Phoenix Rising (Maggie Henning & The Realm Book 1)

by Lisa Morgan

  A procession of fae entered the room. Dressed in pure white, they slowly made their way in, their steps slow and measured. Roses were entwined in their silver hair, forming crowns, and their hands were hidden in their gowns. Their wings were the same colors as Seatha’s; grey and clouded. They came to stand before the king and bowed deeply. They didn’t wait for the lord to nod in return, but turned and walked to stand on the left side of the room.

  Another horn toned, this one lower than the first. The note hung in the air long after the person signaling had stopped forcing it.

  A golden litter, carried with six satyrs per side, made its way into the room. Held still and even, it was covered in the same white roses the fairies wore in their hair.

  Michel was lying among the roses on the litter the satyrs brought forth; dressed in the same outfit as his father and brother, the same formal ensemble he’d worn when we’d danced. His hair was carefully positioned down his shoulders. A small crown of silver bearing the crescent had been placed on his head. His sword lay on his chest, his hands wrapped around the hilt.

  I felt the grief creeping up my throat, threatening to spill out. Luc sensed it, too. He reached out and took my hand in his, holding it but not looking at me. If the king saw, he made no move to stop it or disapprove.

  A platform lifted slowly from beneath the floor, groaning as it rose. It was glistening smooth obsidian, like the bindings I’d been shackled with, and carvings engraved on the altar. Ivy, the phases of the moon, flowers, and the same symbols I’d seen when reading books written for The Realm, inscribed on its surfaces.

  The litter moved with purpose, one step at a time in a processional toward the black stone. When they’d reached it, the satyrs turned slowly, facing the fallen prince, and then lowered his litter to rest atop of the engraved pillar.

  Still looking to Michel’s body, the escorts took two steps back, and then turned to the king and bowed. The king wordlessly nodded a dismissal to them. They rose, and in the same two rows, turned and walked to stand opposite Luc and me in the room.

  The king remained standing, staring at the body of his slain son. His face gave no hint at what emotions plagued him. He took the steps from his elevated throne, and ambled toward Michel’s lifeless form. When he reached it, I saw the first display of grief from him.

  Gently, he placed his hand on Michel’s forehead, a gesture of real affection given to his fallen son that lay in repose before him.

  The atmosphere in room changed. The air became heavier and the walls felt like they were closing in on me. The king took a step back from his son, not taking his eyes off him.

  Luc released my hand, carefully lowering it to fall to my side, and walked forward to honor his brother. His steps were not as steady as his father’s had been, and I knew he was doing all he could to maintain the composure expected of the now sole heir to throne. He stood beside his brother’s body, his eyes glistening, threatening to spill his suffering and emotion.

  “My brother,” Luc spoke, his voice wavering. Unable to withstand it any longer, a tear escaped me. I made no attempt to wipe it away, wanting to feel it slowly cut a path down my cheek.

  Luc drew his sword from the sheath and raised it over his head, pointing the tip to the ceiling. Slowly, he brought the sword down to touch his brother’s weapon. A barely audible metallic ring echoed through the otherwise silent chamber.

  Luc went on, attempting to make his voice stronger, “My brother, from the first whisper of life, until you are ash.”

  It was a signal to those in the room. All but Luc and the king fell to one knee, bowing their heads respectfully and their eyes looking to the floor.

  I couldn’t bow. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the scene before me. Luc standing, his sword still touching Michel’s in honor, the king looking down at his son laying among the flowers, and I recognized that if I knelt, I may never rise again.

  Tears silently streamed down my face, refusing to be held back. There were glances from the other figures in the room and a quiet hum began to spread around the chamber. In unison, Luc and the king turned, facing me.

  I didn’t care what they thought. I still couldn’t kneel. I didn’t make an attempt to hide my feelings. I’d lost Michel, too. I’d loved him and now he was gone.

  I couldn’t hold him, wouldn’t bicker with him over useless things couples argued over. I wouldn’t have another dance or another kiss. I’d lost him before we ever had a chance to really have each other.

  The king and Luc said nothing as they watched. They made no move toward me. I could feel their eyes, like everyone else’s in the room, staring at me.

  The cold heat started at my toes and spread over me. I didn’t try to stop the icy feeling in my blood, but not even my flames could evaporate my tears. I made no attempt to stop the fire that spread across my body. I don’t think I could’ve stopped it even if I’d truly wanted to.

  Everyone in the room watched, staring as my sorrow manifested itself in fire. They watched black flames rise from me, dancing a grief ridden waltz over my skin. The ebony tinted flames stayed low to my body as they did their soothing dance only for me, trying to take my pain and melt it away.

  Michel’s lifeless body lay on display in front of me. He looked peaceful, this vampire prince of a world I’d only just come to learn I was part of.

  No, the flames couldn’t burn me.

  I was far too lost to burn.

  Forty One

  “Luc,” the king commanded in a whisper. Nodding in acknowledgment, the prince sheathed his sword, and with all eyes of the court on him, he walked toward where I stood.

  I could see the hurt on his face; a look of vulnerability that was something he wasn’t used to sharing with those around him. He walked slowly, and I watched him as he came closer until he stood before me, as broken and alone as me.

  “Maggie,” he whispered with pain in his voice. I watched his eyes, just staring down at me in emerald colors so like his brother’s. I saw he grieved as much I did. Luc lifted his hand, offering it to me. I saw his gesture, but couldn’t move.

  “Please?” he asked softly of me, his voice cracking with the request.

  I felt my fires receding, the purge of flames ending and crawling back inside me. With tears still falling, I took Luc’s hand without a word or glance to the beings that looked on. He pulled me to follow him through the arches and toward the doorway to the king’s garden.

  Luc didn’t speak as we walked; he just held my hand in his and he led me forward. We passed the traditional paver walkway, taking a beaten dirt path. The same path that Michel and I had walked the night of the ball to get fresh air and away from the glaring eyes of The Realm. The path that led to the fountain the angels used to offer themselves to the vampires.

  Finding a stone bench, Luc carefully swept his free hand, inviting me to sit with him. We sat in silence; a few lonely tears dribbled down my face, but I quickly caught them and swiped them away.

  “Don’t,” Luc begged in a strained voice, looking to the gravel at our feet.

  “Don’t what?” I struggled, choking the threatening sobs into submission. I finally gained the courage to glance at the vampire who sat beside me.

  The piercing green I’d grown so accustomed to seeing in Michel reflected back to me through his brother. “This is the Garden of Sorrow.”

  “I didn’t know its name,” I mumbled, glancing at the ground. “The night of the ball, Michel—” I broke off, reaching to wipe my eyes again. “Michel hadn’t told me its name.”

  Luc caught my hand before I could wipe the wetness away. With a careful touch, he stole the tear that had begun it journey and fisted it in his palm.

  Lifting the closed hand in front of him, my eyes following his movement, Luc opened his palm skyward and softly blew at the single tear. I watched it change as it slowly cascaded to the earth.

  The tear stretched and grew, beginning to take on shape as it fell to the earth. When it finally landed in the dirt and
disappeared into the soil, a green stem appeared from the spot the tear had been. It grew before my eyes, reaching toward the star-filled sky above. Petals leisurely formed, springing from the stem before the heavy floor seemed to silently sigh and tip its head forward. My eyes widened at the flower that had come to life from my grief. A single pink rose. I stood and really looked at my surroundings.

  Roses of many colors—icy blues, pale whites, hunter greens—grew all about the garden. I remembered seeing the flowers the last time I’d walked in this garden, recalling the vibrant colors and almost overpowering scents.

  “The roses grow from the tears shed here,” Luc explained in a hushed voice.

  I paused, noting the incalculable number that grew. “Luc … but there are so many.”

  He only nodded. “Many have felt the sorrow you feel now. The roses only bloom from the tears of true suffering.”

  Standing, Luc made his way to one area full of sunset orange laced petals. “These arrived when the revenants first took a foothold in the human realm, when so many mortals lost those they loved. The fae clans would travel to this garden, weeping the loss of so much innocence,” he explained solemnly.

  I remembered how many fae were guardians like Seatha; that they had humans they watched over, intervening on their behalf in times of crisis. The sheer number of the sunset roses was staggering. I’d known there were a great number of casualties, but to see each loss represented by a single flower was overpowering.

  “And these,” Luc paced to a swath of pale blues. “These grew when my mother …”

  His voice left him as a memory took hold over him. I felt my heart tighten as Luc knelt beside the petals, carefully touching one flower, feeling the silkiness of the tiny petal.

  How many of those blooms had appeared via his sorrow? How many were Michel’s or the king’s?

  “All the flowers here bloom from broken hearts, Maggie,” Luc spoke, rising and returning to sit with me.

  Welling up at Luc’s explanation, I managed to ask, “Why roses?”

  “Because the earth wishes to remind us,” Autumn explained from the path. She looked at me and the vampire, a comforting smile on her lips as she approached.

  “Remind us of what?” I whispered, wiping the dampness from my face.

  “That even with loss, Maggie, love endures. That even in times of deep and harrowing suffering, love from those around you goes on,” the young witch spoke softly, kneeling and putting her hand on mine.

  “Why does it have to hurt?” I fought out in a strangled breath.

  Autumn offered me her answer in a whisper, “Even the most beautiful roses have thorns. Life is love. In all of its splendor, and no matter the length of time or how that life enters Shadow, that will never change.

  “That’s what makes us something more than the revenants. We have a value to all living creatures. We appreciate the sunset as much as we treasure the dawn. Without love, what need do we have of a life at all? And it hurts, Maggie, because it’s as much a part of us as our own heart.”

  Luc stood, walking to a patch of deep red roses, his hand fisting at his chest. I wondered how he could cope with all the loss he’d seen over his many years. I wanted to ask him, to learn what his secret was to close himself off, but thought better of it. This was not the time.

  The young witch continued, “The king thinks that for a time, you should travel away, back to The Trust.”

  “I don’t want to go!” I reeled as I stood, Autumn straightened quickly to avoid falling backward. “Michel—”

  “Will only be here for a short time,” Luc interrupted, not looking at me when he replied, “The angels will be here soon.”

  I stared at his back, searching for further explanation, but the voice that answered came from behind me.

  “The angels will come in less than a month’s time to bring Michel out of Shadow and to his final rest.”

  “Liam!” I cried, recognizing my grandfather’s tone. I rushed to him, throwing my arms around his neck.

  “Shhh,” he crooned, my tears flowing freely at the day’s events and soaking through his robes. He lightly ran his hand over my hair, offering the barest of touches to help ease my pain.

  “I’ll escort you home, and I will stay with you, as will Seatha and Autumn, to help you recover,” he informed me gently. I let go of my grandfather and looked to Luc.

  “The prince needs time to gather his emotions. Come, Margaret, this must happen now. The king has so ordered.”

  I didn’t want to leave Michel lying in a state before his father’s throne. I found myself wondering what had happened since Luc brought me to the garden. Sensing my worry, my grandfather provided explanation.

  “The fallen prince shall remain in situ until the arrival of the angels. He lingers in Shadow now. The throne room has been emptied and King Edwyn will permit you to say a final good-bye before we depart.”

  “Luc,” I whispered tenderly to him.

  “Go,” Luc replied gently, still not looking at me. “I’ll come to you when I can.”

  I took a step toward him, my hand out to grace his shoulder, but sensing my oncoming touch, the vampire raised his hand in an unspoken signal for me to pause.

  “I’ll be fine, Maggie,” he spoke stonily.

  I stood behind him silently. I wanted to hold him, to offer whatever comfort I could. Part of him laid the blame on his curse even as I blamed myself for Michel’s death. Luc suffered, just as I did, and as much as I wanted to offer my embrace, to share the pain we had in common, I didn’t wish to rob him of his pride.

  “Come, granddaughter,” Liam gently urged, his hand out to take mine. I nodded, but kept my eyes on Luc’s back. Finally, I turned and walked to my grandfather.

  Autumn led the way through the garden, Liam and I following behind.

  I spared a glance over my shoulder to Luc. He still stood with his back to us. At his feet, a single yellow rose that hadn’t been there moments ago, sprung to life.

  Forty Two

  Seatha was waiting for us outside the archway. She offered me a comforting smile as we returned.

  “Luc took you to the garden,” she stated compassionately, reading the pink rims of my eyes. I nodded, not able to bring myself to speak.

  “The king waits,” Seatha informed me solemnly, sweeping her hand toward the arched entrance. Without pause, I dropped my grandfather’s hand and bravely entered the room.

  The scent of the room had changed; incenses of patchouli and jasmine hung in the stagnant air. The king sat on his throne, the rest of the room empty of mourners, and his eyes looking to the floor. I paused long enough to give a bow to Michel and Luc’s father, but didn’t wait for acceptance. I took the few steps needed and came to stand beside Michel’s body.

  I stared down at my slaughtered prince, the love I’d watched slip away from me, poisoned by my own blood. The few stray rays of moonlight that peeked into the throne room glistened off his hair, showing the familiar blue highlights.

  “Luc took you to the garden?” the king spoke knowingly. “You have seen its beauty and its horror. It has touched you and offers its strength.”

  “I don’t want the strength. I don’t want this power.”

  The king replied, “Yet, it has come to you. Destiny has willed it.”

  I turned to him and took a few steps closer, not even considering that with a word, I could be condemned on his chamber floor. “And I’d give it all back if it would return Michel to us, bring him back to me!”

  The king examined me carefully, appearing to size up my comment for validity.

  “Yes,” he finally answered, his voice soft but respectful, “I believe you would, Margaret.”

  Knowing my remaining time was ticking away, I turned back to Michel.

  “The roses?” I asked of the flowers that surrounded him, carefully touching a few of the velvety petals. “Are they from the garden?”

  “They are,” the king answered from behind me. As silently as he’
d left his throne, he seemed to glide over to stand beside me, looking at his son lying peacefully in front of us.

  “They first bloomed at his birth, when his mother had wept. It is a rarity for the angels to grant two children to our kind. I felt the roses should travel with him to his rest.”

  “I agree,” I struggled. The finality in the king’s voice was a knife, cutting my very soul.

  “The angels?” I asked, almost losing my voice, overpowered by my anguish.

  “The angels.” He sighed and explained to me delicately, “In the Realm, when one falls, they lay in Shadow for twenty days’ time. Some we bring here, to honor what they’ve sacrificed for us. At the end of the mourning period, the angels arrive to escort the fallen home.”

  A beautiful picture came to mind. Angels swooping in gracefully and lifting Michel’s lifeless body into their arms, then taking flight and shuttling him to a place without revenants or pain; a place where Michel could smile again.

  “It must be beautiful,” I managed, my vision blurring.

  “No,” he answered, his words stone. “It is not.”

  I turned to him for further explanation, but it was not forthcoming. Facing me, the king tried to offer a reassuring smile that failed and came across hollow. I turned back to Michel, avoiding the king’s gaze when he again spoke.

  “Go, Margaret Henning,” he commanded gently. King Edwyn placed one of his hands on my shoulder. “Heal for what you have suffered. I sense your battle is yet to come. We’ll need your strength if we’re to survive the storm that approaches.”

  I lifted my eyes to read his expression, but Michel’s father was gone as silently as he’d approached, leaving me alone with Michel.

  “I love you. I don’t know what I’m doing. How am I supposed to do this without you?” I whispered to him.

  I felt a hand on my back, and by the scent of the cologne, knew it was Liam. I looked over my shoulder and he smiled lovingly, his image blurred from the wetness in my eyes.

  “It’s time to go,” he prompted with a whisper.

  I looked back to Michel as I nodded, but couldn’t walk away. I didn’t want to move my feet, more than willing to fall here beside the obsidian platform and let the angels take me, too.