Flight of the Phoenix

by Alicia Michaels

  “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

  Her footsteps echoed in the dark chamber, and he forced himself to glance up at her as she approached the other side of the stone table. She still wore her battle clothing with the torn sleeve, though her armor had been removed. He noticed the blood and ash coating her face and hands, and realized she had come straight here from the battle, neglecting to even wash up. Despite this, she was still achingly beautiful, even with sadness haunting her dark eyes.

  “I didn’t realize someone would be down here,” she whispered.

  Malachi shrugged. “I did not wish him to be alone. Where is Princess Jocylene?”

  With a sigh, Desdemona reached out and placed a hand on Eli’s forehead, studying his ashen face and pale blue lips with a wrinkled brow.

  “General Rothatin took her to pursue Kalodan Longspear,” she replied. “I suspect once they’ve finished that business, she will return here.”

  Malachi nodded. “She will. The mate’s bond has been broken ... her heart will draw her back to him, and she won’t want to rest until he’s been properly honored.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes when she glanced up at him again. “I cannot imagine the pain she must feel to lose someone her very heart was connected to.”

  Clenching his jaw, he glanced down at the male lying on the table, the blood now dried against his bare chest. “I can.”

  One of the tears fell down her cheek, tracking a path of smooth skin through the grime. “You lost your mate ... I had forgotten. I’m so sorry, Malachi.”

  He shook his head, her pity worsening the pain he felt at the knowledge that she did not realize Danore was not whom he spoke of.

  “It hurts,” he whispered. “Being without her. But I like to think that perhaps it’s better this way. Maybe, she is better off.”

  Moving away from Eli, she rounded the stone slab, her brow furrowed as she came toward him. Malachi sucked in a sharp breath as she approached, reaching out with one hand to touch his face. He stiffened, but did not pull away as she stroked his jaw. The pity in her eyes melted away, and they widened as touching him seemed to affect her.

  He cursed himself for letting her get this close. While he knew she could never remember all that had passed between them, the feelings still existed in her mind. Something within her recognized him on a visceral level.

  “Your Majesty,” he whispered, knowing he should pull away, but unable to find the strength.

  She frowned. “Why do I not like the sound of those words coming from you?”

  He held his breath as she lowered her head as if to kiss him, but came up short, her lips hovering near his.

  “I do not know,” he replied.

  Her eyes began to simmer like hot coals, the dominate nature of the Phoenix emerging from deep within.

  “Do not lie to me,” she murmured. “What is this, Malachi? This thing I feel ... it is as if I dreamt about something, yet have forgotten what it is I dreamt. A part of me seems to know that something is you.”

  Standing abruptly, he forced her to move away from him. Stepping around her as swiftly as he could, he made his way toward the door.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I can’t do this.”

  “Answer me, Malachi,” she demanded.

  He paused with his hand on the door. All he needed to do was open it and make his escape. He could leave Semran Hall now without looking back. He would return to Goldun and collect his son—take him home to their little cabin in the woods.

  “Why can’t I remember?” she whispered. “What can’t I remember?”

  Turning his head to glance at her over his shoulder, he clenched his jaw, steeling his resolve. He’d made her a promise—one he intended to keep.

  “You wanted to forget,” he whispered. “It’s better if I don’t tell you.”

  Without waiting for a response, he left, closing the door and putting her behind him.

  He now tread on dangerous ground. He’d remained to serve the queen, and his duty had been done. While he wanted nothing more than to remain for Eli’s burial and Desdemona’s official coronation, Malachi knew that it was time for him to leave Semran Hall. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was that Desdemona would continue pressing him for answers about her dormant memories. And if she continued to do that, Malachi didn’t think he could be strong enough to resist.

  HOURS AFTER RETURNING from the battlefield, Desdemona finally found time to retreat to her room. Once alone in her private chambers, with a hot bath that had been prepared by one of her maids, Desdemona had allowed herself to succumb to her softer emotions.

  Sinking to the floor beside the tub, she began to sob, allowing the tears to fall, streaking through the dark grime staining her face.

  Her brother-in-law had died to save her life, jumping in front of a spear wielded by her own mother’s hand. Her sister would likely never be the same again, and together, two daughters had been forced to work together to kill their own mother. Granted, Jocylene had been adopted, but that did not change the fact that it should never have been something they were forced to do.

  And here she sat in her room, alone with her grief. No one was present to console her, to tell her everything would be all right ... to share the burden of her pain.

  Was this what ruling alone felt like? Was this how Queen Adrah felt every time the people around her suffered or died? How did she endure it?

  Confusion mingled with the guilt as she thought of Malachi, who stirred things inside of her that she did not understand.

  Something monumental had happened between them—she was certain of it. Yet, no matter how thoroughly she searched her mind, she couldn’t seem to conjure the memories. Why couldn’t she remember? Apparently, whatever had happened between them had wounded Malachi deeply—so deeply that it seemed he couldn’t even stand to be in her presence.

  After she had cried until she felt wrung dry, she pulled herself up from the floor and began to undress. Removing the bandage wrapped around her shoulder, she remembered that it had been made from the remnants of Eli’s shirt. The knowledge almost brought on a fresh wave of tears, but she choked them back, determined to move forward. Her people needed her now, as did her sister. This was not the final battle in the war for Fallada, and Kalodan Longspear was still in control of her mother’s army.

  Soon, word would reach her concerning the outcome of the battle for Inador. From here, the people of Fallada must regroup and prepare for the next battle, and then the next.

  Sinking into the tub, she sighed with the relief it offered her aching muscles as well as her injured shoulder. She would have to submit to the prodding of a healer for her injury at some point, but for now she just wanted a moment to gather herself. She lay in the tub until the hot water became tepid, then left it to dry off by the warmth of the fire.

  By the time Mindirra knocked upon her door, she had made herself presentable—donning a black velvet gown—mourning colors in honor of Eli—and combing her hair into some semblance of order.

  “Come in,” she called out, turning away from her mirror to face her head bodyguard.

  Mindirra had cleaned the evidence of the battle away, as well, and donned her castle livery—proudly displaying the red, black, and white colors of Mollac.

  “Your Majesty,” she said with a stiff bow. “Your sister has returned at Semran Hall, accompanied by General Longspear. He says there is something wrong with her.”

  Panic caused her heart to gallop in her chest. “Where is she?”

  “We had her taken to a guestroom,” Mindirra declared. “The healers are seeing her now.”

  “Take me to her,” she commanded. “Quickly.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest as she ran to keep up with Mindirra. This couldn’t happen again. She could not lose her sister. They’d only just found each other again, and this day had already brought so much loss. The loss of their mother, and what good there might have remained inside of her. The loss of Eli. The loss of whatever happ
iness she might have once shared with Malachi ... a happiness her mind could not recall.

  Turning down a long corridor, she spotted Rothatin pacing back and forth in front of one of the closed doors. Brushing past Mindirra, she burst forward, her chest burning from the long run across the castle.

  Rothatin turned to bow as she approached, but his gaze remained fixed on the door. “Your Majesty.”

  Nodding in acknowledgement, she turned to go to the door. Rothatin’s arm blocked her, pulling her away before her hand could land on the knob. Before she could express her outrage at being manhandled, the look in his eyes silenced her.

  He was absolutely terrified.

  “The healers are taking care of her,” he said. “They will not let anyone inside until they are finished.”

  Releasing her breath on a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall opposite the door. “What happened?”

  “We returned to Inador in pursuit of my brother,” he said. “We arrived to find that he and the Dark Fae army had retreated to Zenun. She collapsed in her grief, and then ... there was pain ... blood. I did not know what else to do, so I brought her here. It was faster than taking her to Goldun. I would have healed her myself, but...”

  Desdemona opened her eyes and studied him, surprised at what she found in the depths of his gaze. “You couldn’t do it.”

  He clenched his jaw and shook his head in disbelief. “I have never hesitated that way before ... ever. My hands began to shake, my vision grew hazy and I ... I don’t know what happened ...”

  Her heart clenched, aching for him and Jocylene both. “You care about her.”

  “I care about all the daughters of Fallada,” he hedged, his expression becoming hard and grim once more.

  Desdemona didn’t press the issue. She could clearly see what he would not say. The general was in love with her sister, perhaps had always been. To see her in pain must be as hard for him as it was for Desdemona.

  She could not determine how long they were forced to wait, but the silence continued to stretch on between them for so long, that she became desperate to fill it.

  “What is the state of Inador?” she asked after a while.

  He sighed. “Safe, for now. However, the forest surrounding it has been turned into a burnt wasteland. The blood magic Phoenix destroyed it all.”

  She balled her hand into a fist at her side. “Your brother is a man I would very much like to kill.”

  Something dangerous flashed in Rothatin’s eyes as he met her gaze. “You will have to beat me to it, Your Majesty. And your sister as well, I suspect.”

  Desdemona managed a smile at that. “Perhaps as a trio, we’d have better odds.”

  Rothatin shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  She opened her mouth to ask another question when the door opened to reveal the two healers. Desdemona’s stomach turned at the sight of the bowl of bloodstained water clutched in one healer’s hand, and the little linen-wrapped bundle of rags the other held. They were stained with what had to be Jocylene’s blood.

  Rothatin seemed to notice the blood as well, and looked as if he were going to be sick.

  “What’s wrong with my sister?” Desdemona asked, stepping toward the healers and trying to peer into the room.

  “The princess will be fine,” one of the healers replied. “She has had a tremendous shock today and must rest. You must do whatever you can to avoid upsetting her. She’s delirious from shock and lack of rest.”

  Desdemona nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat and trying to force herself to breathe. Jocylene was all right. She was going to be fine. And yet ...

  “There was blood,” Rothatin interjected.

  Lowering her eyes, the healer sighed. “Unfortunately, there was nothing we could have done to stop her from losing the baby.”

  Rothatin sucked in a sharp breath at the same time Desdemona gasped.

  “Baby?” she whispered.

  The healer wrinkled her brow. “Didn’t you know? Princess Jocylene was with child.”

  Desdemona shook her head, astonishment and grief leaving her numb. Jocylene had lost her mate and child in the same day. It was the sort of pain she could not even fathom. Would the gods have no mercy on her poor sister?

  “The shock of losing her mate must have done it,” the second healer chimed in. “Sometimes these things can’t be avoided, I’m afraid.”

  The first healer gave Rothatin a knowing look. “The babe was dead already when the pain came, General. Even you could not have saved it.”

  Her words did not seem to bring Rothatin even a measure of comfort. He’d gone white as a sheet, all the blood draining from his face.

  “Thank you,” Desdemona said. “You may go now.”

  The healers bowed as best they could with their hands full, and retreated back down the hall. Desdemona exchanged glances with Rothatin, who looked as if he’d just been gutted.

  “Did you know?” she asked.

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I am not certain she even knew.”

  Taking a deep breath, Desdemona put on her bravest face before venturing into the room. Rothatin followed, though he hesitated near the door. The drapes had been drawn closed, with only the soft glow of a few candles illuminating Jocylene beneath the bedclothes. She seemed so small in the massive bed, swallowed up by pillows and blankets.

  Resting on her back, with her hair loose and brushed around her head, she appeared to have been bathed before being dressed in a nightgown. Her skin was ghostly pale, her eyes flat and unfocused as Desdemona approached the bed.

  Sinking onto the mattress beside her sister, Desdemona reached out for Jocylene’s hand.

  “Joss, it’s me, Desdemona,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  Jocylene’s eyes flared to life, and she swiveled her gaze to meet Desdemona’s. “Des.”

  Desdemona smiled and nodded. “Yes, I’m here. I came as soon as I heard you’d returned.”

  “Eli’s body ...” She trailed off, her voice cracking as if she would start crying again. To her credit, she maintained her composure, taking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. “Where is he?”

  “We’re preparing him to be honored, in whatever way you wish,” Desdemona repaired. “His body is below, in the crypts, where they will wash him and dress him. But we don’t have to talk about that now—”

  “Yes, we do,” Jocylene declared. “I want a funeral pyre for him. Tonight ... we have to burn him tonight.”

  “My lady, you need rest,” Rothatin interjected. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  “No,” she objected, more firmly this time. “It must be tonight. It is the Panther Shifter way. It is the way they do things. He must wear black, and only black. I have to be there, and he must be burned, the way the bodies of the warriors of old were burned. It’s the way he’d want to be honored.”

  Desdemona turned back to glance at Rothatin. His jaw remained clenched, his eyes so turbulent it became hard to determine what he could be thinking.

  “Your Majesty, if you’ll entrust the task to me, I will ensure everything is prepared for the ceremony,” he said.

  Jocylene sighed as if in relief and Desdemona nodded.

  “Yes, General,” she replied. “My sister and I would be most grateful.”

  With a swift bow, he turned to leave the room, taking a moment to glance back once more as if to assure himself that Jocylene would be all right.

  “Take care of her,” he whispered before stepping out into the hall, closing the door silently behind him.

  Desdemona turned back to Jocylene, reaching out to stroke her sister’s hair. “May I get you anything? Something to eat or drink? You need to regain your strength.”

  Jocylene shook her head. “No. I couldn’t eat a thing right now.”

  “Perhaps I should leave you to your rest.”

  Jocylene’s hand clamped around her wrist before she could pull away. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.”<
br />
  Her heart ached at the pleading tone in Jocylene’s tone. The second daughter of Mollac was not one who begged for anything. But just now, she seemed desperate, in a way Desdemona had never seen before.

  She nodded, pulling back the covers and sliding in beside her sister. “Very well. I’ll stay.”

  Reaching out, she wrapped an arm around Jocylene, and held her right.

  “You know, when I was a little girl and felt ill, Mother used to hold me like this,” she whispered, uncertain of why she felt the need to bring up the memory.

  Jocylene sighed. “I wish she could have been a good mother to us ... to you especially. You deserved so much better than to be forced to destroy the woman who raised you.”

  Desdemona’s eyes stung with tears as she thought back to the early years of her life. She’d felt loved by Eranna, treasured as a precious thing. But she realized now that Eranna had only been grooming her to be used and controlled. Perhaps, she had never loved Desdemona. Or, perhaps her madness and lust for power had obliterated that love and twisted it into something else entirely—a need to possess and control.

  “There’s no need to mourn what was lost,” she whispered. “I don’t care about that. I’m just glad I have you ... my sister.”

  Jocylene’s hand gripped hers and held on tight. The strength of that hold told Desdemona that someday, somehow, her sister would be whole again.

  “I love you, Des,” she murmured. “No matter what, I always will.”

  Desdemona smiled. “And I you, Joss ... always.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  SIX DAYS LATER ...

  Rothatin stood on the balcony looking over Goldun from Osbel tower. A soft, evening breeze rustled his hair, which had been combed and brushed until it gleamed, the top layer of it pulled back and plaited. He wore his royal court attire—pristine white garments in rich, embroidered silk, the silver threads taking on the glow of his natural aura. His feet were bare, his spear set aside for now.

  This was a night for celebration, not war, and downstairs in Adrah’s throne room, he was awaited by the entire royal Fae Court, as well as most of the people he cared about in the world.