The Mad Queen (The Fae War Chronicles Book 5)

by Jocelyn Fox

  Merrick didn’t meet her eyes as he shook his head.

  She quickly curtailed the chuckle that translated into shards of discomfort shifting through her torso.

  “I fail to see how it’s humorous that you nearly died and we didn’t even accomplish the objective of our mission,” said Merrick tightly.

  “No use…crying,” she rasped. She raised her chin slightly and eyed the dripping cloth. The cool water felt heavenly on her lips. She knew that she couldn’t drink water yet, but just sucking at the corner of the cloth felt like intentional torture, barely blunting the edges of her thirst. When she’d slowly drained the cup of water, Merrick sat it back on the bedside table. She restrained her groan of frustration.

  “How long?” she said, her voice gravelly but with a bit of sound now.

  “A day and most of the night,” replied Merrick.

  “What happened?” Her eyelids began to feel heavier, but she forced them open. She could stay awake for a few more minutes.

  “You got hit in the dungeon. We were trying to get through the bars of the cell. They were more difficult than we’d thought, and once you were wounded…” Merrick paused and pressed his lips together. “You disabled the Unseelie Vaelanmavar and that let us escape.”

  Calliea remembered smashing the glass orb into the face of the handsome Vaelanmavar. She also remembered that Tess had known him during her time at Darkhill. She winced. In the dungeon, she’d felt a fierce satisfaction at his howl of pain and the visceral feel of the glass shards grinding into his flesh. Now she felt a dull nausea. He was just following orders, the same as every other unfortunate soul caught in Mab’s web.

  “Tess met us at the pavilion. She sent Moira running back to fetch a healer and notify Maeve. Liam was there, too.” Merrick paused again. “I thought I’d lost you.” He looked down at her, his haggard face still handsome in the dim light. “Do you remember anything?”

  “I remember…gray cliffs,” she said slowly. “And a shining white portal.”

  “But Tess didn’t Walk to you?”

  Calliea realized dully that if the Bearer had Walked to the border of life and death to retrieve her, it would be considered necromancy by some. “No. I didn’t see her. Just the portal. White fire.”

  Relief softened the tense lines of Merrick’s face. “She used a lot of her own taebramh to give you a chance.”

  “Is she…alright?” A spike of alarm pierced the cocoon of numbness enfolding her body.

  Merrick reached out and smoothed a stray tendril of hair away from her face. “The Bearer is fine. Had to be carried back to her quarters, but that’s not entirely unusual.”

  Calliea felt her mouth tilt again, but this time the bud of a smile tipped and she found her eyes hazy with tears. The idea of Tess nearly sacrificing herself to give Calliea a chance made her chest hurt with a strange mixture of gratitude and panic. What had she done to deserve such loyalty from the Bearer?

  “She’s fine, she’s fine, just sleeping,” said Merrick soothingly.

  Calliea told herself that her emotional reaction was a combination of her exhausted, healing body and the medicines that were keeping the pain at bay. Nonetheless a tear slid down her cheek before she got herself under control. She took as deep a breath as she was able, feeling the compression of snug layers of bandages around her ribs and the warmth of a poultice against her side.

  “Sorry,” she croaked.

  Merrick somehow understood that she wasn’t apologizing just for her tears; she was apologizing for being the reason that they’d had to abandon the raid, for nearly dying, for frightening and worrying him in the hours after the battle.

  “It isn’t your fault,” he murmured, his hand finding hers on the bed. He squeezed her hand gently.

  “Should have worn armor,” she muttered, feeling as stupid as a stripling learning her first sword strokes. Her distinctive, brightly colored blue breastplate would have been too flashy, but she could have borrowed armor, or bespelled her own…

  “Enough,” said Merrick with gentle firmness.

  She was saved from further argument by one of the healers making her rounds. Calliea vaguely recognized her as one of the Seelie healers who still worked shifts in the healing ward. Most of the apprentices and those who had studied healing in addition to their actual craft had been released from their duties. The healer pressed her rosebud lips together as she gave Merrick a reproachful look, but she stopped short of reprimanding him for not alerting her when Calliea regained consciousness.

  “Good to see you awake, Laedrek,” said the healer with a respectful nod, using Calliea’s formal title within the Vyldgard. She made a note on the record affixed to the foot of Calliea’s bed.

  “Good to not be dead,” replied Calliea wryly.

  The healer raised her golden brows. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to joke, but it was a close call.”

  Calliea swallowed thickly and closed her eyes briefly, the sensory memory of the mace thudding into her side overwhelming her. The feel of Merrick’s hand gripping her own anchored her once again, just as it had in those terrifying moments after she’d returned to her body from the Gray Cliffs. She opened her eyes again and fixed the young healer with a flat stare. “I know.”

  She almost felt bad for the Seelie woman as Merrick contributed his own silent rebuke, his face hardening. Calliea squeezed his hand and he turned his attention back to her.

  “My name is Cora,” said the healer in a conciliatory tone. She moved to the opposite side of Calliea’s bed. “I need to check a few things.”

  Calliea nodded. She let her eyes close again as the healer efficiently but gently pulled down the blankets. The feel of Cora’s firm, warm hands, confident and careful, soothed her. She found herself beginning to like the young Seelie healer. When Cora pulled up the blankets again, moving back to make more notes on the parchment at the foot of the bed, Calliea opened her eyes.

  “How is the pain?” Cora asked.

  “Discomfort, but not actually pain.” Calliea snuck a look at her wrists, thinking that perhaps she hadn’t noticed a strip of linen binding an ampoule of white shroud to her skin, but her skin was bare. She frowned.

  “Maeve decided against white shroud,” said Cora.

  The healer was observant, Calliea had to give her that.

  “She’s using a few different methods to control the pain, but much of the damage to your side was actually repaired by the Bearer before you were brought to us,” explained Cora.

  Calliea blinked in surprise. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about the long convalescence yet. She’d visited Niamh enough times in the healing ward to dread it already. But at Cora’s words, she gathered enough energy to move her free hand to her side. Cora looked like she was about to say something but Merrick shook his head and she refrained.

  Calliea lightly ran her fingers over the bandages. The wound from the mace should have been devastating – had been devastating. By all rights, she should be dead, she reminded herself. But she felt only the solidity of her ribs, sore and tender but not shattered as they had been; and she drew in a deep breath, expecting to feel the sharp pain of broken bones, but she felt only the dull ache of healing ones. “Tess did all this?” she whispered, feeling distinctly unworthy again.

  “And Maeve,” said Cora.

  “Liam and Finnead worked on you a bit too,” confessed Merrick in a low voice.

  Calliea groaned and shut her eyes. Her gratitude felt more like shame at the fact that they’d all had to save her. She should have been quicker to react to that fighter stepping out of the shadows. She should have worn armor. She should have brought her whip. The litany of her shortcomings filled her head like droning bees.

  “If you’d died, we would have had to explain it,” pointed out Merrick. “Explain…everything.”

  Her eyes snapped open. She realized the tightrope they were walking. Did Cora even know the details of how she’d been wounded? Her look must have betrayed her, bec
ause Cora pressed her delicate mouth into a thin line again.

  “I am just a healer, Laedrek. I do not ask questions, nor do I expect explanations,” the younger woman said.

  Calliea let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Then she snuck a glance at Merrick. “Could you see to the Arrisyn’s shoulder, while I’m awake to badger him to take care of himself?”

  “Of course,” said Cora promptly, her hands already opening the flap of her supply satchel as she eyed Merrick’s shoulder. “He’s been too stubborn to let us take care of him.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Calliea replied. Merrick sighed, his expression long-suffering.

  “You can drink some water, if you like,” said Cora to Calliea as she laid out her roll of instruments on the bedside table. The healer twisted the taebramh lamp to provide more light.

  Merrick poured Calliea water and handed it to her before stripping off his blood-encrusted vest and shirt. Calliea raised the cup to her lips to hide her smile as two spots of color appeared high on Cora’s tawny cheeks. Merrick wasn’t the most muscular of Knights, but he was certainly pleasing to the eye, his torso and back rendered even more chiseled by the shadows. Despite her reaction, Cora examined the cut on Merrick’s shoulder with skilled detachment. Calliea liked the Seelie healer even more.

  Merrick endured Cora’s ministrations stoically, though Calliea was sure that the wound pained him. Sometimes minor wounds hurt more than serious wounds, a lesson they’d all learned in one way or another during the past years of war. She reached over and curled her fingers around his clenched fist. He smiled tightly and loosened his hand to hold hers. Cora finished stitching the wound and applied a simple poultice.

  “Don’t let him put that shirt back on,” said Calliea.

  “I’m sitting right here,” muttered Merrick. Cora held out her hand for the ruined garment expectantly. “What am I supposed to do, sit here without a shirt?”

  Both women smiled.

  “Fine with me,” said Calliea.

  Cora concealed an unprofessional giggle, clearing her throat. She swallowed but her voice still quivered with suppressed mirth as she said, “I’ll fetch you one of the spares we keep here in the ward.”

  Merrick sighed. Calliea chuckled as Cora walked quickly away, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  “Take it as a compliment,” she suggested, giving his hand a squeeze.

  He brought her hand to his lips again, but this time his kiss lingered and a spark in his gray eyes made her shiver. “Oh, I do.” He smiled and stood, rolling his shoulders, ostensibly to stretch his tired body but also giving Calliea an excellent view of his supple frame. The smile that spread across her lips felt genuine for the first time since she’d awoken.

  “You make me very glad to not be dead,” she murmured.

  He sobered as he sat down again, drawing his chair closer to the bed now that Cora had finished her work. “Please don’t scare me like that again. It was not…pleasant.”

  She drained the last of the water from her cup. “I think that’s an understatement.” She felt a vague surprise at how much her body had improved in the short time since she’d been awake. And then her stomach rumbled. They both glanced at her midsection in astonishment. “Well. I guess I’m hungry.”

  Merrick brushed a kiss onto her forehead. “I’ll go find you some broth.”

  “You’ll make all the young healers blush, wandering around shirtless,” she warned teasingly, watching him go with frank feminine admiration.

  As the quiet settled around her and she lay back on her pillow, she stared up into the grayness of the tent canopy far overhead. Their daring bid to rescue the Unseelie Princess had failed. She pushed aside a stab of guilt and set her mind to the question of what came next.

  Chapter 21

  “I’ll sit with him for a while.”

  Vivian blinked and looked up at Jess standing in the doorway of the study. Her jaw cracked as she yawned. “I’m fine.”

  Jess smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Vivian wondered what he’d seen, what experience had created those shadows in his gaze. “Never turn down a watch relief, kiddo.”

  For some reason, the nickname didn’t bother her, coming from him. If Duke was an annoying older brother, Jess was the steady, solid uncle. She looked at Ramel, pale and still beneath the blankets. The fit of tremors had passed but he’d slid into unconsciousness again with no sign of improvement over the past hours.

  “Molly will understand,” said Jess. “You should get some rest.”

  She did have to go to the shop tomorrow. She suppressed a groan at the thought of going over the accounts with Evie. She loved the shop manager and looked forward to spending time with her, but numbers were boring, even if they did represent the healthy margin of profit turned by Adele’s. Vivian couldn’t bring herself to feign interest despite the fact that those meticulous spreadsheets represented her livelihood. Evie had accused her once, in a tough-love moment, of acting like a spoiled brat who expected her inheritance to tick along like clockwork.

  Vivian brought her thoughts back to the present. “I don’t feel right going to sleep while they’re still gone.”

  “They’ll get back when they get back. You losing sleep isn’t gonna affect it at all,” replied Jess sensibly.

  She couldn’t argue with that logic. Farin had emerged for a few hours from her nest in the desk drawer, keeping Vivian company for a while, but then the Glasidhe warrior had politely taken her leave and disappeared. Vivian had been chewing over everything that Farin had said about Paladins and sword fighting, keeping herself awake by practicing the summoning of her taebramh until it became almost second nature.

  “All right,” she sighed, wincing as she unfolded her stiff body. More than one of her joints crackled and popped as she stretched. “Thanks.”

  Jess didn’t reply, settling into a seated position by Ramel’s bed. For some reason she couldn’t quite articulate, Vivian felt a prickle of concern for the older man. She lingered by the door and finally mustered the courage to speak. “Hey, Jess?”

  He looked up at her.

  “Are you all right?” The words sounded lame, but she didn’t know how else to phrase it.

  A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “All things considered, yeah.” He paused. She waited. “Just trying to figure out what makes sense.”

  “What makes sense since you’re supposed to be dead?” Vivian ventured quietly. She’d also been thinking about that predicament in the silent hours since Ramel had sunk again into unconsciousness.

  He nodded. “You could say that.”

  “Do you have a family?” She took two steps back into the room and hesitated. Sitting down felt too much like she expected him to spill his guts to her.

  He nodded again, the movement stiffer. “Two daughters…and an ex-wife.”

  Vivian wanted to ask him if he was going to contact his daughters. She could tell by the hard set of his mouth that it was a difficult decision, one he probably hadn’t made yet. The tone of his voice when he added ex-wife left little doubt that he thought she wouldn’t care that he was still alive. She swallowed. Her voice came out tentative. “For what it’s worth…if my dad were alive…that would be the best thing ever.”

  She caught and hated the flash of pity in his eyes. She shouldn’t have said anything. Regret curdled her stomach as she added quickly, “I mean, I don’t remember them. My parents. I was too young. My grandparents raised me and they were great.” She shrugged jerkily. “Just saying that I think it’s a gift. Maybe something to bring you closer together.”

  Before he could say anything, she fled the room, careful to shut the door softly behind her. Mayhem raised her head from the living room floor.

  “Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she obligingly rubbed Mayhem’s silky triangular ears. The dog shadowed her as she walked into the kitchen and fixed a snack of toast and peanut butter. She dug a treat out of the sealed pack that Ross always kept
in the cabinet. “Sit.”

  Mayhem immediately obeyed, her shining dark eyes fixed longingly on the treat in Vivian’s hand.

  “Good girl.”

  The Malinois showed her sharp white canines as she delicately accepted the treat, careful not to graze Vivian’s fingers with her teeth. Vivian freshened the aluminum dish of water and Mayhem noisily lapped at it. She watched the dog for a moment and then rubbed her arms, the silence of the house wrapping around her. Night out in the bayou brought its own particular brand of quiet, thick and laced with the sounds of night creatures. She heard the little frogs on the riverbank chirruping, crickets playing their thready song in the long grasses beyond the little square of cut lawn, the hum of creatures that shunned the light of day embroidering the humid darkness.

  Mayhem nosed her hand, breaking her out of her reverie. Vivian blinked and realized how tired she really was. She set her little plate and silverware into the sink, vowing silently to wash them first thing in the morning. As she padded through the kitchen into the hallway that led to her bedroom, she glanced over her shoulder at the front door, shadows draping like curtains over the walls of the living room. Merrick’s runes had lost most of their gleam. She wondered if they’d still keep out a creature like the one that had tried to claw its way through Ross’s bedroom window.

  “Want to come sleep with me?” she asked Mayhem.

  The dog’s ears perked as she tilted her head quizzically, the innocently amusing expression counterpoint to what Vivian knew she was trained to do.

  “If you don’t bother Tyr,” she amended, raising a finger in warning.

  Mayhem leaned against her leg and wagged her tail in response.

  Vivian opened her bedroom door quietly, struck by the irony of moving with such care in her own room. To her surprise, a little ball of white light hovered at eye level. Tyr sat with his back leaning against the side of her bed, his uninjured leg bent at the knee and an open book propped against his thigh. He looked up as she stared at him. He’d finger-combed his silver hair to one side, though a few tufts still sprang up puckishly at the crown of his head. She couldn’t tell if the shadows under his eyes were from the angle of the light or from the strain on his healing body.