An Heir Comes to Rise

by C. C. Peñaranda

  Faythe shrugged weakly. “Maybe she knew more than she was letting on, or maybe they’re more ruthless than we thought and are eliminating whole households that displease them.”

  Jakon ranted a colorful array of curses and insults to portray exactly what he thought of the fae, their guards, and the royals. Faythe was too hollow in her own grief—her own guilt—to have room for anger.

  “It’s my fault. I should have got them both to leave, but I…I told her she’d be safe.”

  Jakon sat next to her and put his hand under her chin, tilting her head so she could look him in the eye. His remained fierce as he said, “This is not your fault. Her death is not on your conscience, not even for a second.”

  Neither of them considered the possibility she could still be alive. The fae didn’t take human prisoners. But it still stung Faythe’s heart to hear the word that was so final.

  Death.

  “She must have known they would come and didn’t want to risk ruining Reuben’s escape. We can only hope she sacrificed herself with the intention of saving her son—that it wasn’t in vain,” he said, and Faythe picked up on his slight tone of uncertainty.

  If they had failed—if Reuben hadn’t made it to safety—her death and his would be in vain.

  Faythe couldn’t dwell on it further for fear she would fall apart completely. She left Jakon to finish his workday and headed back to the hut. She didn’t plan to tell him she no longer had a job at Marie’s stall. She would keep up the pretense to justify her income. It was yet another lie, and she hated herself more every day for the master deceiver she was becoming.

  At home, she sat in utter silence and let her mind reel. She barely registered Jakon coming home or the small idle chatter he tried to engage in over supper. When he was asleep, snoring next to her, she shot out of her cot and dressed swiftly before quietly leaving and storming all the way to the woods. She spotted the fae guard with his back to her through the tree line, but he didn’t turn when she emerged.

  “Did you know?” she said with icy calm. Her rage boiled beneath the surface, but she wouldn’t release it—not until she heard it from him.

  Nik twisted slowly around, his face unreadable. “You’re going to have to elaborate a little, Faythe.”

  Her anger spiked and then simmered. “Mrs. Green—Reuben’s mother. Did you know she was taken the night after we got him out?”

  He was silent, deliberating, and her patience began to run dangerously thin.

  “I did.”

  She expected it, but it didn’t make the blow any less. “You kept it from me all this time?”

  “I didn’t think it was something you needed to know.”

  She had to close her eyes and breathe for a moment or else she would erupt. “He was my friend, and I swore I’d look out for her!” she seethed, opening her eyes again to blaze at him.

  His face fell a little, the only display of regret he would show, but then he wiped all expression away and started at her blankly.

  “Did you have any part in it?” She braced herself, not sure how she would handle the knowledge if he had.

  Nik shook his head. “No, but Varis found out about Reuben the night before I did and had plans to bring him in. When they found he was missing, they took his mother instead. He doesn’t like to be made a fool of, so he conjured a story about how he saw the same traitorous actions in her mind too,” he explained plainly.

  It made Faythe sick. She had never seen him so detached and unreadable. She wanted to believe him—he had no reason to lie—but he was fae and a king’s guard; she would be a fool to think he was any different to his companions when they were all tethered by the same leash. Her anger flared to a reckless rage, and before she could stop herself, she honed in on him—his mind—intending to take the information for herself to be sure.

  She was met with a stone-hard black wall, as anticipated, but she threw herself into it and focused all her mental strength on pulling it down.

  “Stop,” he growled, his voice low in warning.

  She didn’t and kept trying until sweat trickled down her forehead and a headache formed from the effort. The woods disappeared into a faint blur as she hurled everything she had into the block on his mind. Her mind was a wrecking ball, slamming into his over and over while she pictured the wall’s destruction that would grant her free access to his thoughts; his memories. She could feel it weakening, but not nearly enough for her to get inside.

  “Faythe, stop. Now!” he barked louder this time.

  When she didn’t back down at his second command, he was upon her in a flash. Her feet were out from under her, and she was airborne for a split second before her back met the cool grass.

  She breathed heavily as the mental contact severed, and she took in her surroundings again. He was on top of her, one knee applying light pressure to her chest, while his hand held hers locked above her head. Her eyes flashed, and she thrashed to get free, but his hold only tightened, and her eyes burned in frustration.

  Giving up, Faythe went limp beneath him, squeezing her eyes closed to calm herself. One look in his eyes right now, and she knew she would erupt again. He made her feel like nothing when he enforced his strength, and she hated him for it.

  “Don’t try that again,” Nik said in quiet, lethal caution. Then the pressure released completely, and he walked away from her.

  She lay there a moment longer, gathering herself so she wouldn’t lose control again—then she pounced to her feet and whirled to face him. “I don’t need your help anymore. I’ll figure it out for myself,” she hissed coldly. She didn’t wait for his response, twisting on her heel and marching straight out of the woods.

  He didn’t follow, and she didn’t look back.

  Chapter 30

  Sitting at a workshop bench surrounded by open books she had no interest in actually reading, Faythe sighed. When she awoke that morning after her blowup with Nik, she instantly felt guilty for her outburst. Sure, he deserved some of her anger—he had kept information from her when he knew what it meant—but he didn’t deserve her attempt to infiltrate his thoughts.

  In hindsight, she was glad she hadn’t been able to break through his firm mental barriers. He had looked quietly furious at her for trying, and she didn’t blame him. She sulked because she felt like she had lost a friend. Not just a friend to practice her mind skills with; Faythe felt the loss much more than that, fearing Nik would never forgive her.

  She had come to the blacksmiths since she had nowhere else to go with all her spare days and would be bouncing off the walls if she stayed in the hut. She’d told Marlowe about her dismissal from the bakery, and her friend had been more than welcoming—had even offered to teach her a thing or two about her trade.

  Marlowe sat at another bench, still poring over the foreign note Faythe had long since given up caring about. However, the blacksmith was fascinated and spent a lot of her time trying to decipher it.

  “I think I have it!” she exclaimed, making Faythe jump a little as they had been sitting in silence for some time. “Well, there are some words that don’t make full sense yet, but I have most of it.” She twisted in her seat and beckoned Faythe over with an eager wave.

  Faythe welcomed the distraction and obliged, going to stand close to where she sat.

  “It’s worded like a poem, with stanzas and rhyming couplets, but it doesn’t make sense really.” Marlowe held out the new piece of paper she had scribbled her translated version onto.

  Faythe took it with a frown and read:

  Spirits of the Realm, there were three;

  A balance of life, soul, and death.

  And all together they would agree

  To balance the world until their last breath.

  One to guide the light,

  Her temple stands tall,

  In a wood that begins in fright.

  A fear is the key, or thou shalt fall.

  One to tame the dark,

  Her temple sinks low.

&
nbsp; In a black labyrinth stark,

  Blood is the key to chase away foe.

  One to connect the souls,

  Her temple rises high.

  A winding path not without ghouls,

  A bond is the key to touch the sky.

  Each hold power of mighty great,

  But together they form one.

  The Riscillius is needed to open each gate,

  To retrieve the pieces and undo what was done.

  Faythe’s eyes widened as she finished, and she set the paper down, pointing to one word that sent a spear of ice through her. “Do you know what this is?”

  Marlowe squinted. “Riscillius? That’s what puzzled me too.” She got up and went over to the stack of books.

  Faythe trembled with anxiety though she hid it with clenched fists. It had to be a coincidence that it sounded like the name she’d heard through the temple doors. Her thoughts were a mess as her mind started putting together pieces that would fit.

  The poem was a riddle and had something to do with the Spirits. She knew the temple she had visited must be the “light” the poem referred to. The location was a match. The woods had demanded she reveal her darkest fear, and upon getting it had let her pass. Nik had pointed out the symbol on the door—the circle with three overlapping lines—was of Aurialis, the Spirt of Life and Goddess of the Sun.

  She felt dizzy and had to take Marlowe’s vacant seat. The killer question that sent her reeling: Why was there such an ancient artifact in her mother’s pocket watch?

  Had she known about it?

  Faythe shook herself at the thought. No—she couldn’t have known anything about it; would never have been in the woods either.

  “There are mentions of it in this book of old relics and such,” Marlowe said, scrutinizing a new tome. “A ‘cillius’ is like a stone or glass, and ‘riscus’ means something like ‘to look’ or ‘see.’” She looked up at Faythe as if she might understand it more.

  A shrug was all she could muster, trying to keep her face impassive so she didn’t give away the fact she knew what any of it meant. “It’s just an old romantic poem on the Spirits,” she said, keeping her tone disinterested. She couldn’t tell Marlowe about the temple for risk of her finding out other things.

  Until Faythe could make any sense of it herself, there was no point anyway; she still had no way of getting inside. Besides, whatever the Riscillius was, there was no guarantee it was even in High Farrow.

  “I’ve read of the Great Spirit Temples. These must be their locations,” Marlowe pressed, coming over to examine her translation again.

  “Who knows if they even still stand?” Faythe drawled. She kept her voice bored despite the racing thoughts that shook her to the core.

  “They say it’s the one place someone can make real contact with the Spirits,” Marlowe continued, relaying her knowledge regardless.

  Faythe scoffed. “And you believe that?”

  “You don’t have to be so pessimistic all the time, you know?”

  “I just like to be realistic.”

  Marlowe rolled her eyes, and her brow creased slightly. “I wonder what it was doing in your watch.”

  Faythe stood from the bench. “Probably just some old, forgotten tale written by a long-passed ancestor.”

  Marlowe didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t say anything else about it. “Are you ready for your fight tonight?” she asked instead.

  Grateful for the change of topic, she grinned smugly. “Always am.”

  Marlowe answered with a wan smile, and Faythe felt a pang of guilt. She knew her friend hated keeping her deadly secret from Jakon even more than she did. Regardless, she helped by keeping him busy every time Faythe had a fight, usually inviting him to stay at her cottage overnight.

  She put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I haven’t lost yet,” she said by way of consolation. “And thanks for keeping Jakon…occupied.” She added a hint of suggestiveness to lighten the mood.

  Marlowe gaped, and her cheeks turned bright. Faythe chuckled mischievously, moving around her to leave.

  “See you tonight!” she sang before strutting out of the blacksmiths.

  Chapter 31

  That evening, Marlowe skipped through the door of the hut without knocking—as Faythe and Jakon had insisted a while back—and beamed at Faythe as she grabbed a meat pie for herself and joined her in the kitchen, where they both dug in.

  “Keep your appetites. It’s the shows tonight—there’ll be plenty of stalls,” Jakon said as he emerged from the bedroom where he’d gone to change out of his work clothes.

  Faythe cursed internally. She’d forgotten all about the annual shows that took place in the square. They were a small dose of entertainment before the autumnal equinox outdoor ball at the end of the week and a tradition Jakon and Faythe attended every year. She loved watching the performances, and he knew it. Except this year, she had unknowingly double-booked. She had a far more unsavory activity planned for the night.

  Faythe shot her gaze to Marlowe in a plea for help, but her look suggested she had no idea how to get her out of going. “I—I totally forgot. I’m not feeling too great tonight. Maybe you guys should go without me?” she said pathetically, unable to come up with a more convincing excuse.

  Marlowe nodded in understanding, trying to help her cause, but Jakon frowned deeply.

  “That’s never stopped you missing the shows before,” he accused.

  Faythe wracked her brain, but nothing came up. He wouldn’t buy that she was simply too ill to attend, so she mustered a weak smile.

  “You’re right. I guess I could come for a bit.”

  Jakon relaxed, and Marlowe disguised her worry with a wide grin.

  “I’ll just go change,” Faythe said to excuse herself.

  In the bedroom, she cursed again as she stripped down. She had to think of something to excuse herself early, but for now…

  She climbed into her fighting suit and pulled on her boots before choosing a dark crimson gown and sliding into it over her leathers. It made her a little bulky, but not enough that Jakon would notice, especially not if she wore her black cloak over the top.

  The bedroom door opened with a creak, and she jumped, but she relaxed when Marlowe’s head poked around the frame.

  “What are you going to do?” she whispered.

  “I’ll have to leave early.” Faythe lifted her gown to show what she wore underneath.

  Marlowe grinned in appreciation.

  “Can you convince him to leave with you now? I’ll need a minute to stash the other things.”

  Marlowe answered with a nod. “Good luck,” she mumbled before closing the door again.

  Faythe heard them chatting in the kitchen when she went into the washroom to braid back her hair and hoped Jakon wouldn’t think anything of her hairstyle choice. She usually only pulled all her hair back when she went to practice swordplay or on particularity hot days.

  When the door clicked shut, signaling their leave, she slung her cloak on and gathered her other fighting items without a wasted second.

  Faythe walked hastily through the streets with her hood up. It was unusually busy with the shows going on, and she found herself having to weave and squeeze through small crowds on her way to the square. She concealed her other fighting items under her cloak, but no one paid her any attention.

  Taking a long route down a backstreet she knew would be quiet, she ducked into Crow’s Lane after checking the coast was clear. There, she found an old discarded crate and lifted it, placing her items down before covering them over with the wood. She added a few more that were laying around on top for extra measure—not that she expected anyone to be wandering down here. Satisfied, she left the way she came and merged with the flow of traffic on Main Street headed for the event.

  When she got to the square, it was packed. A stage had been set up on the far side. Kids sat as close as they could get while the adults stood behind, tightly compacted together. She had no
idea how to find her friends in the masses and cursed herself for not anticipating it.

  An idea came to mind. Faythe darted around the corner. She had never tried to climb the roof in a dress, but she was wearing her suit underneath. She hoisted the skirts to her waist, and with free leg movement, she scaled the usual way up. Faythe lay on her stomach and peered over, careful no one would notice her. This was their hideout spot, and she didn’t want to give away their vantage point.

  It didn’t take her long to scan through the heads before she spotted the familiar blonde and brunette couple near the edge of the crowd with drinks in hand. Location pinpointed, she quickly shimmied back down to the ground to join them. Weaving and nudging her way to her friends, she greeted them cheerfully over the clamor.

  “We weren’t sure if you would find us. Jakon was about to head back for you,” Marlowe said.

  “I have my ways.” Faythe flashed him a grin, and his eyes instinctively flicked behind them and upward as if he would spot her still spying on them from the rooftops.

  “Why do I ever doubt you?” He shook his head, sipping from his cup.

  Marlowe held a glass out to her. “It’s wine,” she said with a hint of caution, and Faythe knew it was to make sure she didn’t drink too much of it ahead of her other planned activity.

  She nodded gratefully and took the glass but didn’t drink straight away.

  The lights that canopied the square went out, and the crowd reacted with increased noise and piqued attention. Faythe checked her watch. She had time to enjoy at least one show.

  The curtains drew back, and a lady dressed in a magnificent ball gown appeared behind them along with a large harpsichord. The crowd gushed, and even Faythe gawked as the woman took a small bow and sat in front of the beautiful instrument. Her fingers graced the strings with a melody that weaved through the bodies, striking Faythe right where she stood. The whole world disappeared around her until she was completely transfixed. Then the woman began to sing, and a pleasant thrill rocked her to her core. It was a tale of the Spirits—their beginning and their purpose—and though Faythe didn’t think she believed in such things, she drank every word and marveled over the graceful, poetic depiction. The lady’s fingers plucked and stroked with such eloquence, the melody rising to the stars and beyond in a quickened tempo. Her body moved with each note like a wave in a storm as she poured her heart and soul over the strings.