she quickened her pace, trotting away from the strides that warned her he was closing in. Seeking a clearing so she could transform and fly away, she held her breath, praying with all her might that he would simply give up and leave her be.
No such luck.
“Desdemona, wait!”
She ignored him, continuing back toward the entrance to the village, determined to get away before he could see the tears shining in her eyes.
“Your Majesty, I beg of you ... a word,” he called out, his voice coming out strained and clipped.
She halted mid-stride, straightening her back and cleaning up her face as best she could before turning around. Inclining her head, she attempted to school her features into a mask of indifference.
Apparently, it was not working, because Malachi’s expression softened when he laid eyes on her. Was that pity she found in the depths of his penetrating stare? Yes, pity, but something else, also. He looked exactly the way she felt—haggard, exhausted, and sad. The dark circles beneath his eyes told her that he wasn’t sleeping, and the lines around his mouth indicated his tense state.
“Malachi,” she replied coolly. “How might I be of service?”
Closing the distance between them, he peered down at her from his towering height, seeming to search for something in her eyes.
Finally, he spoke, his voice coming out strained and rough. “I owe you an apology ... for the way I acted when we last spoke.”
Shock rippled through her, and she fought to keep her mouth from dropping open. “There is no need to apologize. You certainly didn’t walk into that room expecting what happened. You were hurting.”
He shook his head. “That is true, but I lashed out and did not take into consideration that it might have hurt you as much as it did me. The things I accused you of ... I did not mean them.”
She nodded, biting her lower lip to keep from begging him to forgive her and return to Semran Hall with her. “Thank you. I am sorry, as well.”
Leaning closer, he gazed at her intently. “Yes, I can see that you are.”
At her confused star
e, he gave her a small smile. It was strained by sadness, the mournful light in his eyes remaining.
“I have watched you fly past here, day after day,” he continued. “You have tirelessly spent all your spare time ensuring the people of Mollac are cared for. Like a mother bird looking over her hatchlings. You would do anything for them, wouldn’t you?”
She sighed. “It is my burden as their queen. They deserve nothing less.”
He studied her in silence for another moment, before nodding decisively. “I think I am ready now.”
A frown furrowed her brow. “Ready for what?”
Reaching up, he stroked his knuckles along the line of her jaw. “To let you go.”
Her eyes widened, the realization of what he meant dawning on her with startling clarity. “Malachi ...”
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’ve had a few days to think about it, and I understand why you must make this sacrifice. It hasn’t been easy on you, and I can tell you’re suffering.”
Nodding, she blinked back tears, but one escaped, rolling down her cheek. “I miss you ... every day I miss you.”
“I know,” he murmured, swiping away the tear with his thumb. “I miss you, too. But your attention must remain on the fight to come and the people of Mollac. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “That is what I want.”
Taking her hand, he gave her a gentle tug, urging her to walk. “Then follow me.”
Her feet moved, but her mind still had not come to terms with what was about to happen. “Where are we going?”
Pausing, he turned back to face her, his mouth a grim line. “To the cottage I’ve taken shelter in since coming to Snowbank. The family fled Mollac and it stands empty, so we won’t be bothered there while I work.”
“Work,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he confirmed, continuing on and forcing her to follow. “I am going to help you forget me, Des.”
Closing the door to the cabin, Malachi took a moment to compose himself. Behind him, Desdemona moved into the sitting area of the small home. She remained silent, seemingly content to allow him to take the lead. After days without sleep, of suffering guilt over the way he’d treated her during their last encounter, Malachi had come to a decision. He was going to grant Desdemona’s request to use his abilities to purge her mind of her feelings for him. The future of Mollac depended upon her ability to lead effectively, with a clear head and conscience.
When he’d come face-to-face with her in the market, it had become clear to him that she possessed neither at the moment. She looked exhausted, ravaged by guilt, sadness, and lack of sleep. Seeing him again seemed to have only worsened her condition.
A selfish part of him wanted her to remember, to mourn their separation and long for him. Yet, the other part of him—the part that loved her too much to watch her suffer—knew what must be done.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around and found her standing near the fireplace, hands outstretched toward the flames as if to feel their warmth. He suspected she did it for the sake of having something to do, not because she was cold. She was no longer capable of feeling the cold with fire running in her veins.
Placing his gift for Leven on a nearby table, he crossed the room to the small bag holding the meager belongings he’d brought from Goldun. Added to it were additional items he’d retrieved from his cabin the morning after taking Desdemona there. He tried not to think about their one night of happiness as he reached into the bag and retrieved a suede tunic.
“Here,” he grunted, holding the garment out to her. “So you don’t have to keep holding that cloak closed.”
She approached, maintaining distance between them as she reached out to accept the tunic. “Thank you.”
Watching him expectantly, she remained standing there, holding his tunic in one hand and keeping the sides of her cape together with the other. Finally realizing that she wanted him to turn his back, he obliged her, clearing his throat and facing the door again. It did not matter that he’d seen her nude several times—when her clothes would burn away before and after transformation, and during their night at his cabin. She was making it clear that he no longer had permission to.
He waited while the sounds of her taking off the cloak and putting on his tunic rustled behind him. A few moments later, a hand fell on his shoulder.
Turning to glance down at her, he tried not to outwardly react to the sight of her wearing his clothes. The heavy garment nearly swallowed her up, hanging almost to her knees. It shifted at the neckline, revealing one soft shoulder.
“Go lie down on the sofa,” he said, forcing himself to look at something else—anything other than her.
She obeyed, her hands clenching and opening in spasms at her sides. Anxiety radiated from her in waves, feeding his own trepidation.
Clenching his jaw, he followed her, kneeling beside the sofa as she stretched out on it and closed her eyes. It was something he had done several times when Eranna had put Desdemona in his care, counting on him to keep the Phoenix’s power under control. He had erected walls to separate Desdemona’s conscious mind from memories that would cause her to continue rebelling against Eranna. Over time, guilt—and the fact that Eranna had murdered his mate—had prompted him to tear those walls down and open Desdemona’s mind to the truth.
Now, he would erect new walls—the kind that would lock him away from her thoughts forever. His chest ached as he reached out to cradle her head gently in his hands. It was necessary, touching her this way, but the feel of her soft skin and the strands of hair tickling his fingertips were a torment.
“I’m certain you remember how easy this is,” he murmured. “Just lie still and relax. I’ll do all the work.”
She nodded, then opened her eyes to meet his gaze. Reaching up with one hand, she covered one of his where it rested on her face.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t trust himself to reply, so he simply used the tips of his fingers to gently lower her eyelids again. Then, he closed his eyes and sank into her mind.
As always, the feeling of being inside of her psyche overwhelmed him. The mingling of the power of the Phoenix with her turbulent thoughts and feelings felt like being amid a hurricane. Was this what it was like to be the Phoenix? If so, it was a wonder she hadn’t lost her mind by now. No wonder she had asked him to help her forget. Adding heartache on top of what she already endured was a cruel punishment.
“I cannot remove the memory of us having met at all,” he whispered as he prodded around her memories. “Because then you might lose your strength as the Phoenix. Our meeting had a part in helping you unlock your power. But ... I can remove any moment that ever caused you to feel tenderly toward me. That should do the trick.”
Desdemona did not respond, remaining still and silent as he did just what he’d said. Reaching for every moment in which she’d ever felt anything other than friendship toward him, he erected strong barriers around them, blotting them out of her mind entirely. He took his time, ensuring that they were trapped, fortified as strongly as the walls surrounding Semran Hall.
When he had finished, Desdemona went limp, one arm falling to dangle off the side of the sofa. The experience had always taken a lot out of her, and she typically slept for hours after he’d been poking around inside her mind. This foray into her memories had been more extensive than before, so he doubted she would wake before morning.
Taking a moment to compose himself, he stood and moved away from her, striding to the fireplace. Leaning one arm against the mantle, he gazed into the flames. He felt like hitting something—like screaming his rage and tearing apart anything in his path. Yet, another feeling blanketed his rage and sadness, leaving him feeling paralyzed. He could not act on his animal instinct to act out in anger because of the distinct emotion of grief. It weighed down on his shoulders so heavily he thought he never be able to move again.
Yet, somehow, he forced himself into action ...
to take up Desdemona’s cloak and wrap her in it before lifting her from the sofa. Striding back out of the cabin, he trudged up the lane toward the entrance of the village, where the Warrior Fae guards stood watch.
“What happened to her?” Lieutenant Elwin asked, her brow creased in concern.
“She’s simply tired,” he hedged. “The queen has been running herself ragged overseeing the villages and preparing for war. She’s exhausted.”
Reaching out to take Desdemona’s slight body from his hold, Elwen nodded. “She was acting odd earlier, and I wondered what was wrong. I’ll return her to Semran Hall and ensure she’s put to bed.”
Inclining his head in acknowledgement of her words, Malachi watched them go. After a while, he forced himself to turn away and return to his duty. Aside from his son, it was now the only thing he had left.
Chapter Fifteen
JOCYLENE GLANCED AT the people seated around the table in Adrah’s throne room, happy to see familiar faces, but ready to get down to business. She had awakened early to a summons from Adrah, delivered by a Fae servant. Rothatin and the others had returned to Goldun in the middle of the night, and a council meeting was being held over breakfast. She dressed quickly in her customary tunic, leggings, and boots, and styled her hair in a messy braid. No time to make herself pretty, when they’d likely be moving out to Inador and Mollac by afternoon.
Rushing to the throne room, she’d found more servants laying out breakfast, while everyone else filed in, coming in groups of twos and threes.
First came Selena and Titus, along with Gretchen, the second daughter of Damu, who Jocylene had yet to meet. Slightly plump, her black hair streaked with blue and purple highlights, she possessed features very similar to Selena’s. She supposed that beneath the dye, Gretchen’s hair was red like her sister, brother, and birth mother.
After being introduced to Gretchen, Jocylene took a seat. The four of them began helping themselves to the offerings on the table, not bothering to wait for anyone else. She’d found herself instantly liking Gretchen as the girl stared, open-mouthed at her surroundings, making sarcastic comments about everything that caught her interest. Jocylene had a feeling that she and Selena’s little sister were going to get along well.
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