Riven: A Merged Fairy Tale of Beauty and the Beast & Sleeping Beauty (The Enchanted Rose Trilogy: Book 3)

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  A Merged Fairytale of

  Beauty and the Beast & Sleeping Beauty

  R.M. ArceJaeger

  Platypus Press

  Providing Quality Books

  Copyright © 2015 by R.M. ArceJaeger

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover & Interior Art © 2015 by R.M. ArceJaeger

  Used with Permission:

  Red Riding Hood by Winter Shoreline—Gem Web

  The King—Atistatplay

  Leonid Meteor—Ed Sweeney

  Blacksmith—Gemma Stiles

  Waiting for the Rain—Serena

  Renaissance—Quinn Dombrowski

  Blue Fairy 5—Cathleen Tarawhiti

  Img_1173—Rayand

  Sabrina—Philmofresh

  Woman Sleeping—Timothy Krause

  Beach Volleyball: Soft Touch—Flavio~

  Luck of Edenhall—Marie-Lan Nguyen

  She Is My Drug—Bryan Brenneman

  Submerging in Grass—Always Shooting

  Published by Platypus Press

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Elaine?” Kenden called, bracing himself against the doorframe and peering out of the cottage and into the night. There was no answer, but he did not really need one—there was only one place his wife might have gone. With a sigh, Kenden stepped outside and made his way to the ladder that was perpetually propped against the back wall. Slowly—hampered by his crippled wing, which kept snagging on the rungs as he climbed—he ascended onto the roof.

  Elaine was lying upon the thatch, her light brown hair turned silver by the moonlight. Her eyes were open and staring, but the trails of tears sparkling against her cheeks told Kenden her thoughts were not focused on the stars.

  Without speaking, he lay down beside her, wincing as the motion forced his twisted wing to bend beneath his back, sharpening the constant ache he felt into a piercing pain. He ignored his discomfort, however—after two decades, he was used to it.

  “Do you think she is all right?” Elaine whispered, her voice thick.

  Kenden reached out to stroke a strand of hair away from his wife’s face, noting sadly that only a bit of its silver luster was due to the moonlight. Constant worry had aged his wife before her time.

  “Yes, I do,” he reassured her. “Liliath is strong. She is, after all, your daughter.”

  “And yours,” Elaine replied, attempting a smile, but the corners of her mouth quivered violently, and she quickly gave it up and returned to staring at the sky.

  “We should have gone after her,” she continued after a moment. “We have magic—we could have brought her back.”

  Kenden stayed silent. There seemed little point in reminding his wife that Liliath’s power was stronger than theirs . . . and that they had given their word to King Paden not to use magic in Darvell . . . and that Liliath had been a grown woman when she had left. Elaine still feared for their daughter, and today of all days, he wished he could comfort her.

  Instead, all he could do was pull his wife into his arms and hold her close while she wept. The stars seemed to blur in the heavens as tears filled his own eyes as well, but he did not move to dash them away.

  “We should go in,” he said at last, noticing that Elaine had begun to shiver. His wife nodded and rose to her feet, then stretched out a hand to help him up.

  As Elaine made her way back down the ladder, Kenden lingered for a moment, gazing toward the dark horizon and wondering where in the five kingdoms his daughter could be. Was she really all right, or had his words of reassurance merely been a father’s desperate hope?

  “Birthday blessings, Liliath,” Kenden murmured into the night before turning away to follow his wife.

  * * * * *

  King Mikal tapped long fingers on the arm of his throne and waited for the ghastly to arrive.

  He had known, of course, that Moraga dwelled in the harsh desert canyon that scarred the northeast corner of his land, and it had pleased him to hide that knowledge from Nathar’s miserly king when he had sought vengeance for his daughter’s death—Mikal’s own form of vengeance against a country that had lorded its supremacy for far too long. Yet in all the years Mikal had ruled Takia, the ghastly had never approached him directly. Until now.

  King Mikal reached into the pocket of his robe and touched the folded piece of parchment there as though to convince himself it really existed. Moraga’s cryptic message had intrigued him, and against all protocol, he had agreed to a nighttime audience.

  But Mikal was no fool—he knew a ghastly was not to be trusted. His cunning gaze swept the seemingly deserted room, noting with approval the long shadows cast by the intermittent torches on the walls—a fitting atmosphere for such a clandestine meeting. Aside from himself and his chief advisor, there was no other person to be seen . . . but Mikal knew that within false columns and behind decorative walls, his soldiers stood ready, their weapons poised to fire at the slightest provocation.

  A light knock issued upon the door, and Mikal straightened with anticipation as his advisor opened the heavy door to admit an old, humpbacked woman. As she neared the dais, Mikal wrinkled his nose. The hag was swathed in a hooded black cloak whose reek was discernable even from a distance.

  “You could have changed first,” Mikal rebuked, his hands tightening on his armrests to avoid using them to shelter his nose.

  The crone reached up to unclasp her malodorous cloak, and as she let it fall away, she stood tall and flared her wings—not a crone at all, but a young fairy.

  “People do not look at you too closely when they think that you are poor and malformed,” she said, meeting his gaze with the strong stare of an equal. Her eyes were bright amber, and they almost seemed to glow against a pale face framed by shoulder-length brown hair. Though the fairy was young, she spoke with authority.

  “That is true,” Mikal acknowledged, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers with interest, “though there is no need for such subterfuge in my land. I have no bounty on fairy heads.”

  Her mouth crooked in a wry grin. “And for that I am grateful. But my visit here must remain secret if it is to work to our mutual advantage.”

  “And what advantage is that? I was expecting to converse with a ghastly, not a fairy.”

  “I am here on Moraga’s behalf. Do you object?”

  Mikal leaned back in his seat, letting the glint in his eyes as he looked the fairy over convey his appreciation of the change. “Not at all. Go on.”

  The fairy’s poise did not falter. “How familiar are you with the Prophesies of Erse?”

  At the unexpected question, Mikal felt one sharp, pointed eyebrow rise involuntarily. “I am aware of only one.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  Amused at her temerity, Mikal complied, “The Seer Erse predicted that if Ithikor the Conqueror’s bloodline should ever fail, then the kingdom of Nathar would fall into anarchy.”

  The fairy quirked her head. “Exactly. And King Derik of Nathar is the last of his line. When he dies, his kingdom will crumble.”

  Mikal’s eyes gleamed at the prospect, but his tone as he replied was scornful, “I have known that for years. Why have you co
me to tell me so?”

  “Because you seem content to wait for him to die before you try to seize his land. Your country is small and the kingdoms of Gurion and Darvell are mighty—they will snatch Nathar away before you have a chance and leave you to scramble for scraps.”

  Mikal grimaced. “Your point?”

  “King Derik is weak now. He has isolated King Tirell and any fairies who might have come to his aid. There will be no one for him to call on should you choose to invade. Send out attack parties and start reclaiming his borders for yourself! Gurion and Darvell will not interfere while King Derik remains in nominal command. Seize what you can and lay plans to capture the rest as soon as he is dead. It will not be long now.”

  The certainty in her voice caused Mikal’s gaze to sharpen like a raptor fixing on its prey.

  “How can you know that?” he demanded. “My spies have made no such report.”

  The fairy smirked—a disturbing sight on such a beautiful face. “Because my mistress has taken steps to ensure it.”

  Mikal hissed in surprise. “You are talking of regicide.”

  “Am I?” the fairy replied ingenuously. “I thought I was discussing the chance for Takia to finally take its place among the mighty nations of the land.”

  Behind her, Mikal’s adviser grinned—clearly, he liked the sound of that. So did Mikal, but he was too shrewd to blindly accept such a statement.

  “What proof do I have that you speak the truth?” he challenged.

  Reaching into a pocket in the side of her dress, the fairy drew out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Mikal’s advisor, who in turn handed them to the king.

  Mikal skimmed the documents, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline at what they contained: information on King Derik as well as the other rulers—Tirell of Gurion, Paden of Darvell, and even Oric of Saman (the one king Mikal found rather tolerable, if only because Oric resented the larger nations’ dominance as much as he did). There was even some information on himself—information so secret, there was no way a spy could should have known.

  “How did you get all this?” he demanded, his silky voice soft and dangerous.

  “I am a fairy,” she replied without fear, as though that explained it . . . and perhaps in a way it did.

  Frowning, Mikal handed the papers back to his adviser. “I will have to confirm these reports.”

  “Naturally, but I guarantee you as to their accuracy.”

  Mikal gazed at her, his eyes narrowed with curiosity and suspicion. “What does the ghastly get out of this?”

  “You have harbored my mistress long enough to know what she desires.”

  He nodded. “King Derik’s head on a silver plate.”

  “A brass one would work just as well,” the fairy announced with a wink, startling Mikal. “Moraga craves revenge on King Derik, and by helping you seize his country, she is ensuring that she gets it.”

  Mikal shook his head as the fairy smiled at him. How could so radiant a creature be in service to a ghastly? It made no sense. The fairy smiled again, and Mikal stood, feeling slightly off-kilter. “Then consider us allies.”

  Her grin widened. “Oh, we already do.”

  * * * * *

  Liliath waited until she was safely outside the castle walls before she let her smile fall.

  “Fool,”’ she muttered. “Greedy, grasping, mindless fool.”

  Shuddering with distaste, Liliath clung her reeking cloak tighter and shuffled away down the dark streets—clearly nothing more than a hunchbacked old crone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rose threw back her head and breathed in the sun-fragranced air with delight, spreading her arms wide and closing her eyes as she basked in the summer warmth. When she opened them again, she saw the Beast watching her, his lips curled back in amusement.

  “What?” she defended. “It feels really good!”

  “Oh, I can see that.”

  The Beast’s voice was thick with suppressed laughter, and Rose pretended to pout as she threw the leaf she had been shredding in his direction. The leaf fluttered in the still, balmy air and came to rest well shy of its intended target.

  The Beast’s mouth twisted in a grin but he did not retaliate, even though the pile of bark he was rending apart with his sharp claws would have made the perfect ammunition. Instead, he scooped up his shreddings and her own and patted the mulch into place around the garden’s rose bushes, taking care not to step on Pesk as he did so.

  Pesk was lying on his side, dreaming dog dreams beneath his blanket of sun. Rose regarded him fondly, all too aware that her dog had grown quite old and that one day soon, he would simply not wake up. Then she would be alone with the Beast—a thought that should have distressed her, but which after four years together, she found she no longer minded.

  Four years. It is hard to believe I have been at the Beast’s lodge that long.

  Her time there had been most agreeable, and were it not for the fact that she could not leave—could not visit her family or her friends—Rose would have been quite happy to stay there indefinitely. As it was, she had long since trained herself not to dwell overlong on her absent home.

  Pushing aside such contemplation, Rose helped the Beast finish spreading the mulch they had made and then stood up, stretching out the kinks from her back. Her feet were bare, and her toes dug into the dirt as she walked toward the pond that adjoined the garden.

  Sitting down so that her back was against the willow tree on its bank, Rose stretched out her feet until they were submerged in the pond’s cool water. After a moment, the Beast joined her, settling down onto his stomach like a cat lying down to rest. This was how they usually finished their afternoons—reclining together under the willow tree as they engaged in the small talk of close companions. It was Rose’s favorite time of day.

  This afternoon, however, Rose noticed that the Beast seemed rather distracted—as they chatted, his gaze kept drifting away from her toward the forest. Feeling a little slighted, Rose finally exclaimed, “Fine, I can stare at the forest, too!”

  The Beast turned to face her. “I was just observing my surroundings. Am I not paying you enough attention?”

  Rose laughed, flushing a little. “You are fine. I was just teasing you.”

  “I see.” He rested his chin on his paws and stared at Rose, his bright green eyes unblinking. “Is this better?”

  “Now you are teasing me.”

  Rose met his stare with one of her own, her gazes locking with his for a long moment as they looked directly into each other’s eyes. Rose turned away first, laughing lightly to dispel the strange, slightly uncomfortable feeling that came from meeting such an intense gaze.

  A branch snapped in the distance, and out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw the Beast glance off to one side—assessing the forest, searching for danger as was his habit—before turning to look back at her.

  “What are you thinking about?” she inquired abruptly.

  The Beast chuckled—a low, pleasing rumble that seemed to come from the depths of his chest. “You ask me that every day.”

  Rose shrugged. “I cannot help it. I want to know.”

  “My answer today is the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that. The focus of my thoughts is you.”

  Her mouth twitched. “You know that is disturbing, right?”

  “Hmm. Would you prefer I think about your dog? I can do that.” The Beast licked his teeth to emphasize the direction of his thoughts.

  “Stop that!” Rose cried, reaching out to push him lightly on the shoulder.

  He caught her hand with one large paw, trapping it against his fur. Then to her surprise, he let it go and delicately brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face with a claw instead.

  “You make me so happy, Rose,” the Beast growled.

  Rose felt her smile falter. It had been her sweetheart Darren who would brush the hair out of her eyes—who would make her to laugh and kiss her beneath a willow tree. She had not thought about
him in months, and the last few times she had tried to picture his face, it had eluded her grasp—instead, it had been the Beast she had seen smiling in her dreams. Sometimes, Darren and the Beast would merge into one image in those dreams: a strange half-man, half-beast creation of her mind that was somehow far more disturbing than the reality.

  “What are you thinking about?” the Beast asked softly, interrupting her thoughts.

  Rose shook her head, forcing her mind back to the present and a smile back onto her face.

  “I thought that was my line?” she queried.

  “Are you judging me?”

  “Never!” Roses protested, tweaking one of his ears.

  The Beast growled, and when she giggled again, he rolled her over with one paw and effortlessly pinned her down so that she could not rise.

  “Beast! Get off!” Rose squealed, struggling to get away. The Beast gazed up at the sky in innocent contemplation, pretending he had not heard.

  Rose was laughing so hard, she could scarcely breathe. Finally, she managed to draw a deep breath and instantly regretted it.

  “Ugh, Beast! When was the last time you bathed?” she complained, trying again to shove his paw away from her face. This time, he let her.

  “Beasts do not need to bathe,” he said, clearly attempting to sound haughty; instead, the Beast’s embarrassment made him come across like a petulant child.

  Rose pushed herself to her feet. “Well, you clearly do. I am amazed your prey cannot smell you coming from a mile away.”

  “Even if they could, they would not be able to outrun me.”

  “Then at least their suffering would be short. I, however, intend to have a long, full life which means you need to take a bath. Now.”

  The Beast shied away from her. “Actually, I think I am just going to go—”

  “Get into the water, Beast!”

  Reluctantly, he stuck out a paw and dipped it into the pond, withdrawing it quickly.