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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  “What purpose is that?” Tirell bit out, looking as though he wanted nothing better than to rip the mirror off the wall and dash it against the floor.

  “Why, to let you all witness the conception of King Derik’s grandchild!”

  Derik felt his heart sputter in shock; after a moment, it started again, pounding away with such ferocity that he almost wished it had not.

  “W–What?”

  Before the ghastly could clarify, King Tirell leapt to his feet. “Out!” he shouted at the servants. “Out! Out! Out!”

  They fled the room, slamming the door shut behind them. In the resulting stillness, Derik took a deep, shuddering breath—painfully difficult due to the terrible tightness in his chest.

  “My daughter is dead,” he refuted after a moment. “I have no other . . . children. You cursed me so.”

  “Wrong, King!” Moraga crowed happily. “Your daughter lives. Waste not, want not, and all such other platitudes!”

  The scene in the mirror tilted abruptly, and now Derik could see a young woman lying sprawled upon the floor. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, and her mouth curved down like Kariana’s did when she had bad dreams. Derik stared at her face, hope blooming in his heart at the evidence of his own eyes, for her features were nearly identical to his wife’s, but with Derik’s straight nose and strong chin. It was a face that could only belong to his child.

  “How can this be?” Kenden demanded, speaking up for the first time. He had withdrawn to one corner of the room when King Tirell had entered, but now he stepped forward, his eyes flashing with fury. “Elaine and I both witnessed the princess fall to her death when we battled you over the sea.”

  Derik cringed as the ghastly turned the mirror’s view back on herself, her image a hideous contrast to the sweet reflection presented by his daughter.

  “No, not the sea, you crippled fool! Do you think my spell would allow so easy an end? I cursed the princess to die on her twenty-first birthday—not before and not after!—and so my spell was forced to save her. She fell over land and survived!” Moraga rebuked.

  Derik swallowed hard at the realization he need not have mourned all these years. He should never have stopped searching for his child, should never have allowed himself to believe for even a moment that she was dead. If he had just kept looking, then he might have the one to help her learn how to walk . . . to hear her first stuttering words . . . to see her grow into womanhood . . . . If only he had believed she was still alive—

  “Assuming this is not just some malevolent trick and that girl really is the princess,” Tirell cut in, “you said your purpose concerned King Derik’s grandchild. Are we supposed to believe you have one of those lurking around, too?”

  “That is impossible. The ghastly’s curse sterilized the entire royal line, including the princess,” Kenden rejected.

  “And Derik had no children from before that,” Kariana confirmed, her soft voice full stately pride. “Mine is the only bed he has ever shared, and Aurea the only child I ever bore.”

  “Ha! You cannot deceive us, Ghastly—not this time!” King Tirell announced in fierce triumph.

  Moraga smirked and shook her head. “You fools—you have all forgotten one very important fact. After I cast my spell, you tried to change it—did change it, thanks to a fairy child born with the ancient power.”

  “Liliath,” Elaine gasped.

  “Yes. Your daughter infused my curse with Old Magic, and now with her aid, I can and will lift part of my spell so the princess may bear the kingdom an heir.”

  Again, the image shifted, and now Derik could see a fairy girl in the glass—one who looked mortified to find herself suddenly face to face with her parents.

  “No!” Kenden protested hoarsely. “You are with her?”

  Liliath’s eyes dropped to the floor, and her wings furled forward as though to hide herself from view. With a cruel laugh, Moraga angled the artifact to display the princess instead.

  “Look at your daughter, King Derik, and the evidence of her Christening gifts. See how her hair shines as brilliant as the sun . . . see her complexion as smooth as silk . . . see how she sleeps, and will not wake. Can you deny that she is yours?”

  “No,” he whispered. “What is it you want of me? . . . What ransom do you demand?”

  “Just this! Acknowledge the child she will bear as your indisputable heir.”

  Derik’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You mean you will . . . break your curse on my . . . daughter . . . and return her to me? Your only demand . . . is that when she marries . . . I must name her firstborn child . . . my heir?”

  The logic was too clean, too kind. Why would Moraga destroy her spell after so many years in exchange for something he would have done anyway? What was he missing?

  The ghastly’s silver eyes danced with glee. “Oh no, no, no—your daughter stays with me, albeit asleep as she ever more will be.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Old Magic! Do you know—can you appreciate—how many years I have spent planning for this day? Toiling over ruined manuscripts, tracking down my race’s stolen heritage, and learning not just how to bend life, but to create it! Yes, your daughter will bear a child—but it will be a child conceived by magic, one born of ghastly spirit and blood! A half-human, half-ghastly heir that will restore magic to this land and ensure the continuation of my race!”

  “Never!” Derik vowed with as much force as he could muster.

  Moraga just laughed. “It is your choice, King—either you have an heir of your blood, or the northern nations will ravage your kingdom as the Prophesy foretold. Refuse me, and your land and your line will die along with mine . . . or accept my terms and save us all. What do you decide?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ari lay stunned for a moment, trying to draw air, but his lungs refused to obey. Forcing them to expand through sheer willpower, he struggled to his feet, only to stare helplessly at the wall of writhing thorns stretching up before him. Each thorn was as long and sharp as a spindle and gleamed with wicked intent as the branches that bore them continued to spread and grow, ruthlessly separating Ari from the lodge. From Rose.

  Heedless of the threat they posed, Ari reached out to seize the thorns and climb over the wall, but his hands—human now, weaker and without claws to grip the slick wood—slipped off, tearing open his flesh and releasing thin rivulets of blood. Ari snarled and for the first time in his life, wished he were a beast again. This human body was too easily bloodied and bruised, and though his transformation had restored his energy, he had no weapons, no way to break through the wall of twisting spines to get to the woman he loved . . . .

  A desperate idea occurred to him, and Ari swiveled around. Yes!—the stables were still on his side of the wall. He ran for the building as fast as he could and wrenched open the door.

  “To me!” he cried. “To me, all of you! Tear through the thorns! Hack down the stems! Uproot the bushes! Get me into that lodge!”

  At his shout, the walls came alive as gear and equipment sprang off the boards, unstacked from the corners, and shot down from the loft—pitchforks and shovels, pails and troughs—not everything was useful, but he could spare no time to sort them apart. The door to the adjoining shed burst open as well, and the tools that streamed from there held more promise—shears and hoes, sickles and axes—all followed Ari as he led the charge back toward the wall.

  The rose bushes had finally stopped growing, and now they towered motionless as tall as the trees. They did not react as Ari approached, but when the first tool began to hack at their stems, they thrashed and struck out at their attackers, knocking away, capturing, or crushing the objects within their reach. Yet for every tool they arrested, two more evaded their grip, hewing off thorns and stems and freeing their compatriots along the way.

  Ari danced from one foot to another, anxious to get through the hedge but unable to approach without earning a swipe from the deadly stems. This was taking too long—he had to get t
hrough, now! Who knew what was happening to Rose on the other side?

  Just when he thought he would burst with impatience, Ari glimpsed a tarnished hunting horn and sword among his assembled army—the same horn and blade he had sent to protect Rose during their game of Seek-and-Find. With a shout, he summoned the sword to him and grasped its hilt—not because he could thought he could wield it any better than it could work on its own, but because he could not bear to stand idle a second longer while the others made his way for him.

  Ducking under a lashing branch, Ari hacked at another with terrible ferocity. The sword jarred in his hands as he struck the wood, and he almost dropped it before regaining his grip and slicing successfully through the branch. The sensation of his fingers gripping the cold metal was both familiar and unfamiliar—a human boy’s childhood memory, nearly forgotten—but this was no princeling’s blunted toy: this sword was a deadly weapon, and he intended to use it as such.

  A sudden blow to his head broke Ari’s concentration and made spots swarm before his eyes; a pair of heavy shears had clipped his temple. As Ari dodged the tool turned accidental foe, an opportune branch seized him from behind, and he gave a sharp cry as it pinned him to the ground. A second branch whipped forward, its spines angled to impale—and then without warning, it froze.

  Ari breathed as shallowly as he could, wincing as the thorns holding him in place dug deeper into his skin. He could feel blood trickling all over his body, but to his amazement, he was still alive.

  Liliath, he realized. This is her spell . . . she must have banned it from killing me.

  Some of the betrayal he felt softened a little at that mercy, but Ari could not afford to dwell on it.

  “Free me!” he cried, the force of his shout driving his chest against the thorns. Yet his wounds were well worth the results, for the sword leapt from his hand to join a sickle and axe in swiftly carving to pieces the stem that was holding him in place.

  Ari scrambled to his feet, tearing away the thorns from his skin and retrieving the sword. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and he scarcely felt his injuries as he fought his way through the hedge. Time and again, a branch would ensnare him, but each time his accomplices—inexhaustible, unfeeling, and irrepressible—would work him free.

  At last, Ari broke through the barrier. Before him lay the door to the lodge, not twenty paces distant. Gripping his sword tightly, Ari started toward it just as a strong gust of wind nearly knocked him over, and a large shadow darkened the sky.

  Ari spun around and gaped at the creature looming over him. It was a dragon—no, dragonfly, his mind numbly corrected. The dragonfly was only slightly shorter than the lodge and nearly twice as long, with gleaming colors that reminded Ari of the bright, iridescent hues of heated metal.

  The creature turned its two large, compound eyes on Ari, each facet clearly visible as it assessed him. Its wings thrummed faster than Ari could track, and the draft they created made it difficult to remain standing. As he strove to stay upright, Ari remembered a disconcerting fact: dragonflies were predators.

  Move, move, move! he ordered his petrified body, but his limbs refused to obey. The creature twisted its head from side to side, its jaws clicking with anticipation.

  Maybe it will not kill me, he thought frantically. Maybe Liliath’s spell will forbid it, just like it did with the roses . . . .

  Before he could even finished the thought, the creature’s forelegs shot out quicker than Ari could see—far quicker than he could evade. They seized Ari’s legs and dragged him through the air until his feet were engulfed in its mouth.

  Ari shouted and tried to kick—he had dropped the sword when the dragonfly had grabbed him—but the creature held fast, preventing his escaping. Then it began to chew.

  Ari let out a strangled yell as the dragonfly’s jaws mashed his feet with bruising force. Their movement seemed strangely slow—almost sedate—but would soon crush his bones into powder if he could not get away. As he struggled against the creature’s steely grip, Ari caught sight of his army of objects hovering nearby—he had forgotten them.

  “Help me!” he bellowed.

  The objects did their best, but the dragonfly’s body was like armor rebuffing their blows. “Go for the wings! The eyes!” Ari shouted, his voice changing to a yelp as the little bones in his feet began to break.

  Suddenly, the creature squealed and cast Ari away so fast that he slammed into the ground a full ten paces from where he had been dangling. Gritting his teeth—he had surely cracked a rib or four—Ari forced himself to his feet. He could almost hear his bones scraping against each as he took one step, then another, each motion producing a stab of fire as though he were treading on sharp knives . . . but he could not—would not—let it overwhelm him. He had to get to Rose.

  Ari looked up at the dragonfly, which was clawing the air with its forelegs in a desperate attempt to fight off its attackers. The creature shook its head and beat its wings with blinding speed, but it could not rise from the ground. It was simply too big, too heavy, and the wall of roses and the lodge were too close for it to get any airlift. The dragonfly tried to move backwards instead, but failed.

  Dragonflies are fliers—they can only perch, not walk, Ari remembered suddenly, his mind flashing back to the first book he had ever owned: an anthology of animals and places given to him by his mother. What else had the book said? Something about dragonflies being territorial . . . and deadly.

  Yes, I figured that, Ari’s mind quipped. Anything helpful?

  They can see in all directions, he recalled, but their vision is weakest from behind.

  “Go with that,” Ari muttered, stumbling forward and barely managing to evade one of the dragonfly’s forelegs as it swung in a downwards arc. The creature paid him little heed, too busy fending off an axe and pitchfork, which were rupturing its eye facets with devastating precision.

  One down, only thirty thousand to go, Ari thought darkly as fluid rained from the ruined facets to splatter on his face. Moving as quickly as he could, Ari ducked past the dragonfly’s head and underneath its body, using its long torso as shelter from the wings beating madly on either side, his gaze locked on a single goal.

  With a mad leap that made him shout in agony, Ari wrapped his arms around the dragonfly’s low-hanging tail and pulled himself onto its body. For a long moment, he just clung there, fighting against the pain and nausea that threatened to turn into darkness.

  At last, Ari began to crawl forward, his ribs protesting every movement, and it was only his many years as a beast that gave him the agility now to navigate the swaying form. With a groan, Ari pushed himself onto the dragonfly’s head, balancing in the small space between its compound eyes. Those eyes saw him—they had to—but what could the creature do? It could not reach him in his current perch, nor could it evade him by flying away.

  For an instant, Ari almost felt sorry for the dragonfly, knowing the confusion—the anguish—the hate—that came with having one’s form so abruptly changed. But the creature was between him and Rose, and sparing it now would only allow it to menace others in the future. It was only a dragonfly after all, and it was time for the predator to become the prey.

  Raising his hand high, Ari called for the sword. As his hand closed over the hilt, he closed his eyes for a moment in sympathy . . . and then jammed the blade downward with all his strength, piercing the dragonfly through to its brain.

  The creature’s scream tore through him as it contorted in agony, and only Ari’s grip on the sword kept him from flying off as the dragonfly collapsed to the earth, twitching and jerking and making a futile effort to rise before finally growing still.

  When he was certain the creature was dead, Ari slumped to his knees. He desperately needed to rest, but there was no time. Already, he feared he might be too late. Leaving behind the embedded sword, he slid down the dragonfly’s face and picked up the axe instead. He had never held one before, and fire flared in his side as he tried to lift its weight. He let it
go.

  “Follow me,” he croaked, and with his odd army of objects trailing behind him, Ari staggered into the lodge.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You are mad!” King Tirell spat at the ghastly. “We will never accept your demand!” But Elaine could see from the look on King Derik’s face that he was about to do just that.

  “Blood is blood, and the Prophesy . . .” the distraught king shook his head. “I am sorry, my old friend . . . but I cannot risk destroying my country . . . not when I can prevent it.”

  A vein throbbed in King Tirell’s neck as he challenged, “Even though it plays right into this creature’s hands?”

  King Derik coughed and tried to reply, but no words came out. He took a deep breath that rattled audibly within his chest, and nodded. “Yes.” With tremulous fingers, he pushed the parchment toward Bertard. “Make it . . . make it so.”

  Bertard, no longer jubilant, re-inked the quill and crossed out King Tirell’s name, scribing an emendation in its place. His hand shook nearly as much as the King’s. “There, Your Majesty—Nathar is now left to your daughter and her line. All you need do is sign.”

  Elaine forced herself to watch as King Derik laboriously inscribed his name. With shoulders bowed, Bertard carried the parchment to the dressing table, where a candle and seal sat waiting to give their final approval. “It is done,” he announced after a long moment, his voice cracking. In the looking glass, the ghastly shrieked her triumph.

  * * * * *

  Liliath shuddered as Moraga’s strident laugher echoed through the hall, resounding in her very bones and deepening her shame. She caught her mother’s gaze in the looking glass and quickly dropped her eyes, wishing she could vanish into nothingness like the isle her race had come from. Anything was better than standing by while Moraga coerced the King, and her parents watched through the mirror and judged.