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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  * * * * *

  “It is nearly time,” Moraga proclaimed, her silver eyes shining with anticipation. “Is everything ready?”

  “Still,” Liliath replied flatly, patting the laden sack that hung from one shoulder.

  “Then take my hand.”

  Liliath suppressed a shudder as Moraga’s cold, leathery fingers wrapped around her own. “How much longer?” she asked to hide her discomfort.

  “Not long.” The ghastly gave Liliath a crooked smile. “You need have only a little more patience, my dear. This is the last time you and I will ever have to wait for anything again.”

  * * * * *

  Rose sighed with weary gratitude as the trees gave way to the Beast’s estate. The rain had stopped, and she let her sodden cloak fall to the ground as she hastened toward the lodge. Her eyes scanned the clearing as she did so, taking in the pond and the garden, but the Beast’s proud figure was nowhere to be seen.

  Of course not—the Beast hates to be out in the rain. He has to be inside, she decided as she pulled open the front door.

  “Beast!” she called loudly, but only silence met her ears. Rose peered into the hall where she and the Beast usually ate—it was bare save for a few blankets piled on the floor. Even the fireplace, which always roared with cheerful flames except in summer, held nothing now but cold ashes.

  Maybe . . . maybe he is trying to save on wood, Rose reasoned, attempting to calm the alarm that was threatening to consume her.

  In a forest? her mind rebuked.

  “Beast?” Rose queried again, looking into the kitchen—it was just as barren as the hall had been, without any hint of food. One by one, she checked each of the rooms—even the rafters!—but the Beast was in none of them. There was just one place she had left to look—the evil room that had actualized her Dream.

  No, surely the Beast would not go in there—not after what happened—not when he warned me to stay away!

  Are you afraid to enter? her mind challenged.

  Yes, Rose admitted, her hand hovering over the door ring whose icy bite she remembered well.

  What of your Dream this morning? What if this is what it means?

  Once again, she saw the Beast falling, and heard his anguished howl.

  No! The Beast is out hunting or something. He will be back soon. He has to be, she protested, seeking any excuse to avoid turning that ring.

  But what of the fire? The kitchen? Pesk?

  The Beast would not have abandoned his home—not when I promised I would come back. He must be here!

  Rose reached out to grip the door ring and then yanked her hand back with a yelp. It had burned her! But not with heat, she realized as she clutched her hand close, but rather with a cold so intense it had actually scorched her skin. Clenching her teeth, she forced her fingers to open and close, rubbing them back to life with her other hand. As she did so, her thumb passed over the ring she was wearing, and she remembered why the Beast had given it to her in the first place.

  “Of course!” she whispered, the pain in her hand momentarily forgotten. Twisting the ring, she commanded it, “Take me to the Beast!”

  Instantly, she felt the ring tug on her hand as though it were trying to pull her in the right direction. She followed the tug back down the stairs and out the front door, feeling a moment’s worry that the Beast really was out hunting, in which case she was likely in for another long walk. To her surprise, however, the ring guided her toward the garden instead.

  Rose examined her surroundings, puzzled. The flowers were in full bloom, the raindrops on their petals glistening like a thousand diamonds in the sun. Faint plops echoed all around her as drops grew too heavy and fell, sounding to Rose as though the garden itself was crying. But though the rose bushes were tall, even on all fours, the Beast should have been taller—yet she could see no sign of him. Rose swallowed hard, trying to breathe past the fear that had taken root in her chest.

  Then without warning, she saw him. The Beast was lying on his side, half-curled beneath a bush and clutching in his paw the stem of a single rose.

  “Beast!” she cried, rushing over and collapsing to her knees by his side. “Beast, answer me! Wake up!” She shook him hard—again, and again—trying to rouse him, denying the truth. Finally, she rocked back on her heels, her fist shoved in her mouth to stifle her sobs.

  The Beast was dead.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “No!” Rose wept, refusing to believe it. “Beast, please . . .”

  But he did not stir. Rills of water streamed from his fur as Rose clung to him, her breath coming in ragged sobs. She pressed her cheek against the side of his face, her lips touching his ear. “Ari, come back to me,” she pleaded.

  A faint shudder passed through the Beast as she spoke his name, and one bleary eye edged open.

  “Rose?” he croaked, his head shifting slightly as he tried to focus on her face.

  Relief surged through Rose with the force of a flash flood. “You fool!” she exclaimed, pounding on his shoulder. “You utter, daft fool! How dare you scare me like that? Get up! What were you thinking, sleeping in the rain? Your fur smells worse than Pesk’s! Do you know he went to find me? Shame on you! Get up!”

  “I cannot, Rose. Forgive me.” The sadness in the Beast’s eyes rent her heart and filled her with renewed desperation.

  “Of course you can! You told me long ago that my wish was your command. Well, I command you to get up!”

  “Rose . . .”

  She shook him again, her sobs coming harder. “Please, Beast—Ari—try.”

  His lips twitched as he tried to answer her, but his voice was too faint for her to hear. His eyes began to roll up in his head, and she slapped his face to keep him with her. “No, you cannot go! I will not let you. I rode all the way here in a rainstorm to be by your side. I am soaked to the bone and freezing, not to mention I nearly went into that wicked room again trying to find you! You owe me this. I cannot lose you. Come on, Ari, answer me!”

  “You were wrong, you know,” he murmured, his eyes open but blind. “I do know . . . suffering.”

  Despair filled Rose as she cradled his head, stroking his face as he fought for breath. He shivered, and the rose he had been holding tumbled out of his hand and onto the ground.

  “Then do not make me suffer a life without you,” Rose begged, picking it up. “I need you, Beast. You are my best friend, but you are so much more than that. You are the other half of my spirit. I love you, Beast—I never realized just how much until this very moment. You cannot go!”

  Against her protests, the Beast’s eyes closed for a final time.

  “Ari, do you hear me? I came back! I chose you! I will stay with you, Ari—I will marry you!”

  The words had no sooner left her lips than a ripping sensation tore through Rose, and she fell to the ground, gasping. Amethyst light flared from her and from the Beast, blinding her with its intensity. A terrible howl filled her ears, and Rose blinked the spots from her eyes just in time to see the Beast writhing on the ground, his black fur falling away from his limbs as they spasmed uncontrollably. His howl turned into a shriek of pain, and then all was quiet.

  Rose stared. Where the Beast had been lying was a man—a naked man. As she watched, he gave a low grown and rolled over so that he was crouched on his hands and feet. His head was bent and dark curls cut flopped in front of his eyes. Irritated, he lifted one hand to brush them away and froze.

  “Is—is that my hand?” he exclaimed, his tenor voice cracking with astonishment. Completely unaware of any need for modesty, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling a little as he tried to balance on two legs. Rose blushed and quickly averted her eyes to his face, where green eyes shimmered with delight.

  “It is my hand—my feet—my body!” he declared, exploring his arms and chest with his hands, caressing his golden skin in wonder.

  Then he caught sight of Rose, and his face broke into an incredulous smile. Before she could move or protest, he had da
rted forward and lifted her up, swinging her around in an enthusiastic embrace before setting her back on her feet and clasping her hands in his own.

  “Oh Rose, my Rose, you have freed me. You have saved me! Say something, Rose.”

  She blinked at him. “Ouch.”

  * * * * *

  Confused, Ari let go and took a step back. To his alarm, Rose immediately collapsed onto the ground, her eyes rolling shut. For a moment, he thought she had fainted, but then he saw the rose clutched in her hand and three drops of blood welling from the spot where a thorn had pricked her.

  “See how perfectly I wrought my curse?” a rough voice gloated behind him. Ari pivoted around and instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch.

  “You!” he snarled in surprise, his eyes fixed on the ghastly standing inexplicably in his garden. All the hatred and rage he had harbored for over twenty years flamed into instant inferno as his gaze locked onto hers. Suddenly, a second voice gasped:

  “Ari?”

  Only then did he notice the fairy standing next to Moraga, a look of horror on her face.

  “L–Liliath?” he stuttered, shock coursing through him like a bolt of lightning. He felt welded to the earth, scarcely able to comprehend the sight of his friend standing in the company of his sworn enemy—and holding the creature’s hand, no less!

  “This is your prince? How ironic.” The ghastly’s lips twisted in sardonic amusement as her gaze slid from Liliath to him; her eyes assessed Ari in a way that made his hackles rise. “You looked better the last time I saw you, princeling. Humanity suits you ill,” she taunted.

  “What did you do to Rose?” Ari demanded, the heat in his voice scorching the air. The ghastly appeared unruffled.

  “Not very intelligent, is he?” Moraga smirked to Liliath. “Come on, boy, you were there. What did I do to the princess?”

  “The princess?” Ari’s mind seemed to move as slow as molasses as he tried to grasp what the ghastly was saying. “But Rose is not—she cannot be—you lie!”

  “I would debate the matter with you, but frankly, I have better things to do,” Moraga replied, her tone bored. She gestured to Liliath. “Get the girl. If the prince interferes, then kill him.”

  Ari spread his arms as though to ward off the ghastly—and his friend. “Stay back!” he warned. Liliath looked stricken.

  “Moraga, you promised—you cannot hurt Ari,” she protested.

  “And you promised to help me and obey all that I asked. So obey!” the ghastly snapped.

  Liliath’s head jerked back as though she had been slapped. Her eyes flashed from Ari to Moraga, and she swallowed hard. “I will not kill my friend.”

  Moraga sneered. “You know what will happen if you break your sworn word!”

  “I know.”

  As Moraga contemplated her, Ari thought he saw a strange expression—almost like respect—flash across her face.

  “Fine—I amend my order. Defend us and this place from all interference. Let us complete what we set out to do.”

  With a sigh of relief, Liliath nodded and took a step toward Rose.

  “Liliath . . . no,” Ari implored. Her eyes met his briefly, but then she looked away.

  “I have to, Ari. I am sorry.”

  Light started to gather around her palms, and Ari bounded forward to try to stop her—but the ground heaved beneath his feet as magic shot out from her hands, and he tripped.

  For one terrible moment, Ari thought he had been hit by her spell. The memory of the last time he had tried to prevent an enchantment flashed to his mind, and with a panicked roar, he leapt to his feet—and immediately lost his balance again. The ground was exploding all around him in showers of dirt and roots as rose bushes shot skyward in exponential growth. Pain pierced Ari as an engorged stem whipped across his chest, momentarily lifting off the ground and flinging him aside as it curved to stretch up toward the others.

  The last thing Ari saw was Moraga darting in to snatch Rose as the mutating bushes interwove in an inextricable mesh, blocking the others from view.

  * * * * *

  Liliath felt nauseous as her spell tossed Ari through the air like chaff, but she could do nothing to help him while the wall she had wrought finished separating him from Rose.

  How could that woman be the princess? It made no sense! But there was no denying that this was where the curse had brought them and that Rose was in so deep a sleep that even the violent upheaval occurring all around her could not make her awaken.

  “Well? Are you going to help me or just stand there gawking?” Moraga barked.

  Liliath hastened forward and picked up Rose’s feet while Moraga lifted her under her arms. Together, they carried Rose into the lodge while behind them, the plants continued to twist and grow—along with something else that had been caught in the path of her spell. With a startled yelp, Liliath dropped Rose’s feet and slammed the door shut against it.

  Moraga was already hauling Rose toward the austere dining hall, and Liliath helped her by rote, her mind almost stupefied by loss—for how could Ari ever look at her now, love her now? She had conspired with the ghastly to free him from his spell, but he had succeeded in breaking the curse on own. No, it was worse than that—Rose had broken it, which meant she had agreed to marry him. Liliath had seen the love the two of them shared, but she had hoped Rose, at least, would never admit it. Now, Ari not only knew that Liliath was working with the ghastly, but she had torn him away from the woman he loved . . . and once the he discovered their intent for the princess, there could be no forgiveness.

  Yet what choice did she have? She had given her word to see Moraga’s plan through, and Ari breaking his curse on his own did not nullify that—nor could she simply go back on her pledge. To do so would mean the death of everything it was to be a fairy . . . including her magic.

  “Hold this for me,” Moraga instructed, snapping Liliath’s thoughts as she pulled a looking glass out from her bag and thrust it into Liliath’s hands. “It is finally time for our audience with the King.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The door burst open and King Tirell strode into the room.

  “I say, Derik, you look simply terrible. Getting poisoned is really a poor excuse for letting yourself go”

  King Derik opened his rheumy eyes wider and smiled weakly at his old friend. In spite of Tirell’s gruff tone, the man’s eyes were bright with concern and his generally ruddy face was pale.

  “You . . . came.”

  “Of course I came. Your messenger said you wanted to give me your kingdom. How could I pass that up?” King Tirell chuckled at his own feeble joke, but his grip on Derik’s hand was strong as he sat down on the edge of his bed, tears leaking down his cheeks as he regarded the dying man.

  “I am glad . . . you did . . . even if it was . . . just for that.”

  King Tirell snorted. “You old peasant, you know why I am here. Must you hear me say it? Very well. I was a fool. I let myself get so caught up in my own tragedy that I discounted you and yours, discarding in the process our long years of friendship. Can you forgive me?”

  “Hmm.” Derik’s eyes glinted with more than the fever wracking his body. “I think . . .” he paused, and King Tirell shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “that is the first time . . . I have heard you . . . apologize . . . for anything. Do it again.”

  Tirell looked taken aback. His gaze shot to the others in the room, who were all watching him intently. Derik saw and relented.

  “Oh, all right . . . I forgive you.”

  He gestured feebly with his free hand to Bertard, who immediately seized a parchment and quill off the dressing table and carried them over to his liege, relief and gratitude evident in his every motion.

  “You are timely, Tirell . . . . You have spared my . . . advisor a most unwelcome kingship . . . . This declaration gives my . . . lands and my people . . . to you. Help me . . . help me to sign it.”

  King Tirell wrapped his hand around Derik’s own, but even w
ith his aid, the quill in Derik’s hand quivered violently, and a drop of ink fell to spread on the parchment. Derik stared at it, seeing blood spill across his country the same way. Could Tirell stave off the armies gathering on Nathar’s borders and keep the Prophesy from coming to pass? Derik had no choice—he had to hope so, believe so. But as he steeled himself to scribe his name, a horrible cackling resounded through the room, interrupting his intent.

  “What in the—I know that laugh!” King Tirell roared, almost crushing Derik’s hand as he cast his gaze wildly around for the sound. Suddenly, one of the maids screamed, and Derik followed her trembling hand to the mirror mounted above the dressing table, where the image of a ghastly’s face was leering down at them from its frame.

  King Tirell swore loudly and long, but Derik’s breath was trapped in his throat and when he tried to speak, he nearly choked.

  “Oh, cease your prattle, Tirell,” the ghastly in the mirror snapped, and to Derik’s surprise, the other king obeyed, his face purple with rage.

  In the sudden silence, Moraga appeared to survey the room, a smile of satisfaction suffusing her face. “My, my, this is quite the reunion! Tirell is here, and the fairies too? How unexpected! I am delighted. Utterly delighted.”

  The pleasure in that hated voice filled Derik with rage, and he found he could speak after all. “Is this magic . . . so you can gloat over me, Ghastly? . . . Is that why you cast this spell . . . to laugh at me dying?” he wheezed.

  She waved a dismissing hand. “Unlike these foolish fairies, I would not waste my magic on you, O King—not even to enjoy your death.” Out of the corner of his eye, Derik saw the triplets flinch at her cruel reminder. “Rather, I sought out an artifact which displays the reflection of any mirror I desire . . . and more importantly, lets those so reflected see me. Thus my magic is spared for a greater purpose—one that yes, will give me true cause to gloat.”