Catching Pathways

by Danielle Berggren

  Rodan toasted Bairam with his goblet. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Conversation ebbed and flowed, touching on little things. Bairam utilized Rodan’s vast knowledge of the Basu family to bring up amusing anecdotes that had the whole room roaring with laughter. Maeve smiled so hard her cheeks began to hurt, watching Rodan banter playfully with his friend.

  Pike disappeared midway through the meal, which lasted hours. Every time Maeve assumed one of the courses would be the last, another was brought out. The serving sizes were tiny, yet still she found it difficult to force down more as they neared their thirtieth course. Following Rodan’s example, she sampled a small bite of everything before setting her utensils down, signifying she was done with the dish.

  Her thoughts went to the city they passed through on the way here, of the smaller, more decrepit houses near the front gates. How many of those families needed food like this? What the people here did not eat, what would happen to it?

  A crushing sense of not belonging stole over her. She glanced at Rodan, relaxed and happy, and at the Basu family, warm and inviting, and wondered if she would ever become comfortable with this—this excess.

  The food turned to ash in her mouth, and Maeve leaned back on her cushion. Alexis stared at her with glittering eyes. “Why don’t we get some air?” she suggested.

  Maeve offered up a weak smile. “That would be nice.”

  Bairam asked where they were going but Alexis shooed his questions away with a wink and a wave, leading Maeve out of the courtyard and into the women’s quarters. Tucked against one side of the spire, which led to private rooms, the women’s area was penned in by stone lattice work and contained several splashing clear-watered fountains to lounge near. Though hanging drapes blocked out the majority of the sunlight, a warm breeze managed to filter through.

  “It is overwhelming, isn’t it?” Alexis asked.

  Maeve raised her eyebrows. “What? The clothes, the jewels, the fifty course meals? Why would that be overwhelming?”

  Alexis laughed and lounged beside a pool of water, dipping her hand into the shallow depths and motioning Maeve to join her. She did, tucking her feet up with a sigh. “When I was a little girl,” Alexis said, “my family was poor. Then my father and mother made a few good investments, and we grew to be wealthy. Wealthy enough that, when I came of age, we were able to negotiate a marriage to Bairam Basu, the heir apparent to the kingdom of Visantium.” Her eyes locked on Maeve’s. “I know what it means to feel like an impostor.”

  They spoke more, of little things. Maeve told Alexis about her world. Alexis listened with rapt attention, asking for clarification on a few points but overall just soaking in Maeve’s stories.

  As afternoon turned toward night, a servant came and relayed that Rodan was asking for Maeve. She stood, and Alexis stood with her.

  “You’ll have to get used to finery such as this, if you and Rodan are serious about one another,” Alexis said, touching on their earlier conversation.

  Her cheeks grew warm. “I don’t know. Maybe the court will be different, now that he’s been in exile.”

  Alexis considered her, eyes shining in the light. “Perhaps,” she said. “And perhaps it will be you who needs to be different, Maeve Almeida.”

  With that, they followed the servant back to the courtyard, Maeve’s head spinning with what Alexis implied. Would she do it? Would she change who she was, how she acted, to fit the standards of a high court? Or would their time together change things?

  If they won, if she stayed, would she ever believe she belonged?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Rodan

  MAEVE INSISTED UPON GOING OUT AGAIN almost as soon as they arrived back at the inn. She took one glance at the corner of her room where the body once lay, shuddered, and grasped his arm. “Let’s go out among the people,” she said. “Explore the night market. Talk to them.”

  Something was amiss while they stayed at Bairam’s palace, but he did not find out what, exactly. She got along fine with one of the Sultan’s wives, yet there was an unsettling vibration to her—as though she would not sit still and would not be calm.

  They donned appropriate street wear, both of them covered in the black and gold colors of Rodan’s house. Maeve’s leather bodice bore golden stitching up the sides, gold thread holding it closed, and golden roses adorning the edges. He saw something like it once before and did his best to replicate the pattern. He wore a vest fashioned much the same way, and they both wore loose shirts, tight trousers and knee-high boots.

  Pike stayed behind, ostensibly because he wanted his rest but, Rodan thought, probably more so that he could give the couple the space they sorely craved. Ever since Pike joined their little group, moments where he and Maeve were alone grew fewer and further between.

  Now, setting off out the front door of the inn and turning into the deeper parts of the city, they became surrounded by people. People leaning out of windows calling to their neighbors or throwing refuse out into the gutters. People walking, brisk or calm, through the cooling night air toward the midnight market.

  Maeve took his arm and leaned into him. He found her hand and squeezed it.

  They stopped in at a tavern. Maeve preferred the street food to the palace fare and shone with excitement as she loaded her plate with roasted pistachios, grilled meats, savory rice, and sauces heavy with spice. She ate with her fingers like the locals, sopping up the remainder of her dinner with thick bread peppered with chunks of garlic.

  Rodan stared at her and felt like his face might break from all the smiling.

  “What is it?” she asked, her eyebrows raised as she sucked some sauce off her thumb.

  He shook his head. “I enjoy watching you.” He tilted his head to the side, and asked, “Are you happy, Maeve?” I want you to be happy.

  She thought about it, leaning back in her chair and casting her eyes about the room with its many customers. Laughter and conversation ebbed and flowed, even around their semi-private dining table in the corner. Her eyes lit on one particular group of young men and women, their cups full of wine and their heads thrown back as they laughed at some anecdote or another.

  “What is it?” Rodan asked.

  Her gaze turned wistful, and she looked back at him. “I was thinking how I never had that. In my world. The group of friends I might go out and have a good night with. People who would laugh and be silly with me. Talk to me, understand me, help me. I never had it. I kept myself away from people, because I learned early on people cause pain.”

  Rodan set his hand between them on the table, there in case she needed it.

  “I don’t know if I know what happiness is, Rodan. But I think I can see the outline of it, the shape of it. I think that—yes, probably. Because of the trials, I—” She put her hand in his, and he wrapped his fingers around her. “It’s stressful, not knowing what we’ll face. I’m afraid all the time. Not just of the danger to me, but because I’m afraid for you, and for Pike. I’m scared of what it will mean if we win all these battles, and we face off against Sebastian. I’m afraid of what it means, that I have been crowned beside you in each of the Realms. Will I be forced to fight, too, because of some stupid rule? Must I face Sebastian in a duel? Face you?”

  He ran a thumb over the back of her hand. “If you did not accept the crown, the Realms would reject you. The Realms have a mind of their own, and I have the feeling it pays more attention to you then to the average citizen. If you rejected the crowns, you would be back in your world, and I without a companion for the trials.” He paused and thought for a moment before continuing, “And yes, it means you will be a part of the duel. We all will. Together. I hope it won’t come to that. I hope we’re able to come to a peaceful transition of power. We have three Realms at our backs, Sebastian has none.”

  Maeve pursed her lips. “And what if he insists on a duel? I can’t face off against my friend.” She shook her head, her flyaway hairs floating like clouds around her face and refle
cted in the candlelight. “You ask if I’m happy, but I’m worried all the time. The only time I’m not is—is when I’m with you. When we’re alone.”

  Warmth spread through his limbs, and a slight smile curved his lips. “I love you, Maeve Almeida.”

  A flush bloomed in her cheeks, and she glanced away, back at the table of young adults who still passed a jug of wine among each other, joking and carrying on. “I know,” she whispered. She clutched his hand tighter. “Thank you for finding me.”

  Rodan slid off his chair and knelt in front of her, the motion giving her a small advantage in height. He clasped her hands. “We found each other.”

  She smiled, the motion shy. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  He let go of one hand and cupped her cheek, pulling her face closer to his. “This,” he murmured, catching her lips with his.

  It was not something one did in Visantium, where public displays of affection were considered somewhat taboo, if not downright condemned. He would hold back no longer, however, and damn who witnessed them.

  He kept getting glimpses inside of Maeve that left him devastated. The chasm of loss and pain, the past that haunted her still, staggered him. He wanted nothing more than to draw every one of those memories out of her head. He wanted to smother them in kisses, drown them in pleasant memories, and usurp their control over her. She deserved true happiness, not some watered-down version.

  As Rodan held and kissed her, her lips soft and breath sweet, he wondered how much time he would be granted to focus on replacing those bad memories with good. Would it be only a few short months, or would he be granted years? Centuries?

  The desire to strip off his gloves and clasp her hand grew to a physical urge. He gripped the back of her neck and her slender fingers, trembling with the suppressed inclination. He wanted no other the way he wanted her.

  A throat cleared, and Maeve pulled away. One of the tavern girls, a deep frown on her face, held her hand out to Rodan, wordless in her demand for payment. He sighed, rose, and pressed six silver pieces into her palm, hesitated, and added two more. “For you,” he offered.

  The woman glared at him and said nothing.

  Maeve stood, looking a little flustered, and followed Rodan from the now still and silent tavern. “I didn’t realize it would be that big a deal,” she breathed as the cool night air closed over them.

  Rodan gave a soft laugh. “It’s much the same in the Fae court. Intimacy is kept behind closed doors. Even physical affection between children and parents was frowned upon.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You’re kidding me.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Rodan was unsure if he heard her right, but he swore she muttered a soft, “Fuck that,” under her breath.

  They entered the night market and walked with purses out, shopping their way on a meandering path that drew them close to groups of chattering neighbors and friends. Their own clothing was a little strange-looking among the glittering silk embroidery, sheer muslin, and layers of linen the citizens robed themselves with, so they stood out. Occasionally he would hear someone whisper about the king, and the speaker would dart away quick as a minnow, weaving through the crowds.

  Rodan wondered how many of them made their way to Bairam or his household with news of their movements.

  Of all the cities and all the Realms he oversaw as king, the Fourth Realm and Visantium were by far the ones he policed the least. Not because of the ties of friendship and trust to the Basu family, but because no stir of rebellion or hint of a turncloak would be found here. The city had become a haven of sorts, outside of his own court and Realmsgate.

  How he longed for it now, for the twisting corridors of his palace with its many rooms of wonder, and of the thick woods that covered three quarters of the island and contained a vast wealth of hunting and trapping resources. There lay a little cottage there, nestled on the crest of a hill near a clear crystalline blue lake. A place he wanted to share, for the first time, with another person. Maeve would love it, with the little herb gardens and nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the birdsong and the calls of the insects to disturb the perfect peace. It was a little thing—one large room with little else but a hearth and a bed and a few comfy chairs—but it was everything to him, sometimes.

  They strolled the market for an hour when Maeve stiffened. He cocked his head, trying to hear what she did, but nothing piqued his attention. He frowned and glanced down.

  Her eyes were as big as coins as she rose up on tiptoe, “Where are all the children?”

  Rodan pulled away, and his gaze whipped around the bazaar.

  Surely, there were children somewhere?

  But no.

  Every which way he looked, there only strode adults. Some almost short enough to be children but, as they turned, proved to be full-grown.

  Rodan turned back to Maeve, and she nodded, as though she understood the whirling chaos of his thoughts. Perhaps she did. “Earlier?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Only in Bairam’s palace.” She paused, then added, “Only in the day.”

  A flash of cold swept over him, and he turned again, surveying the crowd. Surely not? Not here. Not now. Karst was a fluke. A single, solitary unit.

  Yet he did not deny what his eyes told him.

  The Nyx were here.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Maeve

  THEY STAYED OUT MOST OF THAT NIGHT, until dawn kissed the sky pink. The city did not settle down, people moving about - shopping, dancing, singing, drinking, or working - until well past midnight. In her own world, children would be scarce during such hours, but Rodan assured her, quietly into her ear, that Visantium held a thriving nightlife that did not preclude the youngest among them.

  They fell into bed as the suns’ light swept through the slats in Rodan’s shutters. Maeve passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow, her arm thrown across Rodan’s chest and her head buried into the crook of his arm. When she woke, well past mid-day, it became obvious that he had not slept. There were no bags under his eyes, nor were they bloodshot, and he did not appear weary at first glance, but when his eyes found hers, she felt the weight of those hours he spent awake. Thinking.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice still thick with fatigue.

  He shook his head, his hair sliding like slippery river grass across his chest. She reached out and twirled a lock of it around her fingers, marveling in its softness. “It has to be them. The Nyx. They’re here. I can think of nothing else.” He paused and ran a hand over his forehead before plunging his fingers into his hair. “Why would Bairam lie to me? If there were children being taken, he would know. Why is no one talking about it?”

  “Perhaps they’re scared to,” Maeve offered. “Perhaps they’re not supposed to talk about it, and so they avoid the subject.”

  “But why?” Rodan asked. “Why would he keep such a thing from me?”

  Maeve thought for a moment. Plots were her specialty, for as a writer she had to outthink the villain. She tried to imagine what she would write about in this situation, and a sickening thought crashed over her. She rose up so she sat taller than he. “Maybe not all the children are gone. Maybe only the ones who are rich are still here.” She thought a little more, holding up a hand to stop Rodan from speaking. “How many grandchildren does he have? Not many of his daughters are married, and those that are, they’re very young - at least for my world. Twenty, maybe twenty-two. When do women get married in Visantium? At what age? How many children would they have borne by now?”

  “One, perhaps two,” Rodan said, the words falling from his lips without a second thought. “No more than that. No older than, say, three?”

  “There were children much older than three among his grandchildren,” Maeve said, quieting as her thoughts solidified into a working theory. “Maybe they aren’t his true kin. Maybe they belong to someone else.”

  Rodan leaned forward, his hand snaking out and seizing hers, his
fingers tight against her skin. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” Maeve said, her voice trembling a little, “he’s stealing the children.”

  Rodan grew silent for a long time, his eyes—the black like a void, and the green so vivid it shone like new spring grass—boring into her. She almost shuddered under the weight of that attention, but she could not bear it if he thought her frightened of him, though some infinitesimal part of her still was. Still remembered her old enemy. Another, larger part of her was scared for a whole other reason. Scared for his love of her. Scared she might feel the same.

  He blinked. “We must go back among the people. See for ourselves. Find the young ones.”

  Maeve nodded, her throat tight. “I don’t think you’ll like what we find.”

  They ate a quick breakfast of fruit, sliced meats, and toasted black bread. The innkeeper’s greetings were subdued, almost icy. Maeve forgot to make a show of sleeping in her own chambers, and she had learned that Visantium prized marriage and looked down upon what they considered more casual affairs of the heart.

  Is that what this is? Maeve wondered, A casual affair? Soon cast aside? Rodan said he wanted her by his side. Begged her to listen to him as he said the words. Promised her a ‘forever.’

  Forever didn’t exist. Not in her world.

  Rodan reached for her hand again, twining his fingers through hers. Even with the gloves on, the heat of him radiated into her. The solidity helped anchor her.

  “I love you,” he murmured, his head bent down near her ear. “Remember that.”

  She started, wondering if he sensed her thoughts. She glanced up at him, eyes wide, and his slow smile disarmed her. How unlike he acted from the imperious king she remembered in her first foray into this world. Her chest ached, and she longed to say the words back. To cement her feelings. But—