by A. K. Koonce
Almost the entirety of our forces. I can’t forget the small legion of guards that follow me now. They check rooms before I enter and follow me around like lost ducklings. Six men. Apparently, I need six men.
Utterly ridiculous, in my personal opinion, but apparently King Iri doesn’t want to take my opinion into consideration at this exact moment. His mind is still clearly cluttered with the guilt of all those wounded and killed yesterday. I can see it in the excessive number of wrinkles he is creating on his forehead with that constant frown he is sporting.
It’s hard to give yourself Aisha-prescribed poison when you’re constantly being monitored. Guards even stand in my room while I sleep. I have never clenched my butt cheeks so tightly before in my life. It might be the end of me if one of them heard me let a massive fart rip in the middle of the night.
So I woke in the wee hours of the night and slipped away to the bathroom. I had more to do than just let myself relax and stink up the bathroom. I slipped another petal onto my tongue just as I had for the last few days.
The poison hits harder when you don’t have food in your stomach. I’m learning that the hard way. Either that or I’m on the fast track to death. It’s a good thing I’ve flirted with the line of life and death a few times in my life.
As for Aisha, she’s tried a few antidotes with me. None taste like the magical healing vial Bear gave me when I caught the curse the first time.
One did clear up my complexion rather well, but none are really a cure. It’s all been recorded in my little journal on my desk but nothing much has come of it all.
She continues to work, and I continue to be babysat.
This morning, I squint past the morning sun. Only a few swords remain alongside the training ring. I adjust the pants I’m wearing today and tuck in my blouse. The material feels heavy, like I’m carrying weights on my back, which is ridiculous because my gowns are absurdly heavy. I choose to ignore it and pick out a sword.
King Iri is working alone, his sword slashing through the air in skilled, learned movements. He does it again and again and again. Sweat drips from his face like he’s been here for hours already.
He slows when he hears me drag the sword against the ground behind me. He turns fully, so I can no longer see the defined muscles of his back and gives me a withering look.
“I thought you could use someone to talk to.” I lift the sword, separating my feet to give myself a steady stance.
He points his sword at me, gritting his perfect white teeth. “I don’t feel like talking.”
My blade trembles in my hand. I force myself to be as still as possible, but it shakes nonetheless. His eyes dart from me to the sword, but he doesn’t say a word. Dust and charcoal make the air thick. My throat feeling drier the longer I stand in the open training court. I want to choke on the air.
A bead of sweat forms along my hairline from the strain of holding the weapon. It’s never been this hard before.
Perhaps I should take a break from the poison. But… what if the day I stop is the day Aisha finds the cure…
I grunt, lunging forward. Bear easily bats my weapon away, meeting me with the thrust of his own blade. Narrowly, it misses me as I dart out from beneath it.
“You’re slow today,” He says, circling me.
My breathing already feels shallow and painful.
Could be the poison.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m fine,” I say instead.
Bear spins, his arm swinging hard toward me. With a startling crack, our swords meet as he presses into me. The X of our weapons the only thing separating the warmth of our bodies. His breath, smelling like wine, fans over my cheeks. His eyes, pools of warmed honey, squint as he examines me.
“You’re lying to me,” he whispers.
“I am not.” But even as I say it, the words coming out strained, I can feel my body giving up on me. Tense and tight, every muscle is screaming to give up. “How would you even know?” I challenge.
“Because I’m only using an eighth of my strength right now.”
An eighth. Like his muscles are leaving bulging flexes on reserve for another seven-eighths of his time.
I roll my eyes at him.
He pushes a little harder, my jaw clenching as I try to keep my knees from buckling. But he gives his sword a hard shove against mine, and my body betrays me. I fall hard to the concrete.
“You’re a better fighter than this. What’s wrong with you? You only lasted two seconds.” He tilts his head at me, studying me hard.
“That is what she said,” I groan beneath my breath as I stand. “I’m just tired from yesterday. It’s nothing.”
Hot liquid begins to roll down from my nose. I feel it first, and I try to wipe it away on my sleeve.
“Your nose is bleeding.” Bear crouches, dropping his sword. Firm and sure, he grips my face, turning my head towards him, exposing the silver drops of blood dripping from my face. “Are you sick?”
My stomach drops. That’s never happened before…
I swipe at my face again, trying to turn away without success. “I’m fine.”
“So help me, Syren, tell me the truth, or I will not be as kind about getting it out of you.” When I walk the fine line between life and death, King Iri tends to walk the line between sanity and insanity.
Giving him my best glare, I pathetically shove off of him. Slouching into myself as I talk.
“I think that all the death is because people are being poisoned,” I say flatly. “I’m working with Aisha to find a cure.” I let my eyes drift up to his waiting gaze. “We needed a test subject.”
“Wait.” He grabs my wrist, holding it tightly, his eyes blazing as he stares at me. “Are you the test subject?”
I can feel his pulse, pumping and racing hard, in the grip he has on me. Or is it my pulse?
I nod slowly.
“You’ve been fucking poisoning yourself? Are you out of your goddessdamn fish-brain mind?” Dry air crackles around him, the atmosphere smelling stronger of fire. “And you’re working with Aisha.” He laughs dryly. “You must be certifiably insane.”
Fish brain? Certifiably insane? My mouth falls open to speak, but I’m not sure what to say at first.
“Excuse me?” I finally manage. “At least I’m doing something!”
“Why would you do this without telling me? What if something happened to you?” His hand holds me tightly as I try to pull away. Every inch of his furious dark features furrow, and he comes impossibly closer so I feel the full effect of his wrath.
“Then I guess you’d be out a Cursebreaker, wouldn’t you?” I whisper. The words cling to the space between us.
One heartbeat.
Two heartbeats.
Three heartbeats and Bear lets me go. He pulls away so quickly, I fall back onto the ground.
“A Cursebreaker.” He scoffs. “That’s our relationship, still?” The tips of his ears burn red, his hand fisting at his sides. “Will there ever be a day that you don’t think of our relationship as political?” He laughs again. This time it’s a slashing sound. “No, no, no. You’re always fighting this. You’re always fighting. Me. You’re always fighting me, Syren. Maybe I’m not the bad guy. Maybe I’m not the cruel one.” He licks his lips as he looks to me, his eyes shining with either fury or hurt—I’m not sure. “Stop taking the poison.”
It’s an order. I’ve heard enough flatly spoken orders in my life to know he’s demanding it instead of asking. And I think he knows by the empty way I’m staring at him, that I won’t stop.
Sparks glow at his fingertips, scattering against the rock as he paces. When he turns, I can see embers forming on his back where his wings are begging to rip through the skin and send him into flight.
I stare at him, too weak to stand, too weak to yell back.
He gives me a long, leveling glare. The sparks on his hands and back light up brighter before they die out completely. He releases a long, slow breath. Reaching out, with an open palm,
he offers his hand to me. Just the heat of his hand alone dulls the ache in my body as I quietly take it.
My legs shake but get me to standing where I sway in front of him. He growls and, in one swooping movement, scoops me up against his chest.
“You. You will go to your room to rest.” His words rumble through his chest, vibrating against me.
The world spins in a swirl of color above us. I bury my head against him, not minding the salty smell of sweat, ignoring the more alluring smoky scent he always carries.
“There’s a journal of my findings on my desk. I’m really trying here, Bear. I am not a child,” I mumble.
“That is debatable.” I can’t see him, but I can just feel him roll his eyes. I can picture his sour look and broody eyebrows.
Fiery wings splay out wide against his back, and I cling to him harder when we lift from the ground. Cold wind pulls at my hair and shirt, but I keep my face buried in his neck.
Doors open and close, and I’m not sure where he’s flown us until he’s striding down the dark hall and arriving at my room.
Quietly, Bear pushes open my bedroom door, walking directly to my perfectly-made bed. He deposits me on the blush cover like I’m nothing more than a task that needs to be done. It all happens in under sixty seconds, I swear.
“Rest,” he says without emotion, already turning his back on me and scooping up the brown leather journal on my desk as he goes.
That shine still lingers in his eyes, and it slices through my heart just to think about how I caused it.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t say the words as much as I mouth them.
He answers nonetheless. “No, you’re not.”
And he’s right.
I’m not really sorry for what I’ve done. I’m not sorry for trying or for being sick. I’m only sorry that he is mad about it. But if I save the kingdom, then King Iri can be mad at me, and I will survive it like I’ve survived everything else in my life.
But I am sorry I hurt him.
He just doesn’t accept it as he closes the door.
Sixteen
Kind Company
Syren
Sunlight, cozy and warm, crawls over the tousled bedding, reaching out to me with loving arms. Today, the sunshine calls to me. It calls to my magic, inviting me to find the ocean and play in it.
Desperately, I want to answer the call, to feed the growing need inside of me. This time, though, my body won't allow it. My limbs are lethargic, my head pounding, and my body is covered in a thin layer of unwanted sweat.
I haven't much of a choice but to let myself rest today. Despite how desperately I want to run through the capital chasing the whereabouts of the Bloodroot flower or its owner.
The flower was beginning to make a debut in my dreams. Nightmares that wake me with startling screams after I chase after the petals and trip over dead bodies.
Peeling my arm off the page of the botany book I’ve been perusing, I look up as a knock sounds at the door. Rigs and the other guard who has been standing awkwardly in my room all morning open the door after I give them a quick nod.
Cheerful green eyes and frizzy red hair greets me. Miranda walks in, rolling his shoulders and shaking his hips as he drops my journal onto my desk. “You rang?”
My eyes slide to the note book that Bear took earlier. The one Miranda just returned.
He’s spoken to him.
His steps stutter as he crosses the space. “You look utterly appalling. What is wrong with you?”
I smile back, ignoring his question, trying not to let him see how disappointed I really am. “Bear isn’t answering my calls. The guards just keep saying he’s busy.”
“He is a king, you know. There has been some meager rioting recently, if you recall.” Miranda sits himself on the edge of my bed, opening yet another book scattered over the pink bed sheets and flipping through the pages. “He has lots of kingly things he has to do.”
Uh-huh.
“Yes, but he is mad at me.”
“That explains the moody broody face he’s wearing today.” His shoulders rise and fall in an easy shrug, but he doesn’t look up from the book.
“Look, I’ve never had someone I really care about give me the silent treatment. What am I supposed to do?” I throw myself back onto the stuffed pillows, looking up at the sheer fabric of the canopy above me like the answer is written between the folds of the materials.
Miranda slams the book in his hands shut. “You two were meant for each other.” He sighs happily. “Why is he mad at you?”
Wasting time, I smack my lips together, avoiding the answer. My fingers find each other, nervously picking at my nails then making a show of cracking my knuckles.
A feather-light touch grips both my hands, tearing them away from my body and pulling me up to sitting. I groan as the room tilts one way, then the other.
I cover my mouth with one hand. “Don’t. I’ll be sick.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you’ve done. Apparently, I’m the royal love doctor, and I'm here to help. Not if you get sick, though. That’s not me. Call for a real doctor for all that.”
Once the room stills again, I give him a pained expression. “I’m working with Aisha to find a cure for the flower I think is poisoning this kingdom. So every day, I’m taking the poison, which in turn,” I wave my hands over my fatigued body, “is making me ill.”
His eyes grow wide, disappointment clear in their glassy forest reflection. “You’re killing yourself!” he gasps.
“Now you sound like Bear.”
“First step.” He sits straighter, giving my hands a tight squeeze. “Maybe stop taking the poison? Next step, apologize?”
“I did apologize.” I whine pathetically like a child.
“Look, you and Bear are very different people. But you have more in common than you realize. Did you actually mean it when you apologized?”
I avoid his gaze because he’s right. I wasn’t sorry then, and if I apologize now, I still won't be sorry. So I guess apologies will have to wait and so will our reconciliation.
“That isn’t happening . . . at least not right now,” I say slowly. “The apology, I mean. I think I could use a break on the poison. I’m not actually trying to kill myself.”
Miranda nods stiffly like I’m an idiot, but he’ll never admit it.
“But there is one thing you can do to help me in the meantime.” I grin, batting my eyelashes pleasantly.
He narrows his eyes. “Please, let me know how else I could be of service to you, princess. I assumed you would have called me for my mere presence alone, but perhaps I was wrong, and you only want to wring me clean of all my knowledge.” He straightens his shoulders. “Nevertheless, I have plenty to share. You can continue.”
“I really want to meet your witch.” I say, all too bluntly.
Automatically, Miranda drops my hands and leans away. “You won't let this go, will you? Why do you want to meet the witch so badly?” His features fall, a deep frown creating wrinkles that age his timeless face. “You think the witch is poisoning everyone?”
“I’m not ruling out the possibility.” I haven’t ruled out any possibilities. The only person I know isn’t poisoning out of everyone living in the Northern Kingdom is me. Okay, Miranda isn’t a suspect, but that’s because I don’t think his pure, happy-go-lucky heart could manage something that evil. And Bear . . . he’d never hurt them.
He breathes a laugh. “Aspasia would never. Could never.”
“You think awfully highly of this witch. It makes me think you care for her.” Honestly, I’ve always assumed Miranda enjoys men on the down-low, at the very least men and woman. But I have been known to be wrong a time or two. So here is a lesson on assuming based off of someone’s nature.
I tuck back a stray strand of blue hair that clings to the sweat on my cheek. The room feeling uncomfortably hot, even now that I know it’s only me. Patiently, I wait for an answer.
“I know she has an
antidote, at the very least. If she can cure them, why aren’t we using her?” My tone is stern and unwavering.
But he simply shakes his head. “If it were that easy, Bear would have done it. Things come at a price, Syren. The price for something like that . . . it’s not possible.”
My jaw clenches hard.
“I want to meet her,” I say once more.
Miranda glances toward the guards, then back at me. He frowns, and it’s a worn look. A look that says I’m pressing him, and it’s working. He opens his mouth just as a loud and short knock at the door replaces the sound of any words he could form.
For the love of poor timing!
Rigs saunters to the door, pulling it open. He stumbles back as Aisha bustles into the room. Her blond hair is piled on top of her head, strands messily falling around her face. Crimson circles heat her cheeks, and her fit gown seems baggy where it would normally complement her curves.
“How is my least-favorite patient?” She storms in, carrying a small leather physician's bag.
I rub my tired eyes, because I’m not sure I’m ready for this much energy right now. Actually, I know I’m not ready for it. Her ocean-blue eyes are wide and bloodshot as she smiles. The grin is unusually toothy and wide.
With a small sniffle, I exchange a look with Miranda. He already looks put out.
“All right,” Miranda stands up from the bed. “That would be my cue to skedaddle out of here. Don’t have too much fun.” He pauses, his smile widening as he catches her gaze. “If you poison her again, he’ll kill you.”
Her lips open with an outraged o. She wanted praise for doing all of this. A death threat… that’s not what she had in mind.
Miranda nods happily and saunters from the room.
“Hello, Aisha.” My tone is bored at best.
“I—Bear won’t allow me to give you the flower anymore. But he asked me to check your vitals today, keep you in health and be what I was hired to be; your lady in waiting.” She doesn’t look at me and I can see the burn of the blush against her cheek as she takes Miranda’s spot on the bed. Her eyes glance around the room, her face paler than usual.
