Riven: A Merged Fairy Tale of Beauty and the Beast & Sleeping Beauty (The Enchanted Rose Trilogy: Book 3)

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  “But it is cold.”

  Rose placed her hands on her hips. “I am going into the lodge to get something for you to wash with. When I return, you had better be in the pond.”

  “Why? You never complained about my scent before.”

  She scowled at him. “I never had your paw in my face before, either—especially not after you had spent all day toiling in the sun.”

  The Beast’s shoulders slumped in surrender to her will. “This is just retribution because I got the better of you,” he said bitterly.

  Rose scowled harder to keep from smiling. “If you think this is bad, just wait and see what happens if you are not in the water by the time I get back.”

  Apparently, the Beast did not want to risk riling her further, because he was knee-deep in the water when she returned, his expression morose.

  Rose set down her supplies. “Wash him,” she instructed.

  Instantly, a bar of lye soap and several rags rose into the air and began to attack the Beast, who gritted his teeth and sank lower into the water as though to escape their ministrations.

  “You are a cruel woman,” he rebuked.

  Rose grinned. “I guess you regret your earlier claim, then.”

  The Beast looked at her out of the corner of his eye as she picked up a comb she had brought and tied up her skirts so they were hitched around her thighs. “No, you still make me happy . . . you just drive me crazy as well.”

  Rose did not reply, too busy wading into the pond. Balancing herself with one hand against the Beast’s shoulder, she began to carefully work out the snarls from his fur with the other.

  He shivered.

  “Are you all right?” Rose asked.

  “I told you, the water is cold.”

  She shook her head in disbelief—the water was cool, yes, but not enough to make her shiver, let alone the Beast—but she did not challenge his excuse.

  The Beast held very still as she untangled his coat, and Rose was careful to keep her touch gentle, though she knew it had to pull each time the comb snagged on a bur or whens he had to unknot a particularly matted clump of fur. The Beast’s hair was the length of her forefinger—a beautiful, dusky color that gleamed in the sun as the lye and the washcloths did their work. Though Rose could have easily let the comb take of the Beast itself, this was one job she wanted to do on her own.

  “There, it is done,” Rose said at last, stepping back a little to critique her work.

  The Beast turned his head and met her gaze, his dazzling green eyes half-lidded with contentment.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Rose stumbled a little as she turned away, unable to completely hide her sudden dizziness as she climbed out of the pond.

  I have been out in the sun too long, she mentally excused, extremely aware of the Beast who had emerged to stand right beside her.

  Suddenly, the Beast shook himself off with furious force, showering Rose with thick droplets of soapy water.

  “Beast!” she cried, wiping sodden bangs out of her eyes. “What was that for?”

  His grin was mischievous as he pranced away.

  “Just returning the favor!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  King Derik clutched the tiny bottle in his hands, unable to believe that the fate of his country rested on the contents of such a fragile vessel.

  “You say this will help?” he asked his physician, his voice tight.

  The Chief Physician’s eyes were bloodshot as he met the King’s gaze—he had not slept for two nights and a day in an attempt to derive the antidote. “It will slow the effects of the poison you drank. It will not cure you.”

  “But it will give you time to find a treatment?” Queen Kariana beseeched.

  The physician gave a curt nod. “That is my hope.”

  With a deep bow, the man left, and Derik glanced again at the bottle in his hands, repressing the sudden urge to shove the reminder of his mortality away. Instead, he set the vessel down gently on the dressing table and strode over to the room’s lone window. The sun was a bright ball of fire on the horizon, spilling its blood-red rays across the land. Derik wondered how many more such sunsets he had left to enjoy.

  Kariana came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Sometimes I wonder if all this is payment for some unknown sin,” he murmured to her. “We have suffered such tragedy, you and I.”

  Kariana’s protest was immediate and vehement. “How can you say that? You have never done anything wrong!”

  “Then payment for my father’s sins, or my grandfather’s, or even Ithikor’s himself. Who knows anymore?”

  Derik turned to face his queen and leaned his forehead against hers, gently brushing away her silent tears with one hand.

  “I am afraid for you, Kariana. I am afraid for my country. When I die, my family’s line will end and the Prophesy will come to pass . . . unless I can find some way to prevent it. Yet how can I prevent it? You heard my physician. I will be dead by next summer.”

  “He will find a cure—he has to!” Kariana’s face was white.

  Derik’s mouth twitched sadly. “And if he does not? King Mikal has moved from simply harassing my borders to actively challenging their boundaries! And lazy Oric has actually emerged from his torpor and mobilized his army for war. They must know—somehow!—that I have little time left. What remains of it must be spent trying to strengthen my country, not searching for an antidote.”

  Kariana dipped her head slightly so he could no longer see her eyes. “Who—who will succeed you?” she quivered.

  Derik sighed. “I was thinking of Bertard—”

  “Bertard!”

  “He is by far the most qualified—after all, he has advised me well for decades—”

  “Bertard may know how to run a country, but he cannot lead people the way you do! Putting him in charge of Nathar would mean civil war at the very least.”

  Derik felt his brow furrow. “I have no other choice.”

  Kariana took a deep, shuddering breath. Derik saw how much it was costing her to remain sensible, to think analytically about the problem they were facing and not to give way to her emotions. Reaching out, he drew her closer to him, resting his chin on the top of her head. She buried her face in his chest, soaking his tunic with her tears.

  “What about King Tirell?” she murmured after a moment, her voice muffled.

  Derik stiffened. “What about him?”

  Kariana leaned back slightly so that she could see him without having to pull away. “He used to be your best friend. He is a capable ruler and the other nations respect him. You two planned on uniting your kingdoms once—perhaps now is the time to try it again.”

  “We have discussed this before,” Derik said. “Nothing has changed since the last time—Tirell still refuses to allow my ambassador into his kingdom. I have not heard from or seen him in nearly twenty years.”

  “You know, sometimes the prospect of—of death—will soften a heart that is otherwise too stubborn to change.”

  Derik stroked his thumbs down the side of his wife’s earnest face, thinking how much his own views had altered since the day he had first felt the effects of the poison an assassin had slipped in his cup. “That is true,” he acknowledged.

  They stood in silence as the last vestiges of sunlight sank below the horizon, leaving only the hearth fire to push back the darkness.

  “Very well,” Derik acquiesced at last. “I will send a message to Tirell—but I doubt he will even respond.”

  * * * * *

  This is really too easy, Marcus gloated as the rider unwittingly approached his perch. He had not even had to lurk in the tree that long—only about a week or so until the courier came riding through the forest. Though there were other routes that the messenger might have taken, Marcus had wagered King Derik’s envoy would choose the straightest, quickest path to Gurion and its king—a destination Marcus was tasked to see was n
ever reached.

  It was over in an instant. One moment the courier was cantering along the dusty track at a steady pace, the next moment he was lying on the ground with Marcus’s bolt through his heart, gasping out his last breath while his horse galloped away.

  With a satisfied smile, Marcus shouldered his crossbow and dropped out of the tree. His aim had been true and the man was already dead, the bolt having stopped his heart almost instantly.

  Stoically, Marcus dragged his quarry into the bushes and then used then his boot to repair the dirt path, masking the signs of his ambush and the small trail of blood the body had left.

  Pleased with his work, Marcus returned to the body and removed the bolt from the man’s chest, frugally stowing it back in his quiver for later use. Blood oozed from the gaping hole it left behind, but the mercenary ignored the mess as he stripped the messenger of his clothing and transferred the gold from the courier’s waist pouch into his own.

  Reaching into the bloody tunic he held, Marcus found the secret pocket he had been told was hidden there and pulled out the message it contained. Placing the letter, clothing, and purse in a pile on the ground, he withdrew his steel and flint. Two strikes later, the letter had caught fire and the clothes followed a few seconds after—soon, there was nothing left to identify the man he had slain as a royal courier or the letter he had carried but a few flakes of ash.

  His task complete, Marcus stepped back onto the road, the coins in his purse jingling in happy anticipation of the reward that awaited him at its end; the body he left for the wolves.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Look!” Rose gasped, pointing toward the autumnal sky. A streak of light shot across the blue-black heavens, vanishing before the Beast could turn around.

  “What is it?” the Beast demanded, his vigilant gaze sweeping the night for any sign of danger. His eyes glowed gold in the darkness, and his ears swiveled to catch the faintest sound of a foe. Nothing had ever bothered them on their pre-supper walks before, but they were in the Dark Forest—there was always a chance . . .

  “A shooting star,” Rose breathed. The Beast’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled.

  “Oh, is that all? No doubt it caught sight of you and resigned.”

  “Resigned?”

  “Its job. After all, its beauty is nothing compared to yours.”

  Rose shook her head, stifling a giggle. “You really need to work on your compliments.”

  He quirked his head. “I can do that.”

  Just then, another star shot across the sky, followed a few seconds later by another. They were low on the horizon and disappeared all too quickly behind the tall trees.

  The Beast’s golden gaze turned toward Rose. “Would you like a better view?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  Reaching out one arm, he scooped her off the ground and cradled her close to his chest.

  “What are you doing?” she squealed, torn between amusement and alarm.

  “Sweeping you off your feet. Hold on.”

  Rose let out a startled gasp and hastily clutched his fur as the Beast dashed toward the lodge. Without breaking his stride, he crouched low and then sprang onto the eaves, bounding from one projection to the other until he had reached the highest point on the roof.

  Gently, the Beast set Rose back on her feet.

  “You should have warned me,” she rebuked, keeping one hand on his shoulder to maintain her balance.

  “Ah, but you look so cute when you are surprised.”

  With a wink and a grin, the Beast settled down easily onto the slanted tiles, and Rose carefully followed suit. The Beast had positioned himself so he was on the downward slope, which allowed Rose to lean back against his side, comfortable and secure. From this vantage point, her view was completely unobscured and the stars shone clearly through the cloudless sky. The moon had not yet risen, so Rose could easily espy the flashes of light darting across the sky.

  “It is raining stars,” she whispered, overcome by the majesty of it.

  “Yes it is—and one of them chose to land right here.”

  Rose could not help smiling as she met the Beast’s gaze. “You are getting better.”

  She felt quite warm next to the Beast in spite of cool autumn air, and his heartbeat thudded rhythmically against her back. It made her feel oddly content, as though there was no place else in that moment she would rather be.

  “Do you—have you ever wondered about the stars? What they really are?” the Beast asked suddenly.

  Rose tilted her head, considering. “Not really. I mean, they are stars. What more is there to know about them?”

  The Beast sounded hesitant as he answered, “Sometimes . . . sometimes things are not always what they appear to be. Sometimes, we need to look deeper.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He did not reply.

  “What do you think stars are?” Rose persisted, intrigued.

  He shrugged. “I guess it does not really matter—their appearance is all one cares about.”

  The Beast’s deprecating tone troubled her, and she changed the subject.

  “You know, when I was little, my sisters and I used to share a room. We would stare out of our window and try to see pictures in the stars. We came up with all sorts of silly names for them. See those ones there?”—she pointed toward a cluster of five stars—“We used to call that the Cat’s Claw. And over there”—she directed his gaze up toward a group of nine bright points of light—“that was the Broken Water Bucket.”

  “Inventive,” the Beast said.

  Rose shrugged, embarrassed. “Well, we were very small.”

  “No, I mean—I like it—I like how different our minds are. You have a way of looking at the world that is so—so fresh. You fascinate me.”

  “Well, thank you,” Rose said, surprised, “but really, it is not that difficult. You could do it, too. Look at the stars and see if you can find a picture in them.”

  Obediently, the Beast turned his head to gaze toward the sky, but though she saw his eyes skimming the night, he did not suggest any images.

  “I cannot,” he said at last, laying his head back down on his paws.

  “You need to look beyond appearances, like you said. Try to see past the stars to the larger picture they form,” Rose coaxed softly, absently stroking the top of his head like she would have done her dog.

  The Beast rumbled response was almost inaudible, “I know what to do, I just cannot . . . focus . . . right now.”

  Rose felt her cheeks heat and removed her hand.

  “Well, perhaps another time.”

  They lay in silence after that, watching the stars continue to fall. Some burned out quickly, while others streaked from one end of the sky to the other in a bright trail of fire.

  “Rose?” the Beast asked softly, and Rose blinked hard—she had been half asleep.

  “Hmm?”

  “Would you like me better if I were a human and not a beast?”

  She passed one hand over her eyes, trying to clear her head. What had the Beast asked? Oh, yes. “Uh, I doubt it. I like you just as you are. Among humans, there are many who are true beasts—people who hide wickedness or corruption beneath an otherwise pleasant face. Your heart is good and true. I much prefer you.”

  The Beast ducked his head, and she knew that he was pleased.

  “Rose?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  At his question, Rose sat up straight, all trace of sleepiness gone. The Beast’s request was not a new one—three or four times a year, he would ask her the same thing—but each time, it hurt her more and more to refuse him.

  “Beast, we are friends—good, close friends—and becoming husband and wife will not improve that.”

  “Is that your only reason for refusing me?”

  “What other reason would you like me to give?” she asked, startled to find she was close to tears. “The things that separate friendship from—well, more than frien
dship—they are simply not be possible between a woman and a beast!” The very idea of it made her shiver, although not altogether with dismay. “No matter how you might wish to be human, you are not and that cannot be changed.”

  “I know,” the Beast sighed, closing his eyes, “but marriage is more than that. It is a . . . a choice. A choice to love someone completely and forever, no matter what. To choose them above all others, unconditionally.”

  “In that case, I am sorry, but I cannot make that choice with you,” Rose said. “Not when I . . . not when . . .”

  “Not when you are not free to truly choose.”

  She nodded.

  “I understand.”

  And Rose knew that he did. She turned to gaze at the sky again, but the stellar spectacle had lost its thrill for her. Instead, her mind whirled with painful thoughts and half-formed desires she could not admit until the crystalline chime of a bell sounded far below, calling them to supper.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “My spade has a crack in it,” Chase announced, showing the shovel to her father. Mercer looked at the damaged tool and sighed.

  “How . . . ?” he began, even though the answer was plain.

  Chase shrugged. “I must have hit a rusty spot while I was digging.”

  “Rusty? You mean you left your spade out in the rain again?” Aunt Tess rounded on the girl. “Chase, you know how to care for tools! Replacing blades is costly, and we do not have the coin to spare!”

  “I always bargain us a good deal at the smithy,” Chase scowled, backing away. “I can have it fixed before dark.”

  “That is not the point—Chase!” Aunt Tess shouted, but Chase was already out the door.

  The instant she was away from the house and out of sight, however, Chase’s scowl fell away and an exultant grin took its place. Thrilled by her own cleverness, she practically pranced her way down the road and into town. The door to the blacksmith’s shop was open, and she could see Gareth bending over the anvil, hammering horseshoes out of searing-hot iron.