The Lethe Stone (The Fae War Chronicles Book 4)

by Jocelyn Fox

  THE FAE WAR CHRONICLES

  BOOK FOUR

  JOCELYN A. FOX

  The Lethe Stone

  Copyright © 2016 by Jocelyn A. Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

  E-book design by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Other Novels by the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Queen Mab, ruler of the Unseelie Court and all its lands, monarch of the Night and the Winter, once the most powerful being in any world, was not accustomed to helplessness. She glanced down at the marble-smooth, pale skin of her hands – hands that had seen centuries, yet bore no sign of age. Hands that had held a blade in the battle against the greatest enemy of her time, yet bore no scars. Hands that had once embraced her sister lovingly, and braided the princess’ midnight-dark hair with motherly affection. Hands that now could do nothing to heal the fractured mind and broken body of the rescued Crown Princess.

  “My Queen.”

  Her Vaelanbrigh’s voice broke her reverie and she raised her eyes, taking in the sight of the young Knight who had risen to become one of her Three despite his trace of mortal blood. She had become almost fond of Ramel on the long journey through the Deadlands, and he had proven his worth ten times over during the battle in the Dark Keep. At first, she had been wary of this cool affection, cautious that the Knight did not glimpse her increasing favor – for what higher favor could there be other than becoming one of her Three – and seek to use it to his own advantage. When she had first baptized him, Ramel’s steadfast loyalty reminded her with a distant pain of Finnead’s fidelity, like an old wound prodded relentlessly. But that similarity had faded with the realization that Finnead had deserted her. No, not deserted…betrayed. He had betrayed her sister, and then he had betrayed Mab by serving the new High Queen. She swallowed against the bitterness rising in her throat like bile.

  “My lady,” said Ramel again in a slightly gentler voice. The light of the taebramh orbs – a habit that, despite Mab’s annoyance, her Court had picked up from the Northwoman’s – ignited coppery sparks in her Vaelanbrigh’s hair. He’d let it grow longer than his custom during the past weeks of travel, yet another vice of the Wild Court that had filtered into the Unseelie ranks, like insidious ink spiraling through still water. She took a deep, composing breath.

  “What news?” Mab finally said, her voice as smooth, as cold as ice.

  “The Crown Princess is sleeping,” said Ramel in that same half-gentle tone, like a rider trying to calm a spooked mount.

  “Is she sleeping, or is she unconscious from the potions applied by the healers?” A harsh undercurrent, dangerously close to a growl, lurked in the Unseelie Queen’s voice. She clenched her hands reflexively, one hand finding the hilt of her sword since she did not have the cool, carved arms of her throne to grip beneath her grasping fingers.

  “My Queen, the healers labor day and night,” replied Ramel, “and they are tasked not only with the Crown Princess, but with hundreds of gravely wounded warriors who fought under our banner.” He bowed his head slightly in deference even as he reminded Mab that her sister was not the only distressed soul in their camp, though she might be the one farthest beyond any help of their healers.

  Mab tightened her hold on her sword hilt until the delicately woven details of the grip dug into her palm and her knuckles felt as though they would burst through her skin. She felt the cold fury rising; at the periphery of her senses, she noted the sudden sharp chill in the air. The plush rug beneath her feet stiffened with frost. Her Vaelanbrigh still stood firm despite the glacial wind pushing at his shoulders, the ruby in the pommel of the Brighbranr glimmering darkly, like a cupped palm full of mortal blood.

  “My Queen,” he said again in that gentle but firm tone. “The healers are doing all they can, and both Queen Titania and Queen Vell have sent their best…”

  “Out,” she snarled, ice swirling across the tent as the mention of the other two Queens snapped her control. She’d be damned if a healer sent in pity from one of their Courts would help her sister. “Get out!”

  Ramel bowed and turned, exiting with graceful steps, treading carefully on the now icy ground. Mab clenched her teeth on the sound of pain and fury that frothed up into her throat, instead letting the arctic wind howl through the tent, dagger-sharp icicles puncturing the nebulous forms of the taebramh lights with satisfying ferocity. The Unseelie Queen stood in the cold darkness of her tent, gripping her sword, rage and agony coursing through her, feeding the whirling blizzard that screamed through the Unseelie camp.

  She had raised her blade against the enemy, and won but she did not bear the scars of the battle. Despair threatened to overwhelm her as she felt, for the first time in centuries, sorrow borne out of the love for another. While her Court drew their cloaks tightly about them and wordlessly endured the biting cold of the furious, unnatural tempest, only a handful of them suspected that the true cause of their Queen’s anguish was not her anger, but the pain of a thawing – and broken – heart.

  Chapter 1

  When the three Queens rode into the City, the commanders of their great army – Gray, Gawain, and Ramel – had already established a place for the wounded in the remnants of what could have been a great cathedral or palace. Even through her exhaustion, Tess gazed up in wonder at the magnificent ruins that rose around them as their small party wound its way through the great army into the city. The widest causeway that passed through the center of the White City had been cleared of the corpses of Dark creatures. When the wind shifted, the scent of smoke drifted over them. Gray informed them that they were still burning the dead creatures in huge pits a small distance outside the City. The Sidhe dead had already been placed on their funeral pyres with honor. It was hard to reconcile the fact that so much had taken place while they were fighting their way through the courtyard in the Dark Keep and facing Malravenar.

  The Queens and their warriors rode to the great building used as the healing ward. Its pillars reminded Tess of Greek pantheons, but the skeletons of graceful arched windows, all the glass long since broken, whispered of great
cathedrals. It was some sort of cross between Brightvale, Darkhill and the Hall of the Outer Guard, all the most beautiful aspects of Seelie and Unseelie styles blended harmoniously. The white stone bore centuries of grime, and most of the elegantly carved statues had suffered the loss of limbs or heads during the occupation of Malravenar’s creatures. Against this backdrop of savaged magnificence, the commanders had erected a great tent in the cavernous main hall.

  “The structure is sound, so do not fear it crumbling,” Gawain assured the Queens and the Bearer as they crossed the great threshold, “but all the light and heat would be lost into the reaches overhead if we did not have a canopy.”

  Inside the tent – one of the High Queen’s sorcery enhanced creations with nearly unlimited space – the cries of the wounded and the smell of blood and healing herbs enveloped the Queens and the Bearer. Titania immediately swept forward to conference with a fair Seelie healer, and white-haired Maeve paused in her direction of dozens of healers to bow to Vell and make her report to the High Queen. Mab stood silently, the star on her diadem subdued as her eyes swept over the multitude of wounded, long rows of furs and other makeshift bedding stretching down the length of the tent. It was like a miniature city in its own right, hundreds of healers moving purposefully through the ranks of their patients. Tess’s mind couldn’t comprehend the numbers before her eyes. It felt as though she were surveying the great army from the air with Wisp again, seeing it stretch to the horizons and beyond, but this time, the sight of so much broken beauty and loss stole her breath. She felt cold.

  The able-bodied fighters who had traveled into the Dark Keep began to carry the wounded from the Queens’ party into the healing ward, with other healers and warriors from the main army streaming outside to help. Tess watched dumbly as two Unseelie carried their Vaelanseld into the tent on a makeshift stretcher. Some of the numbness began to fall away from her body. She thought vaguely that she should make herself useful, but gradually the work of moving the wounded was taken over by the healers and their apprentices. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Finnead carrying the Unseelie Princess, still cloaked, into the tent. Her shrouded figure seemed much smaller than when she’d stood before the black altar, pouring blood onto it to break the bindings on the Great Seal.

  Tess lost sight of Vell and the other two Queens in the industrious activity. Everyone moved so quickly, parting around her like rushing waters of a stream slipping around a rock. The Sword sat silently on her back. She flexed one of her hands, watching the dried blood on her palms crack with the movement. New abrasions crossed the mottled landscape of her scars. Her breath sounded loud to her own ears and a sudden wave of dizziness overtook her. She swallowed and shut her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to pass out or retch. Both would be equally embarrassing.

  “Tess?”

  She opened her eyes. Robin paused in his supervision of the two healers moving Sage.

  “We’ve got him,” the smaller female healer tucked under Sage’s good shoulder reassured him.

  “I told Sage I’d watch over him,” the Bearer said tiredly.

  Robin stepped toward her. “Well, come on then.”

  “Aren’t you hurt at all?” she asked as they followed Sage and his healers. It took her a moment to realize that Robin had encircled her waist with one arm, gripping her belt firmly, but she found that she didn’t much care. She actually felt grateful for the guidance, since she was fairly certain that she couldn’t have walked a straight line under her own power.

  “We’re all injured in some way or another,” replied Robin, “but not all of us dipped into our lifeforce to break and bind the enemy.”

  “Is that why I’m so tired?” she mused.

  “That and we fought for three days and three nights,” said Robin with a little bit of a smile.

  “Ah, is that the Lady Bearer? Back here, if you please,” said Maeve, bustling past the pair and directing Robin to steer Tess toward a curtain marked with a white rune.

  “I don’t want any special treatment,” she protested, noticing in slight surprise that her lips felt oddly numb. She shivered. The cold she’d noticed only a moment ago now seemed glacial. “Sage…”

  “You can take that up with the High Queen at a later time, and you’re in no shape to watch over anyone right now,” said Maeve firmly. “I assume you’re comfortable with your red-haired friend here?”

  “Comfortable…?” she repeated dazedly as they entered the small compartment. A low table covered with a cloth served as an examination table, and Maeve motioned her toward it.

  “It would save us time if he removes your armor while I gather supplies and an assistant,” replied Maeve.

  Robin maneuvered Tess over to the table and kept his arm about her waist until she was safely seated. “I think we’ll manage just fine,” he said to Maeve, his deft fingers already finding the strap of the Sword across her breastplate. When Tess didn’t contradict him, Maeve nodded and walked away, her small figure radiating purpose.

  “Sage,” Tess murmured, watching with detached interest as Robin laid the battered sheath of the Sword reverently beside her on the table. The emerald in the pommel didn’t flash with that conscious power. It looked like an ordinary emerald in the pommel of a very ordinary, well used weapon. A wave of dizziness swelled over her again. “And Liam. Someone should tell Liam…”

  “He’s one of Vell’s Three now,” said Robin as he worked on the straps of her breastplate. She winced as she moved her arm, the movement pulling at the wound across the top of her shoulders that she’d nearly forgotten. “So I suspect that he’ll know where you are, because she knows where you are.”

  “Such a tangled web we weave,” she said dreamily. She noticed that her feet didn’t touch the floor; she swung her legs a little, experimentally, her head feeling very light.

  “Hold still,” admonished Robin. He finished unbuckling the other side of her breastplate. As he moved the two pieces of armor that had protected her torso during the battle, the dried blood pasting her shirt and the interior of the armor together pulled with sudden bright pain against her shoulders. She hissed and grabbed at the table, clenching the fabric in her fists. The hot throbbing pulled her roughly back into her body, banishing the floating sensation. She swallowed thickly. Robin held the back piece of the armor in place and carefully removed the breastplate.

  “I’m being a baby,” Tess said roughly, more to steel her own nerves than anything else.

  Robin leaned over her, inspecting the bloody seam between her armor and shirt. “I think Maeve will forgive me if I wait for her guidance. It would be a pity for me to get in trouble so soon after our momentous victory.”

  “Or it might just be in character,” she responded, eliciting a chuckle.

  “Your sarcasm survived your duel with Malravenar,” he said. “That’s a victory in itself.”

  Tess didn’t have another witty reply ready, so she focused on breathing slowly and trying to ignore the growing fissure of pain at the top of her shoulders. Now that the hot adrenaline of the battle had ebbed away, she felt oddly deflated, the numbness slowly transitioning into a dizzying emptiness laced with a keen awareness of her injuries. She rested her hands, palms up, on her thighs, remembering the feel of peeling her hands from the hilt of the Sword. Breaking and binding Malravenar…it had been mere hours since she’d stood before the greatest evil the Fae world had known, and already it felt like a fantastic dream. Had she really defied him and struck him through with the Caedbranr? Had they really bound his shrieking shade into the four gleaming river stones? She pressed the back of one hand against her grimy belt pouch, feeling the shape of the smooth oblong stone through the supple leather.

  Maeve swept back into the compartment, trailing an assistant behind her…an assistant with a mane of glinting golden curls that swayed about her head as she moved. Moira raised an eyebrow in question as she placed a steaming bowl on the other table in the room, where Maeve was already busily selecting h
erbs. Tess managed a lopsided, tired smile in reply.

  “Before you chastise me,” Robin said, preempting Maeve as she glanced at him with lips pressed into a thin line, “I didn’t finish my task because there’s a bit of a problem with the backplate of her armor. Or rather, not a problem with the armor, but with what’s beneath it.”

  “It’s from the battle in the courtyard,” Tess said tiredly. “I didn’t even see what kind of creature.” She remembered the blur of its grisly, matted fur and shivered at the recollection of its rank breath against her neck as she waited for its teeth to pierce her skin. “Chael killed it.”

  “So it’s been almost three days since you took the wound,” Maeve said. “No wonder it’s clotted to the shirt and armor.” She pressed the back of one hand to Tess’s forehead in a poignantly mother-like gesture. “Doesn’t feel like you have a fever yet.”

  “The Sword might have burned any poison out of me,” Tess said.

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Lady Bearer,” said Maeve, dipping a cup of water out of the steaming basin and tossing powdered herbs into it. “You are strong in your own right.” Tess watched the healer’s quick, efficient movements with hazy interest. It was like watching a masterful artist mix paints as Maeve selected different colored leaves, crushed them in her fist and filtered them into the water. After a moment, she slid the cup toward Moira, who was waiting with a linen cloth already in her hand.

  “This might sting a little,” Moira warned softly as she soaked the cloth in the steaming liquid. Tess replied with a sigh, steeling herself. The warm wet cloth felt both soothing and painful at once, loosening the gore-encrusted shirt and armor from her skin but igniting waves of hot pain from the gash as the clots softened, reopening the wound. She clenched her jaw and shuddered. Robin and Moira conferred in quick, quiet words, and the armor slid away from her back. Tess swallowed down bile, shutting her eyes as dizziness enveloped her again. Robin gathered her head onto his shoulder, free from holding the armor in position. She leaned gratefully against him as Moira cut away some of her shirt, still bathing the wound with the wet cloth.