by A. K. Koonce
“Say it,” he whispers. “Whatever speech you’ve prepared the entire way here inside your head. Just get it out. If I have to look at your face all tensed up like this any longer, I’ll have to rip out my own eyeballs to make it through the evening.”
The Chaplain raises both arms. Candles light around the room. The crowd as they lower themselves to the floor and I do the same.
The Chaplain calls over the crowd. “Oh, Goddess Celeste of creation mighty and pure, listen to our humble prayers. Lead us to greatness, bless us with your divine power, and cleanse us of all that is unholy.”
High fae and servant alike repeat his words, all except for me. I lean toward Bear, my hair curling against the pillow as I bend lower into it.
“You killed your father!” I say with a hissing whisper.
“He was going to burn down the city, Syren. I didn’t kill him because he was a fucking cruel bastard. Which he was, but he . . . he was going to end the plague by ending the Northern Kingdom.”
I blink at him and the rawness of what he did for his people. He chose his people over his family. When I swallow there’s more emotion there than I’ve ever felt for the man before me.
He saved them.
But there’s too much between us right now.
“Why didn’t you tell me my father was coming?” I whisper and force myself to keep going. “And now there is going to be a party? I don’t even like parties. Also, if you even think about arranging the consummation of our relationship prior to our marriage, I’ll end you. My father only wants to ruin me, so if this doesn’t work out, there's proof that I’m not good enough for anyone else. He would be happy enough to ship me off to that lonely island again.” I try to be quiet, to not interrupt everyone else’s prayer time. However, when I glance up, the Chaplain is staring at me, trying to burn a hole into my uncleansed soul with his gaze.
“I thought you liked that island,” Bear says.
“You’re missing the point entirely,” I hiss.
The fire lit from the candles grows higher and higher as the Chaplain’s gestures become grander and more elaborate. His voice booms loudly over us.
“Please say your prayers at this time. This is a special moment for you to atone for your wrongdoings. It is between you and Goddess Celeste.” The Chaplain walks across the room, stopping in front of me. “You and Goddess Celeste only.”
Always Goddess Celeste. Never my goddess.
More frustration builds until I can barely think straight.
When the crowd begins their quiet whisper of a prayer, again I look back at Bear with disgust. “This is entirely unfair.”
“What’s so unfair? I do not need your father’s coin. I do not care what coin his dowry holds. This marriage is for these people.” He looks past me at the guests bowing around him. “Plus, I know you’ve taken to like me.”
“Excuse me?” I flout at him.
“Oh, I’ve seen the way your eyes linger, or better yet, travel.” Bear winks. “So if and when I do decide to consummate with my mate, I’m sure it won't be all that bad for you.”
“We are not mates.”
Whispers begin to die down around us, and I can feel the Chaplain still staring at me. I ignore his bitter attention, opting to continue my conversation, even if it leaves a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“The witch said a water fae and a fire fae will be destined by the flames and the waves of the sea to be fated with unending desire and good fortune for all. But you don’t really believe that, do you?” He sits up, his eyebrows furrowing so heavily, I fear they may form a permanent knot.
I don’t know what I believe but unending desire for killing him seems like a very stable feeling inside me so perhaps we are fated.
I look around at all the rest of our court, still kneeling. Some eyes lift from their prayers and watch us with curiosity. I catch Donovan watching with particular interest only a row behind us and one large pillow away.
“May Goddess bless you,” The Chaplain says with too much irritation for a blessing. He closes his palms and diminishes every flame around the room. In one lavish movement, he dismisses the crowd. One thing is certain—prayers here are a lot quicker and to the point.
Bear shakes his head, striding away without helping me to stand. Every step he takes away from me pounds through my heart.
The more I like him, the more he makes me hate him.
If this is what liking him feels like, I don’t know if I could survive loving him.
Fifteen
Dark Magic
Syren
A hand with bright milky white skin appears in my vision. Slowly, I tear my gaze away from the chapel doorway where fae, trolls, and elves are shuffling out. I follow a long black sleeve up the arm of the person offering it to me from my pillow.
The black sleeve ends as the material continues into a turtleneck folded down as low as the material allows. Above that is a gently upturned smile and the mysterious black eyes of none other than Donovan Gregor.
“Glad to see you made it back to the castle in one piece.”
I take his cold hand and stand up with as much grace as I can muster. “Yes, I suppose it is always a gamble to run off with a cursed king.” My attempt to gently smile feels painfully forced.
My stomach still feels knotted from the argument I had with Bear.
“May I walk you back to your room?” he asks. “It seems your doting soon-to-be-husband has other matters to attend to.”
Every breath I take feels dry, like the air is choking me and leaving my throat raw. I chalk it up to the ridiculous number of candles they have arranged throughout the chapel.
“Did you find our city accommodating?” he continues.
“The celebration was lovely. Took me back to my childhood. I wish I had more good things to say, but it all quickly ends there.”
Donovan seems to understand. He hums while we step around pillows and follow the quickly dispersing crowd out of the room. Strands of his long black hair hang straight down over his shoulder, a couple braids breaking up the simple look. Today he has dark circles under his eyes and the few lines in his near-perfect skin appear deep, like he aged overnight.
But I can’t shake one question circling my mind.
“You watch me often. And forgive me for asking but, why do you care if I like it here? Why do you go out of your way more than my own chamber maid?” My words are steady but my heart pounds hard to know what he’ll admit to me. Or I suppose, what lies he might say.
“I care because I want what Goddess Celeste said to be true. I want peace. Just like Bear does. And for there to be peace, you have to be happy.” It’s a very thought out reply that makes me realize he understands what steps need to be taken for the little spell to be broken. It’s not just getting me here. Happiness is important.
I just don’t know if Bear knows that or not.
“How do you find your way around this place?” I change the subject quickly and glance away so it isn’t totally obvious I’ve been staring wide eyed at him, despite the uncomfortable feeling churning in my gut.
Donovan is smart. But he’s so thought out that it feels like he’s always plotting. He just isn’t someone to be trusted.
He’s someone with more secrets behind his shifting eyes than the world will ever know.
Whatever this dangerous air is that he has about him, it makes me feel like it’s a puzzle that needs to be solved.
“It takes a whole lot of getting used to and many, many times of getting lost in these halls to finally figure it out. I suggest starting at your room and walking the halls nearest you and then expanding from there. Just be careful where you lurk. Not everyone in the castle is as accommodating as I.”
“I didn’t realize that the castle was built with a random hodgepodge of rooms and halls before I came here.”
“Don’t go into rooms that you aren’t familiar with. King Doverrett and the Chaplain were close friends once upon a time. They renovated t
he building to center it around the ballroom, but everything outside it is utter nonsense. The shifting spells only make it worse. They intensify and move based on the passenger’s intent. It’s to make it harder for intruders to find their way around. Keeps important people like you safe.” He pats my hand gently before he releases me. “He also built rooms that contain traps and nothing more.”
Traps.
This place definitely feels like it would have traps. I wonder if it’s something that would kill me quickly or lock me away for the rest of my life. Honestly, I am surprised that my father hasn’t done something similar to the castle back in the Southern Kingdom. But his trap rooms would probably just be giant holes in the ground with long black stakes at the bottom.
This castle feels more dangerous the more I learn about it. It’s certainly not meant for people to wander, as he suggested.
“What kind of traps?” I try to cover the cough that grates my itching throat.
“Are you okay?” Donovan asks, stopping our long walk back to my room. “You look rather pale. Do you need to rest for a moment?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Please continue. You’ve truly enthralled me with your knowledge of this castle.” As shifty as Donovan is, he’s someone with an immense amount of information. Perhaps it’s because his best friend is someone who hears the kingdom’s confessions or perhaps he’s just as watchful as he seems.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” I manage a genuine smile, though I can feel a sweat break out over my forehead. It is a rather off feeling. I’ll make sure to get plenty of rest tomorrow. It’s probably from the anxiety of my father being in the kingdom. Maybe he is staying at the castle tonight . . . is it so wrong of me to hope that he loses his way and wanders into one of these said traps?
“What kind of traps?” I push. The more knowledge I can gain about this castle, the better. “This is to be my home. I want to know what kind of place I’m living in.”
“For starters,” he gives me a pitying look, “these rooms have either an upside-down crown or a matchstick carved into the doors above the handles. The traps can range from pools of acid, arrows already strung to release when the door opens, or bewitched rooms where you’ll find yourself entranced. Most of the entrancements are run-of-the-mill fae glamour magnified by witch magic.”
“Who is this witch who does all the spellwork? She must be a costly endeavor.”
We turn right, continuing down an unfamiliar hall. My new sandals rub against my ankles in an annoying way that makes me want to kick them off and walk barefoot. If my father caught wind of that, he would likely have a heart attack and fall over dead.
“Alas, I’ve never met her. But I think that Miranda does a lot of running between the witch and the king. Either he or the Chaplain, though I’m not sure what a priest needs a witch for.”
I purse my lips, feeling a hefty cough rise within me. It burns my lungs and lingers in my throat. “Please excuse me.” I lift my pointer finger and turn away. The cough is ragged and barky, and it tastes metallic. As if I could hide it from Donovan. I quietly wipe the sweat from my upper lip on the sleeve of my lace dress and turn back to him with an easy smile.
“Here, Princess.” He pulls a cotton handkerchief from the pocket of his pants. A few orange and yellow flowers fall from it to the ground.
“Saving the flowers to woo someone, Mr. Gregor?” I take the small cloth from him and use it to cover another forceful cough. I recognize the flowers. They are lovely, and the smell is potent, but those flowers, those are powerful and deadly.
Finding great joy in all things that utterly ruin my father’s happiness, I spent a lot of time as a teenager studying dark magic. Never practiced it because I’m not stupid enough to do so.
Witches have a choice about what kind of magic they wish to dwell in. Fae are not as lucky. We get a particular set of skills, purely hereditary, and should we want to dive into the vast expanse of dark magic, we must trade something for that power. At least there is a choice in what you trade.
I’ve seen fae trade years of their long life, give up their youthful looks, and even sacrifice their loved ones for access to magic as great as that. Of course, tutors won’t teach on the subject, and it is a rather taboo topic, but I soak up information. Even the kind I’ll never use.
Those flowers, combined with a few other ingredients, could do damn near anything depending on the spell you cast. You want to poison someone, you want to shift your appearance, you want to control their mind long enough for them to kill themselves or even cover a person in painful boils, this is the plant for you.
Donovan plucks them both from the floor quietly, tucking them back into his pocket. “I may have ordered them for someone special. Yes.”
My shoulders are so tense it hurts, but I feign stupid interest.
“Who is the lucky lady?” I shimmy my shoulders just slightly as I speak. Mostly to cover the way my body begins to nervously quake. I know what they do. Does Donovan?
“Princess Syren. I’m a gentleman. I don’t kiss and tell.” We keep walking forward, finally coming to a bend that looks similar to my hallway. Goddess above! Literally every hall looks the same here.
“Okay. Okay. I won't prod into your business anymore. Though someday, if you wish to reveal who the lucky lady is, I’ll be waiting with patient ears.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Donovan gently releases my arm. “Here we are.”
The guard that remains outside of my rooms at all times opens the door for me. I step into my room, then quickly realize I’m still carrying his handkerchief.
“Wait. Don’t forget this.”
Donovan’s face reads plainly, his features always an easy tell for his thoughts, as his lips curl back with disgust. “No, please keep it. I haven't use for it any longer.”
“Thank you.” Folding the material in my hands, I wave goodbye and let the guard close the door behind me. But only for a moment. I lay the handkerchief down on my dresser. I open the door again to see the guard staring nervously at me.
“I’m sorry Princess, but I can’t leave my post to retrieve anything for you.” His voice trembles as it did the first night I snuck off.
“No, no. I was hoping you could escort me somewhere?” I wait for him to slowly nod yes. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I-I mean, is it a good secret or a bad secret?”
For the love of all that is good and holy, this guard damn nearly looks like he will piss his pants any second. This is who they have guarding me? Whole lot of good that would do.
Impatiently, I let out a huff of air. “Listen, we aren’t children. This isn’t a ‘good or bad secret’ scenario where you have to decide whether or not you are going to tell the grown-ups. I’m asking you as your future queen if you can keep the whereabouts of where I want you to take me a secret.”
“Yes, Princess. I can keep a secret.”
“Good.” I close the door behind me and give him a stern look. “Now take me to the armory.”
It’s less of a walk than I remember it being before. But perhaps the halls are shifting kindly because of my urgent intent. As we go, a few other guards pass, giving us small salutes or quick bows before they continue on their way. To them, I’m likely just going for a brisk walk around the castle.
The guard, Hemphway, as I learn, stops and gestures to the door on our right. The steel handle is chilly when I test it. Locked. Not surprising, though.
“Do you have the key?” I cough into my arm, wishing I had kept Donovan’s handkerchief. But I know how objects can be traced by some skilled fae, and I’m not going to bring it with me just for him to know exactly where I am at all times. I need him to think I’m in my room.
Hemphway holds up a single key on a large key ring. I scowl.
“You only have a single key? What does that even go to?”
His shaking lips tip up in a smile the lasts only a second before they go back to their regular slightly open, heavy breath
ing, resting place. “This key goes to all of the doors.”
“Oh, how wonderfully useful. Made for us by that witch everyone speaks about—yes ?”
“Yes.” He confirms. With an easy twist, Hemphway undoes the lock and opens the door for me. “The armory, your highness.” He snaps his fingers, lighting the lanterns on each wall of the room.
It’s utterly beautiful. Take-your-breath-away magical, just like everything else in this alluring castle tends to be. Rows of trim armor line the walls with racks of shining swords and sturdy bows. Other, more playful-looking weapons sit in the middle of the room.
Every piece of steel is tipped with iron and every sharpened blade is neatly organized. As it should be. My heart skips a beat as I reach out to touch some of the amazing craftsmanship in this room. What I wouldn’t give to fight with one of these swords!
But that isn’t what we came here for. Even though it’s hard, I have to look past the weapons. On the backside of the room, cast in the glow of a lantern, sits a desk. Stacks of papers are held down by weights that look like coal. Maps hang from the wall above, while stacks of books line up next to them.
This is Donovan’s office. These are his things. I even recognize the sweater on the back of his chair.
“Thank you, Hemphway. You’re a real peach,” I mumble as I open and close drawers. I thumb through the books at the top of the stacks and shuffle a few things around, careful to arrange them the way I found them.
Nothing. There is nothing here. What is Donovan doing with those flowers? Not to mention the creepy guy vibe I get from him is pretty strong. Something, something has to be wrong.
Chewing on my lip, I give a few especially well-made swords a daring glance and walk toward the door. Something shines a few feet from the doorway. Not the waxed shine of metal, but a metallic piece of paper.
The small scrap sticks out from a long wool sweater hung neatly by the door. I kneel close to the pocket. The strong beautiful scent of those flowers still clings to the material.
