Catching Pathways

by Danielle Berggren

  Pike shook his head. “I know how to cover my tracks and move without being seen. I carried him like he were a drunken friend I was taking home. The man was about my size. I dressed him in some of my traveling clothes.”

  Rodan noticed Maeve’s fingers shaking, and she put down the peach slice, twisting her hands in her lap. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “At least Sebastian hasn’t tried again.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, and something shone in her eyes which defied interpretation.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She shook her head, silent.

  Pike cleared his throat and stood. “I best be going. I’ll slip into the palace now, before the party. There will be plenty of people coming and going, bringing food and such.” He touched his finger to his forehead and gave the slightest of bows toward them both. “See you this evening.”

  When the man left, Rodan’s fingers tightened on Maeve’s shoulder. “What is it?” he asked again.

  Maeve took a deep, hitching breath, and let it out slowly. Her shoulders slumped. “That was the third death I was directly responsible for,” she murmured. “The third, Rodan. What kind of person has three dead people on their conscience?”

  He carried a great many more than three on his own, but he understood what she meant. “The assassin was not your fault. He bit into a poison tooth. He killed himself.”

  “Because of me,” she insisted. “He was tasked to kill me.”

  “It would have been better if he succeeded?”

  “No,” she sighed, “of course not, I just—I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  Rodan moved, so he sat in front of her, his knees touching hers. “There was the captain, too, and he brought that upon himself, but who else, Maeve? Who is your third?”

  “My first,” she corrected. “My first death. The one I’m most responsible for.”

  Maeve stared at the space between their legs, avoiding his gaze. “Maeve,” he said. “Tell me. Nothing you say will change the fact that I love you. You should unburden yourself.”

  Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes, but still she did not look up. “Who am I, to deserve to be unburdened? This sin should dog me for the rest of my life.”

  He waited. Her resolve cracked. He noticed it in the lines of her face. He held her hands in each of his and stayed silent.

  “The night before the duel,” Maeve started, her voice brittle, “you and I met for the first time. Soon after, when you let me go, I met with Sebastian. He had been planning something for some time, and as we walked to a clearing in the woods, he told me what his plans were for me. He said he knew you possessed more magic than him, and were quicker and better with the sword, but he had to duel you to win the crown.

  “Sebastian made it sound like it was more than a matter of life and death. He made it sound like the world would end if he lost and you stayed on your throne. Understand that. He convinced me you were starting to go mad, and one day you would destroy the Realms. That you were Fae, and because you were Fae you would never be able to govern humans with any kind of compassion or long-term care. He told me those creatures you killed were children, innocent of wrongdoing and there for your bloodlust.”

  “They weren’t children, they were—”

  “I know.” Maeve raised her eyes. “And I know I was wrong, back then. I just—I was so stupid, Rodan. So stupid. I just met you. I saw with my own eyes you were not the madman Sebastian convinced me you were. What he told me over the years sunk deep, I suppose.

  She took a deep breath. “And Sebastian told me of the spell that would render you weak. It had to be tied to someone who would keep their eyes on you during the whole battle, so it fell on me to work the magic. The catalyst this time was not an herb, or a stone of power.” Her voice shook. “It was death.”

  Death was a heady magic. It was forbidden in the Fae court, but some still performed the unholy deeds. Human sorcerers and witches as well. Those who possessed only a modicum of talent might find their ability to craft increased a thousand-fold when they incorporated death into it.

  He thought of the sensation of her light potion, of the heady rush of magic that coursed through the air and the earth while she held onto the spell. Magnificent and overpowering.

  He thought about what it would mean if that magic were powered by the end of a life. A small life might not make much of a difference. She killed plants and insects to create her potion, after all. Something more than that? “What did you do?” he asked, and trepidation shadowed his voice.

  She looked away.

  “The woman was there when Sebastian led me into the clearing. He told me she was a witch. A bad witch. She was gagged and bound. I never heard her speak. Or scream. I shook when I slit her throat over the silver bowl. I bungled it, but I felt the magic call to me. I can remember it like it was yesterday. Nothing had ever felt that good, that right. It was like I saw the strings holding the universe together. I could reach out and touch them, if I wanted to.

  “I rode that power to the duel the next day. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I watched you, and I plucked at the threads holding your power in place.” She shivered. “I’m so sorry, Rodan.”

  “Who was she? Did you ever find out?”

  Maeve shook her head, and tears fell down her cheeks. “She was probably good, wasn’t she?” She choked out a sob. “I killed an innocent woman, Rodan.”

  He cupped her cheek with one hand. “You saved me, though. You pulled back on the spell at the last moment, didn’t you?”

  Maeve blinked, and her shining citrine eyes found his. “I did,” she whispered. “I knew I didn’t want you to die. I didn’t want more blood on my hands.”

  “Sebastian must have been furious.”

  Her lips tightened into a thin line. “He was. I told him the magic wore out. Even as it still sizzled inside of me, I told him it was gone.”

  A silence fell between them.

  Something happened during the duel. Something rendered him as slow as a mortal, as slow to heal as one. He rubbed the spot on his chest where he bore the scar of Sebastian’s last strike. Even as Maeve’s spell fell away, tendrils of it clung to him for days. What normally would heal without a mark left a token instead; he would carry the scar forever.

  The only explanation Rodan had managed to come up with was that Maeve meddled in the fight, yet he never imagined she did so through a human sacrifice.

  A thought entered his head. “Maeve, did Sebastian give you anything to eat or drink before you—before the woman in the clearing?”

  Maeve frowned, pulled away from his hands, and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “A theory.”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “I—yes. A flask of wine. Ostensibly to help calm my nerves.”

  Rodan seized on the fact. “What if Sebastian put something more than wine in that flask? What if he made a potion of his own for you, one that would lower your inhibitions and make you more willing to do what he asked? I understand you, Maeve. You would never take someone’s life in cold blood. Not if you were in your right mind.”

  “You don’t know me,” she argued, arms crossed over her stomach. “We’ve traveled together all of—”

  “It does not matter the length of time we’ve been together. Maeve, I know you. Your heart. There is a spark inside of you that would quail at the thought of taking life in anything other than self-defense.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t like to hear it, but Sebastian—”

  “I know what Sebastian is,” she interrupted. “I saw the remnants of the villages too, remember? I did not want to see it, but I know what he’s capable of now. I just—” she clutched her stomach tighter. “I wish I had not been so fucking stupid.”

  “You were young,” he said, not for the first time. “There are many follies in youth. When it mattered, you pulled back on the spell, probably when Sebastian’s potion wore off. You saved my life.” He gripped her knees. “I am here because of yo
u.”

  “You were deposed because of me.”

  Rodan scoffed, “That was Sebastian, not you.”

  Maeve rose and walked to the window, hugging herself and looking out over the cityscape of Visantium. “Let’s drop it, okay? We’re going around in circles. You wanted to hear about that night, and now you have. Happy?”

  He stood, coming up behind her but keeping his hands down. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but she held herself so tight it was as though she might fly apart if he tried. “I’m glad you told me, yes,” he murmured. “But I don’t like to see you in such pain.”

  “We don’t know if he gave me a potion,” she said. “We don’t know if I was working under some kind of spell, or if it was all me. One hundred percent me. We’ll probably never know for sure.”

  He hesitated, reached out and caressed her elbow. She pulled away for a moment and relaxed, letting him run his hand up her arm. “I still love you,” he said. “I still want nothing more than for you to be at peace.” He paused, then went on, “There is a way. A way to be sure.”

  She turned to him, her eyebrows drawn down, questioning. “How?”

  He held up his hand. “What happens during a bonding, and after a bonding is, beyond question, one of the greater things two people can share. Other bonded pairs have told me that they are able to access each other’s memories, and that they can walk them again as though they had gone back in time. I could do that for you, Maeve. I could find out if the drink were tainted.”

  She shook her head before he finished. “I can’t do that to you. We still don’t know if I’m mortal or not. I won’t let you die because we want to find an answer to a question more than a decade old.” Her eyes blazed. “Promise me, Rodan. Promise no matter what, you won’t do it. I know you want to, but I can’t. I can’t risk you like that.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to stop from pleading with her further. He saw by the set of her shoulders and the tightening of her jaw that she remained deadly serious. “I can’t make that promise.”

  She clasped his hand, her fingers warm through the leather. “You must. I won’t have you die, Rodan. Or go insane. If I—even if I die one day, you need to be able to live your life. You have to carry on.”

  He had been carrying on most of his life, but he did not say this. Instead, he squeezed her fingers back, and leaned in to drag his lips across her knuckles. “As you say.”

  She relaxed and stepped closer to him, the heat from her body searing through his clothes. “Now. I don’t want to think about these things anymore. Please, Rodan,” she begged, her lips hovering over his, “I want to be with you.”

  Their kiss started soft and delicate, but soon turned hungry. Rodan gripped her to him. She made small sounds against his mouth, and he ran a hand under the deep V of her shirt, pushing it from her shoulders so it puddled on the floor. He explored her, pulling her to him and ridding her of the rest of her clothes. For the first time, Rodan beheld her without anything hiding her body, but his wonderment was cut short by her own fevered pulling and pushing at his garments.

  He stopped her hands. “We can’t go all the way, love. Not yet.” He wanted that moment to be as close to perfection as possible. Not something they fell into because she tried to chase away the ghosts of the past.

  She made an exasperated noise and pushed him on the bed, rolling with him until he stretched above her, his hair falling like a curtain to obscure the rest of the room. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Please.”

  He did.

  He worshiped her with his mouth, with his hands, with his tongue. He poured everything he felt into every movement along her skin. Inhaled her scent, exhaled against her skin, feeling her shudder against him. Her voice remained hushed, conscious of the innkeepers, yet sounds never ceased to fall from her lips.

  Rodan teased her until she worked into a frenzy, a flush spreading across her chest and up to her cheeks. He coaxed her over the edge, not once but several times, until her eyes sparkled like cut jewels and her breathing came in hard pants.

  They lazed together, taking their pleasures for several hours before the suns began to make their descent and the time for the party fell upon them.

  Maeve rolled over in the bed, clutching a pillow to her bare chest. A fine sheen of sweat glowed on her skin, and she radiated contentment. Rodan smiled and tended to her bath, leaving her to it while he worked on their adornments for the soiree.

  Rodan created matching formal wear for him and Maeve. Black and gold, he bedecked her in finery worthy of his court and of Bairam and his guests.

  When she dressed, he wove golden chains around her throat and placed golden bangles at her wrists. She knotted her hair high atop her head, and he gave her a pair of long golden earrings wrought in the shape of a twisting rose vines, which caught the light as she moved. Long daggered sleeves and a tight bodice embroidered with real golden thread cinched in her waist, while layers of skirts dragged behind her as she walked.

  For himself, he created a long coat and vest, embroidered with gold thread much like hers, and wore his hair back in a braid. Tempted though he was to conjure a crown for both of them, he would not wear one again until he won back the crown of thorns and roses.

  The clothes, heavy and rich, were made to catch the eye and dazzle the senses. Maeve shimmered as she strode to the long mirror to check on her appearance. She preened, neck elongated and a soft smile curving the edges of her lips. He stood behind her, trailing the back of his fingers along the curve of her throat, and kissed her beneath her ear.

  They hired a palanquin to take them to the palace, one held by four burly men. Maeve fidgeted with her long sleeves and golden bangles once they sat alone, looking out through the curtained windows at the street as they passed by. Other palanquins moved about, no doubt bearing other guests toward Bairam’s last minute gathering.

  “We’ll be fine, my love,” Rodan murmured, taking her hand. Her thin fingers squeezed him, and he smiled. “You’ll have to get used to such finery if you’re to remain with me. At court, you’ll have the finest of everything I have to offer.”

  She flushed and shook her head. “I don’t need all this. You know that. I much prefer what we usually travel in. This,” she motioned at her dress with her free hand, “is a little too much for every day.”

  Rodan nodded. “Whatever you wish, you shall have.”

  She smiled at him and pulled her hand away, folding them in her lap. “I wonder what we’ll find out tonight.”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together, as we always do.”

  They traveled the rest of the way in silence. Bairam and his family must have eyes and ears everywhere. Outside their rooms at the inn—where they spoke softly, to keep any eavesdroppers unaware—they did not wish to discuss any of their plans or suspicions.

  They made their way through the gates of the palace and the palanquin lowered to the ground as one of the attendants helped Maeve climb out. Rodan followed suit and found himself in a world of jewels and fire.

  Torches flared on long brass poles set every few feet along the reflecting pool. More flanked the staircase up to the main entrance, showing the guests the way toward the heart of the gathering. Servants stood between the torches, holding trays of drinks and food, fanning away any insects with small painted fans depicting either the golden rose of Rodan’s house or the rising phoenix of Bairam’s.

  Every person stood bedecked head to toe in the finest clothing and jewels to be found in Visantium. Women dripped with gold and precious stones. The men wore jewelry, as well, more so than Rodan’s thick golden chain made of roses and thorns.

  Black, unlike the creams and reds and greens on display, stood out. The style of their dress was dissimilar enough to attract attention—reflective of life at the court of Realmsgate instead of Visantium.

  Rodan offered his arm, and Maeve’s hands wrapped around it. She held her head high, her eyes flickering a little to take in the sights but otherwise appearing
unperturbed. His chest swelled with pride at that subtle look on her face—the one which said she belonged here, and no one would tell her otherwise.

  She would make a fine queen, he thought.

  They made their way inside and just stepped into the grand foyer when Bairam’s voice boomed out at them, “Rodan, my friend! My honored guest! And Maeve, how splendid you look!”

  The sultan met them near one of the fountains, and Bairam spread his arms as though he would embrace Rodan. Instead, Rodan gave the smallest of bows. “Thank you for having us, and for throwing such a beautiful party.”

  “Nonsense,” Bairam said with a wave of his hand, turning to Maeve. “You look wonderful, my dear, simply marvelous. Why, if I didn’t know it was you, I would say the travel-weary woman I spoke to the other day and the vision before me were two different people.”

  Maeve gave a small smile, and Rodan noticed the edge to it. “Thank you,” she said. “You look very nice yourself.”

  Bairam, unlike many of his guests, wore a modest white tunic and loose pants, with golden slippers and golden trim. The same ruby he wore at their first meeting shone at the center of his chest, and his hair hung loose and oiled so the curls shone in the torchlight. For all he appeared plain on first glance, Rodan understood what the subtler message said. Few people could afford to possess cloth of such pure white, let alone keep it that way, especially in the desert with the heat they bore.

  A power move. Like much of what he did.

  “Come, come,” Bairam said, gesticulating widely with his arms. “I will show you to the main event rooms, and you must meet a few of the guests. They have been dying to meet you.”

  Rodan let Bairam lead the way, while Maeve held his arm and leaned into him a little as they walked. She rose up enough to speak soft words into his ear, “I don’t like this.”

  Rodan nodded, unwilling to reply but wanting to show that he, too, grew uncomfortable. Something in Bairam’s mannerisms made Rodan wonder—no. It made him sure Bairam was aware they had been told about the missing children.