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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  Suddenly, Liliath realized that Moraga’s last words had been directed at her.

  “Um, what?” she asked, startled.

  “I said,” Moraga snapped, propping the looking glass against the wall, “it is time.” She snatched Liliath’s hand and pulled her roughly toward Rose. “Return the girl’s fertility, but only that aspect of the curse—do not break the entire thing!” the ghastly reminded her sharply.

  Liliath bowed her head and numbly reached inside herself for her magic. Her power was still strong, despite her recent spell casting—the benefit of her Aerie birthright and years of conservation.

  Mother and Father would be so proud, she thought with acrid self-loathing.

  “They are waiting,” Moraga hissed, gesturing toward the looking glass.

  Liliath bit back a retort and simply closed her eyes, searching inside for the spell she had tried to break long ago—the spell she had failed to shatter, and in failing, had made the ghastly’s plan possible. Yes, there it was—a thread of magic linking her and the ghastly to Rose. With the deftness of a tailor—traitor, her conscience insisted—she snipped one fiber of the thread.

  Moraga exhaled harshly, and Liliath knew the ghastly had felt the severing of that bond. She opened her eyes in time to see the ghastly crouch down and seize Rose’s chin in one gnarled hand, tilting her face from side to side in urgent inspection. Satisfied that the woman remained in cursed slumber, Moraga stood up, beaming her vindictive pleasure.

  “Watch now,” she crowed to their royal audience, “as I perform magic not done since before the Arrival. Witness what it means to earn a ghastly’s revenge!”

  * * * * *

  Elaine watched in helpless torment as her daughter aided the ghastly in preparing her wicked brew. I knew we should have gone after her, she castigated herself. Where did we go wrong, that she would make such a partnership?

  She shot a sidelong glance at her husband, whose jaw was clenched as tight as his fists. Elaine tried to wrap a comforting arm around his waist, but he gave no sign he even noticed. Every muscle in his back was taut.

  Unable to look away for long, Elaine turned her gaze back on the mirror. The ghastly was carefully pouring her concoction into a gilded drinking glass, her desiccated lips pursed in concentration. As she began to chant, Liliath quickly joined in, directing her magic through a second object and into the glass; Elaine felt a sharp pang as she recognized the Focuser in her daughter’s hands.

  Then in one corner of the mirror, she caught a flash of movement.

  “Is that—” she began as gasps from the others in the room indicated they had seen it too.

  “Impossible,” Tirell stared, his voice hoarse as the figure crept further into view.

  “It has to be,” Elaine insisted, staring in turn at the Gurion king. There could be no doubt. The dark hair—the flashing green eyes—the regal face contorted into such familiar fury . . .

  “. . . My son,” Tirell breathed.

  * * * * *

  Exhaustion—unnaturally strong—made Liliath sway on her feet. The spell they were casting drained her power like a leech and left a hollow, twisted feeling in its place. Still, she continued to pour her magic into the spell, even as the contents they were enchanting turned a purple-blue so vivid it was nearly blinding. Drawing a knife, Moraga slashed her own hand, and thick red drops of the ghastly’s blood dripped into the drinking glass, turning the liquid a brilliant scarlet.

  It was the light of their magic that kept them from seeing the figure until it was nearly too late. Liliath threw up one hand in instinctive reaction; instantly, the intruder dashing toward them froze in place, along with the objects following in his wake. It was Ari.

  Moraga carefully set down the glass and approached the petrified prince—he was alive, but unable to move.

  “Well done, Liliath,” she said. “You have saved your young man’s life. Had he interfered with my spell yet again, he would not have survived to celebrate it.”

  He barely seemed to have survived as it was. Liliath stared, aghast, at the terrible bruises mottling his body and the thin streaks of blood trailing from dozens of wounds. Her spell had done this to him. This was her fault. She winced as the ghastly reached out and stroked Ari’s bare chest, her claws tearing open his incipient scabs and causing his blood to trickle anew.

  “Stop it,” Liliath ordered, her voice trembling.

  Moraga snickered and turned away. “Finish the spell,” she instructed. “Now, before it can ebb away.”

  Carefully, Liliath picked up the glass, unable to stop herself from glancing back at Ari. His eyes were anguished and pleading. She could not breathe.

  “Now, Liliath!”

  Dropping to her knees, she lifted Rose’s head, ready to force-feed her the potion that would create new life in the ghastly’s image. But all she could think of was Ari, and his silent begging all she could see. A sob tore from her lips as she realized what she had to do—the only thing she could do . . . .

  “No,” she whispered, standing up. “I will not.”

  Liliath stole one last, inward look at her magic—her beautiful, unfailing magic that had defined her and steadied her and was her completely—and a tear trickled down one cheek.

  Then she cast the glass away, breaking her vow.

  * * * * *

  “No!” Moraga shrieked as the glass shattered into a thousand shards against the flagstones, the light of its magic extinguished in an instant as its contents spilled across the stone floor. Liliath collapsed on the ground beside Rose, and Ari nearly fell as the bonds restraining him vanished.

  He caught his balance just as the ghastly let out a bloodcurdling screech and leapt toward Liliath, her face contorted with murderous intent. Reacting with an instinct and agility born of years as a beast, Ari leapt forward as well and managed to wrap his arms around the ghastly’s neck, preventing her from reaching his friend.

  The ghastly howled and clawed her fury at him, tearing deep gashes along his back. Ari clung on for his very life as she thrashed beneath him, each movement searing his body with new agony. Suddenly, the ghastly spread her wings and laboriously bore him into the air—unlike the massive dragonfly, Moraga could fly and did. They had nearly reached the ceiling when without warning, she folded her wings and plummeted back to the ground, crushing Ari beneath her weight.

  Broken and stunned, Ari felt more than saw the ghastly push herself free and veer back into the air. He strove vainly to move, to see—to somehow push back the darkness one more time—but all he could hear was the swift beat of her wings as she prepared for a deadly dive. His lungs fought to breathe forth one final command, but the darkness claimed him even as the word left his lips:

  Kill.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ari awoke in sudden panic and desperately tried to sit up, only to crumple again with a hoarse cry of pain. At least his screaming nerves proved he was still alive . . . somehow. Surely, he would not hurt this much if he were dead.

  Trying to move as little as possible, Ari raked the room with his gaze. The hall was now dark and cold, but the dim moonlight streaming through the windows illuminated the ghastly’s body lying nearby. One glimpse of the work his object army had done made Ari retch in revulsion—but it was a dry retch that only served to burn new agony into him with every heave of his chest.

  With a groan, Ari clutched at the floor and closed his eyes. All he wanted to do was give in to his misery, but he could not . . . not yet. He had to see if she—if the two people he held most dear—were still alive.

  Dragging himself over to where Rose lay, Ari reached out one tentative hand and placed it on her chest. A sob of relief rose to his lips as he felt the gentle motion of her breath. He quickly scanned her face, her body, for any sign of harm, but he could espy nothing wrong . . . nothing, save for the curse holding her in slumbering thrall.

  Just beyond Rose lay Liliath, her eyes open and staring. Only the occasional blink told him that she, too, was alive,r />
  “Liliath,” he rasped, reaching out to touch her arm, but she did not respond.

  Uncertain what else to do, Ari summoned a blanket from the pile near the hearth and told it to drape itself over the fairy for warmth; a second sheet, he ordered to hide the ghastly from view. All the while, Liliath neither moved, nor spoke, nor give any indication that she had noticed his kindness at all.

  Swallowing back a surge of helplessness, Ari returned his attention to Rose. She looked ethereal in the moonlight—vulnerable, and so beautiful that Ari’s heart ached at the sight, each beat struggling to contain his hope, and longing, and despair. How was it that this woman he adored—this Rose who had twice pledged her life to him, first out of love for her father, and then—incredibly—out of love for him—was in fact the very princess he had been cursed trying to protect? It could not be coincidence. Was it magic, or fate, that had brought them together—and did the answer make the love he felt for her any less real?

  No. Ari shook his head in firm denial. This was his Rose, for better and for worse . . . . Be she peasant or princess, enchanted or not, he would cherish her, and guard her, and take care of her until the end of his days.

  Which, he admitted dryly as he carefully lowered himself onto the floor by her side, was likely to be soon.

  * * * * *

  “Glory above,” the platoon leader breathed, staring up at the wall of roses towering against the night. “How are we supposed to get past that?”

  Kenden wiped a weary hand over his face, his mind still reeling from the effort of enchanting himself and a cadre of soldiers across the length of Nathar and half of Gurion in a rescue attempt. Though they had traversed the distance in an instant, they had arrived to find their goal foiled by a barrier of thorns . . . a barrier that lashed out with deadly intent every time they drew near.

  I should have transported us directly into the lodge, he recriminated. Then we would have bypassed the wall entirely. Yet how was he to know what they would find? Reappearing in an enclosed space was dangerous, and he had not wanted to risk any accidents. Now he had expended his magic for the year, and it was too late to remedy that mistake.

  Am I too late to fix my other mistakes as well? he wondered morosely as he stared up at the wall.

  “Look sir, a dog! It just disappeared through the barricade,” one soldier shouted, drawing his gaze back down.

  “If a dog can get through it, we can,” Kenden forced himself to assert with a confidence he did not feel. “Either by sword or by flame, we will find a way.”

  * * * * *

  Ari awoke to a rough tongue scraping across his face and the putrid scent of an old dog’s breath.

  “Pesk?” he coughed in surprise, blinking against the bright light of dawn. “I thought you had gone.”

  The dog whuffled and butted Ari with his head, then turned his attention to Rose, licking her hand anxiously and whining when she did not stir.

  Ari sighed and moved her hand away from the dog, cradling it against his chest. Lying face to face with Rose, he could see every aspect of her sweet countenance, her beauty made transcendent by sleep. He could have watched her lie there forever, if not for the knowledge that she really would sleep forever.

  “Oh, Rose,” he murmured, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her fingertips. They rasped slightly against his chin, and he touched his skin, surprised to feel a slight stubble growing.

  I have a beard, he thought in amazement. He had been far too young when he was cursed to grow one, and now that indication of manhood attained only reinforced the terrible irony of their situation. He had striven for so long to be a man for Rose—a man she could respect and cherish, one she could love and even marry—and now that he finally was, she had been taken him from. Hatred for the ghastly flared anew, but the ghastly was dead, and his loathing would not cause Rose to awaken.

  “Rose, I need you. Come back to me,” he begged, whispering his words against her cold fingertips, praying some part of her would hear. She did not even stir.

  Futilely, Ari chafed her fingers with his own, trying to return to them some warmth. As he did so, something sharp caught on his skin. He pulled her hand away and peered at it intently, noticing for the first time a thorn embedded in her finger. The skin around the area was inflamed, and pink striations extended up her finger toward her wrist. The sight of that small injury was too much for Ari to bear, and he quickly tugged the thorn out and tossed it away. For a moment, he thought he saw a brief flash of light where the thorn had been—but no, it was only the sun glinting through the window.

  Just then, Rose sighed in her sleep, drawing his gaze back down. Her lips parted slightly, and Ari did not stop to think—simply bent forward and touched her lips with his own, kissing her for the very first time.

  Rose’s eyes shot open and with a shriek, she shoved him away. Ari doubled over as pain exploded in his chest, his ribs screaming protest at this extra injury . . . while a troop of soldiers chose that moment to burst through the door.

  * * * * *

  Rose scrambled to her feet, backing away from the soldiers and the naked man who had tried to kiss her while she slept.

  Slept? her mind wondered, beginning to wake up. Was I asleep? Just a moment ago, I was in the garden with the Beast. How did I get here on the floor . . . ?

  “Beast!” Rose cried out. “Where are you? What have you done with him?” she demanded of the soldiers, concern for the Beast helping her to seem brave.

  “Rose,” the man panted, struggling to push himself to his feet. Two of the soldiers hastened forward to help him rise, while Rose quickly averted her eyes . . . but not before she saw that his body was covered in blood and bruises. It was a good body, strong and muscled, though a little too lean for its size . . . .

  Rose gasped and shook such thoughts from her head, her eyes wide as she looked toward the soldiers instead; they appeared as uncertain and bewildered as she felt.

  “Your Highness, perhaps some clothes would help put the lady at ease?” one of them suggested to the man, picking up a blanket from the floor and holding it out to him.

  From the corner of her eye, Rose saw the man frown and look down at his body. Abruptly, he flushed and seized the blanket from the soldier, clumsily wrapping it around his waist.

  Able to look at him safely again, Rose felt memory stir within her. There was something familiar about him . . . .

  “Your Highness, are you all right?” the soldier asked, and Rose realized with a start that this time, he was talking to her.

  “W–what?” she stuttered, utterly confused.

  “Rose,” the man with the blanket repeated, ignoring the soldiers who were clustered by the door. He held out a hand in entreaty. “You must remember me. You saved me. I am—I was—the Beast. Your Beast.”

  Memory burst within her mind like a fountain, showering her with images: she was kneeling by the Beast’s side, pleading with him not to die . . . she was making her choice, choosing him, choosing to marry the Beast . . . then light was blazing all around her, and the Beast was changing before her eyes into a man, this man . . . he was hugging her, embracing her in a way that made her blush to remember . . . then came a sudden, sharp sting, and all was darkness once again—

  He was shaking her shoulders, and Rose blinked and looked up at him. “Beast,” she murmured, staring into his familiar green eyes. “Ari.”

  With a groan of relief, he held her close, and this time Rose did not push him away.

  EPILOGUE

  One Year Later

  A light, warm breeze swirled around Rose, tugging wisps of hair from her braid and teasing her nose with a heady mixture of floral scents. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. By now, she could recognize each blossom she smelled: chrysanthemums and snapdragons, lilacs and snowbells, and others even more exotic, only a few of which had been familiar to her the first time she had entered the royal garden. There were roses, too, of course, but those grew in another section of the garden.
She had decided it would be better to avoid being near them for a while. Just in case.

  On a bench several feet away, two ladies-in-waiting sat gossiping happily while they stitched. They never quite looked her way, but Rose knew they were watching her every move out of the corner of their eyes. It made her uncomfortable, like the itchy corset the royal dresser had insisted she try to wear. Itchy and tight, the corset made it difficult to breathe. Lately, Rose had begun to feel that way even without the restrictive garment, as if all the people constantly waiting on her and escorting her and simply being there were using up all her air. Their unceasing attention smothered her even when she went outdoors. How she longed for her old, simplistic existence and the presence of the ones she loved!

  I want to go home, she admitted to herself, feeling a terrible surge of loneliness. Her father had come to stay with her through the first few, difficult months at the castle, but he had left again to be with Chase when her child was born. As queen, Rose did not have that option.

  Queen. Even now, she could hardly believe it. Only after Mercer had admitted the truth about how he had found her as a baby had Rose started to accept what the others all claimed. But she could not get comfortable with her new rank. It panged her to know she would never again have the freedom to dash through a field or to splash in a pond . . . at least, not without a score of courtiers frowning as they watched and whispering about her behavior behind gloved hands that had never known the sun. If not for the Prophesy that Bertard had so adamantly explained, she would have been tempted to abdicate the instant her reign was proclaimed.

  It was rare she even had time to sit in the garden anymore—time not reserved for lessons and meetings and court. This sunlit afternoon had been her gift to herself after a month’s grueling duties, and she had demanded not to be disturbed for anything less than a national crisis. Thus far, her bidding had been obeyed . . . save by the two noble women Bertard insisted always accompany her out in public—even a public as private as the castle gardens.