The Mad Queen (The Fae War Chronicles Book 5)

by Jocelyn Fox

  “Whatever you’re thinking, Calliea, please don’t,” said Merrick huskily. “I told you the truth because I want you to understand that you can trust me.”

  Her mind conjured the image of Merrick standing close to Guinna, his slender but muscled form looking large next to her tiny frame. “If you still regard her with…a certain amount of longing…then now you would be in a position to act upon it.”

  “Why would I want to act upon it?” Merrick spread his hands on the table.

  “She’s a maiden in distress,” said Calliea, hating the edge in her own voice. “No better way to win her affections than riding in to rescue her.”

  “Well, you were the one who rode in to rescue her,” said Merrick in an attempt at humor, even managing half a grin.

  “And now I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t,” said Calliea. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, but once she said them, she couldn’t take them back. Her insides writhed with conflicting emotions: guilt that she’d said such a terrible thing, confusion at her cutting words to the man she loved, jealousy at his admission over Guinna, shame at her own inability to rise above such pettiness, and a leaden certainty that Merrick wouldn’t want her anymore, not with her marred body and now her sharp tongue.

  “You don’t mean that,” Merrick said quietly. He sat for a moment, thinking, and then continued, “I’m going to go report to Vell. She will probably have orders for me to scry again. May I bring you anything when I return?”

  “No,” said Calliea miserably. Her chest ached. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t understand why she’d said such a terrible thing, and she didn’t understand why she suddenly doubted his loyalty to her, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She stared into the fire as he rose, looked at her silently for a moment, and then left. Only when she was truly sure he was gone did she bury her face in her hands, wondering why she was so intent on destroying one of the few good things in her life.

  Chapter 29

  “Evie, look, I’m sorry, I understand why you’re concerned, but I just need to take a break.” Vivian squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to let the guilty clench of her stomach overwhelm her.

  “You can say you understand my concern all you want, but that doesn’t mean I understand why you’re suddenly taking a step back from the shop that I know you love,” said Evie, her voice punching through the phone as though she were standing right in front of Vivian. She knew exactly what expression Evie would be wearing: equal parts exasperation and disapproval, with a bit of affection mixed in, her hands on her ample hips. Evie would probably call Mike to tell him the news, and she’d get some texts from him in a few hours.

  “I just have to…find myself,” Vivian said lamely, wincing. “Do some traveling. Explore.”

  “Do some traveling.” Evie snorted. “Never thought you’d run away from your grandma and grandpa’s legacy.”

  “I’m not running away,” Vivian protested. “I told you, I’ll still call to check in, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. There might not be cell phone service where I’m going. I’ll send letters.”

  “What, you planning on going to the middle of the rainforest or something?” demanded Evie.

  “Something like that,” she replied weakly.

  Evie growled something unintelligible into the phone. Vivian thought she heard the words “irresponsible child” and her stomach knotted even tighter. Even the suggestion of disapproval from Evie struck at the most tender parts of her emotions, and this was nearly enough to prompt her to recant the whole conversation and pour out the truth…which would probably prompt the no-nonsense manager to have Vivian committed to a psychiatric facility. Vivian gritted her teeth and reminded herself that there was no going back. This was what it would take to be a Paladin. Her heart squeezed in longing at the thought. Over the past weeks, her determination to become a Paladin had grown every day. She’d never wanted anything as badly as this unexpected, glorious, dangerous opportunity to be a part of the Fae world. But she also hadn’t expected how badly it would hurt to lie to Evie and Mike….and Alex. Her heart squeezed again but for a different reason.

  In all the ways that mattered, she and Alex would be a perfect match. At least, that’s what her endorphin-soaked heart told her, spinning fantasies of them together, daydream confections light and airy as cotton candy. The glimpses of their future came in perfectly-lit snapshots, always posed for effect and angled just right: Vivian perched at the last stool at the bar in a dimly lit New Orleans jazz club, watching adoringly as Alex played his guitar and sang his husky, bluesy songs as smoke swirled around them; Alex proudly taking a photo of Vivian at her first book signing, sometime in the nebulous years ahead when she’d finished the draft of a novel sitting dormant on her Macbook; and maybe, someday, even a candid shot of her grin as he slid a sparkling ring onto her finger, nothing too ostentatious because after all they were both artists at heart.

  But that had been before she’d come home to find the otherworldly Sidhe men casually cooking breakfast in her kitchen, the bacon scorching as they sized her up, Merrick with his spatula held at the ready like a weapon. She smiled a little at the memory. Those first few days had been heady as the hidden truth of the Fae washed over her, drowning her in magnificence and promise and longing. Vivian couldn’t articulate the reason, but her heart pulled toward Faeortalam. She’d never even set foot in their world, yet she yearned for it like a lost homeland. It was as if her interaction with the Sidhe, for all its ups and downs, had awoken a dormant hunger within her as natural and basic as her need for water and air.

  She’d realized that night in Alex’s car as they drove toward the dealership that her cotton-candy fantasies had dissolved in the flood of her new truth. Watching Alex’s beautiful profile, highlighted by the headlights of passing cars now and again, she’d known that she couldn’t tell him about the Fae. It wasn’t her decision to make, and if she wanted to be a Paladin, she couldn’t expect to keep all of her other hopes and dreams from her life in the mortal world.

  “You still listenin’?” Evie demanded, the weight of her accent pressing down more heavily on her words, drawing the vowels out sweet and low like pulled taffy, stretched quickly while it was hot; but there was nothing sweet about Evie’s voice.

  “Yes,” Vivian said thickly. She cleared her throat. It was time to end the conversation on her own terms. “Evie, I appreciate all you’ve done for me over the years, and I appreciate what you’re telling me now. But this is something I have to do. Now is the time for me to do it. You and Mike, you’re capable managers. You have all the legal framework in place to make decisions while I’m gone, and I’m sending over a soft copy of a notarized power of attorney, just to make sure.”

  She didn’t add that she’d also had a will drawn up at the same visit, giving Evie and Mike fifty percent shares in ownership of Adele’s if there was no communication from her in any form for two years. She already had measures in place to ensure that didn’t happen, but it felt good to know that she had a failsafe in case things went wrong in the Fae world. She’d also decided against telling Ross that she’d willed her friend the house on the same conditions.

  Evie began to say something, but Vivian cut her off, as much as it hurt. “I love you, Evie. Take good care of the shop for me. I’ll be back.”

  And with that, she pulled the phone away from her ear and pressed the “End Call” button. She had to take a few breaths to ease the tightness in her chest, swallowing hard against the knot trying to close her throat. After she regained her composure, she put her phone in her desk drawer without looking at any of her other messages.

  The door to her bedroom opened as she felt Tyr reach out to her in what she thought of as the equivalent of a courteous knock at the door of her mind. She opened the conduit that allowed their silent communication. Sometimes she still felt chills race down her arms as she realized anew that she was speaking telepathically to a Fae man who’d been in their world for four cen
turies. If she did well during a lesson, Tyr answered some of her questions about times past. She’d learned to think carefully, hoarding questions like gold coins to be spent sparingly and for the most effect.

  What is making you sad? Tyr asked, pausing by the doorway.

  Vivian smiled. She’d also learned to react less defensively most of the time. She thought that Tyr’s blunt manner probably originated from four centuries of having only Corsica as a companion. I just spoke to Evie, telling her that I’d be leaving for a while.

  Tyr tilted his head to one side. He moved across the room to where they’d carved out his space, his bed of blankets and a few pillows under the window and a black rucksack occupying the corner. Vivian had so far successfully resisted the temptation to look inside the rucksack. She hadn’t ever seen Tyr put anything into it but curiosity still pulled at her.

  We do not know when the Bearer will return, said Tyr.

  But you said we could open our own Gate, Vivian pointed out.

  Only as a last resort, Tyr replied firmly. He raised a pale eyebrow at her. Do you think I would have had the ability to return to Faeortalam all these years and remained in this world?

  Vivian shrugged. Maybe you were waiting for the right time.

  And when do you think that is?

  She raised her chin. The time when there’s about to be another rebellion against Mab.

  Tyr straightened slowly, his silvery eyes glinting. Vivian took a breath and felt herself settle into the stillness that preceded a training fight. She reached for her taebramh and felt it respond readily, the flames curving around her heartbeat and swirling in the cage of her ribs.

  But Tyr didn’t leap at her. He smiled. She blinked and tried not to look surprised.

  I knew that I chose well for the first Paladin, he said, almost to himself.

  I thought that being Paladin was a birthright, Vivian said.

  Whoever told you that nonsense? Tyr said. Very few things are rights, much less birthrights. Even the inheritance of your ancestors must be paid for in blood. He prowled across the length of the room as he did when agitated. And calling something a birthright is usually just the defense of the small-minded or the weak.

  Vivian let his words sink into her mind, letting herself absorb them without any judgment. Tyr’s words sometimes held more than one meaning, and she didn’t want to miss anything. At the same time, she didn’t want to lose the thread of the conversation at such an interesting point. So I have the ancestry that marks me as a potential Paladin, but it’s this training that will make it a reality?

  Perhaps, said Tyr. He glanced at her and then looked away, his face thoughtful. When I first smelled your blood, I thought that perhaps you were the Bearer.

  She couldn’t keep the shock from her face. What?

  You could have been the Bearer, he continued, nodding to himself. But the stars did not align in that, no, you were lost down here in the lazy golden sun, the hot summer nights.

  You’re sounding like Corsica, she said in an effort to get him back on track. What did he mean, she could have been the Bearer?

  I mean exactly that, Tyr said, the dreaminess leaving his eyes abruptly. You have the same blood as the Bearer running through your veins. I think, he added as an afterthought.

  “How would I know for sure?” Vivian asked quietly. Her mind spun too violently at this revelation to focus on her mental volume and tone. Tyr ignored her as he sometimes did when he wanted her to practice her silent communication. She clenched her jaw and corralled her racing thoughts enough to form intelligible words. How do you know? How would I know?

  You wouldn’t, said Tyr. It has been a very long time since the descendants of Gwyneth were tossed into the winds of the centuries, to land where they may throughout the world.

  Vivian took a deep breath. She pinched the web of one hand between her thumb and forefinger, the sharp sensation anchoring her against the rush of possibility that assaulted her. But it doesn’t matter now, she said firmly. Tess is the Bearer, and I am going to be a Paladin.

  Tyr looked at her for a long moment, her skin prickling in the silent intensity of his gaze. Yes, he said finally. You are going to be a Paladin.

  And with that, Tyr began one of their tamer lessons, teaching her the finer points of rune crafting. Vivian was sure that Niall knew of her lessons with the Exile, but the Seelie Knight didn’t ever say anything. It felt like an old-fashioned family where one simply didn’t broach uncomfortable subjects, and for her part Vivian didn’t feel like enduring scolding simply for wanting to learn. She even wondered sometimes if her two teachers coordinated, because their lessons dovetailed with suspicious ease. But she followed their lead and didn’t ask.

  After practicing a few runes in her sketchbook – they didn’t have power when they were simply drawn in pencil – Tyr nodded and motioned for her to follow him. Vivian grabbed a ball cap from her desk and stuffed her voluminous ponytail through the back of it, glad that she’d dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. She looped the belt carrying all her various tools for the practical portion of her studies over one arm, thinking wistfully of cooler weather when she’d be comfortable in jeans again. Tyr didn’t seem to feel heat or cold like she did. Sometimes he still wore gloves, though in the past week he’d gone without them more and more. She snuck a glance at his hands as they walked through the house, down the steps of the front porch and into the back yard. She wondered what the touch of his bare skin on her own would feel like: would the silvery scars have a texture of their own, or would his palms feel smooth? She couldn’t decide just from looking at them.

  Tyr led her into the scrubby brush that bordered the small stream that bordered the limits of the property. He scanned the ground for a minute and then plucked a piece of wood from near the base of a tree. Judging by its flatness and the weathered scar where a nail had once been, it was a broken piece of board from a dock somewhere on the river, thrown ashore by one flood or another.

  Set a fire, Tyr said, handing her the board.

  Vivian found a clear patch of grass. She pulled her little trowel from her belt and scored a circle in the earth with the edge of the tool. After her lessons had progressed to more advanced practical application, she’d taken a trip to the local home and garden store to select some tools for her utility belt. So in addition to a silver dagger in its leather sheath, her belt held a small trowel, a flat-headed screwdriver and, on Duke’s advice, a matte black multitool. Neither Niall nor Tyr had commented on her unique set of implements.

  As she quickly dug a little moat around the board with her trowel, Vivian felt the presence of the shattered rune trap like an old bruise. She wondered if Tyr felt it too. They’d left the blackened paving stones where they lay marking what had once been the bone sorcerer’s cage, charred as though they’d been in an explosion. The stone closest to the river had been split neatly in two, sheared cleanly in half. To Vivian, it looked like a broken bone.

  She finished digging the fire-stop and slid her trowel back into its loop on her belt. Out of the small belt pouch, she took a piece of white birch wood that Tyr had taught her how to whittle into a long stylus. She’d obediently soaked the stylus in a mixture of her blood and strange silvery oil that smelled sharply of wildness, pepper and pine and ice all at once. The mixture had dyed the wood of the stylus a pale pink that was quite beautiful, if Vivian forgot that it was her own blood that colored it. It looked almost like the pale pink of a conch shell’s insides. She pulled a lighter from the pouch and called up a spark of her taebramh, sending the spark through her hand at the moment that she flicked the lighter open and a flame leapt into existence. The little flame turned green, dancing between the color of Vivian’s eyes and the live color of the grass in the golden sun.

  It had taken her nearly a week just to learn how to send her taebramh into the flame.

  Now she held the end of the stylus over the flickering bit of fire, murmuring the incantation in the melodic words of the Sidhe. Both Tyr and Niall
had told her that she needed to learn the words that would help her amplify and focus her power. And both Tyr and Niall had been surprised at the ease with which she’d picked up the phrases in their tongue. Vivian didn’t tell them that she wrote them down phonetically in her journal and practiced what she’d learned that day in a whisper from the time she slid into bed until sleep claimed her.

  Once the tip of the stylus blackened, she pulled the flame away, keeping it burning as she inspected the charcoal at the tip of the stylus. Satisfied, she snapped the lighter shut and stowed it in her belt pouch. With the preparation finished, she finally turned her attention to the piece of wood in the center of the little circle. Tyr watched from over her shoulder. She’d learned to work through the nerves she felt at his intent, silent scrutiny.

  Holding the stylus lightly – she’d snapped the first she’d made from gripping it too tight and almost cried at the thought of the painstaking process of making a replacement – Vivian set the board in her lap and called up the image of the rune in her mind, drawing it with a steady hand in the center of the wood, paying special attention to the imperfections and grain of the board. No rune would be perfect, but the straighter the lines and the more symmetrical the curves, the more power it held.

  After she finished drawing the rune, Vivian sat back on her heels and held up the board, inspecting her work carefully. She’d learned to trust her instincts, and she felt good about this particular rune, so she set the board in the center of the firebreak. The charcoal from the stylus drew a thin thread of taebramh from the well by her heart, fine as spider-silk. She felt the odd sensation of the rune pulling at the thread, unspooling more of her taebramh into its curves. Taking a deep breath, she spoke the word to activate the rune. The pull on her taebramh punched the breath out of her for an instant as the rune flared into life and grabbed for her power before she snapped the connection.

  The board erupted violently into flame, the heat singeing her face. She fell back, time seeming to slow, her momentum somehow dragging her across the grass. She realized belatedly that Tyr had grabbed a fistful of her shirt and hauled her away from the burst of fire, and then he was suddenly on top of her, pressing her down into the grass, his hands doing something near her head. She was too stunned to push him away, but he rolled aside just as quickly as he’d jumped onto her.