Kingdom of Mirrors and Roses

by A. W. Cross

  12

  A man tutted, the brief noise enough to make Fayre’s skin crawl. Peering over Auber’s broad shoulder, she froze. Mere feet away, a man had appeared, his blazing blue eyes locked on her. Power sizzled and popped in the azure depths. Long golden hair caught in a slim braid fell across his robes. “It sounds like you aren’t interested in introducing us, Elly.”

  “Why are you here?” Grit roughened Auber’s words like he’d forced them out through a mouthful of sand.

  “Why?” The man’s brow rose in a strikingly familiar manner. “You don’t have the faintest clue?”

  Auber’s muscles spasmed, crushing air from her chest. She winced. He whispered, “My heart.”

  “Yes, your heart.” The man’s smile was chilling, but his eyes were oddly warm with nostalgia.

  Crammed against him, Fayre could feel Auber’s heart sputter to life. The erratic beats pounded faster and faster beneath his skin. Her own heart dared to race with his until realization came crashing through her skull. “You,” she breathed.

  The robed man spread his arms. “Me.”

  The wizard. But how? How had they broken the curse, and how had he know, and how had he appeared so suddenly? Fear rippled, prickling every hair on her body. She opened her mouth, but nothing formed.

  “Hm. Articulate.” The man waved a hand, and Fayre choked on a scream as Auber was ripped from her. Something thick and gummy and invisible coiled around her body, holding her in place. Muscles bulging, Auber struggled against his own confines, but he didn’t move. “There we go. Now I can see both of you clearly.”

  “Let her go.” Teeth bared, fury made Auber’s grey skin splotch white. “She has no part in what’s between us, Merlin.”

  Merlin’s lips puckered. “Have you villainized me, Elly? That’s rather rude of you.”

  The syrupy sensation released, and Fayre dropped to the floor, gasping in a pile of her silk gown. Stumbling to her feet, she ran to Auber, slamming head-first into a magic wall. “What are you doing to him?” She pounded against the spell, panic welling.

  Exasperated, a sigh poured from Merlin’s mouth. “Nothing. Or nothing yet anyway.” His lips thinned in a handsome, but chilling, smile. “So, you’re the one. The one who broke the Erlking’s curse.”

  “…Erlking?” She met Auber’s yellow eyes. Many books had mentioned the legends of the Erlking. The ruler of the faery realm.

  “He never told you?” Disappointment thickened Merlin’s voice. “That’s a shame. I’m not surprised; nothing surprises me. But it’s a shame. Auberone Erlking, I spent a good two weeks picking your name, Elly. Were you ever going to tell her?”

  “I was going to.” His jaw clenched, eyes meeting Fayre’s. “That’s why I collect bits of power—secrets, memories, time—from humans, for my peop—” His back went rigid, pain crushing his features.

  Merlin only hummed. “Yes, yes, of course. It was coming up, but I didn’t have time to waste. In fact, we have very little time now.” His attention shifted to Fayre and softened. “My dear, it is very nice to meet you.”

  “What?” Her fists clenched against the invisible wall, her lungs battling for breath. She was swimming, fighting for every inhale, wheezing on every exhale. It took her several moments to realize what she swam in were pools of magical residue, Merlin as the overflowing source.

  “Don’t think less of me. Destiny simply must find itself fulfilled lest Fate take hold.”

  “Don’t touch her!” Auber roared, jerking awkwardly. “Don’t you dare subject her to your tricks and mind games! She doesn’t deserve that!”

  “Elly, Elly, Elly…” Merlin shook his head. “You should know by now I don’t need your permission. Her love broke my curse, but let’s see if you’ve changed even without her.”

  Force plowed into Fayre’s body, hurling her into a mirror. Fog consumed her thoughts immediately, but she held on. She couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t let him separate her from Auber.

  Shaking, she screamed, clutching air like a tether and yanking herself forward through the haze. Pain split her skull, wrenching her consciousness into fractured bits. One step at a time, she dug her nails into the air and clawed her way back to Myre. Her fingers brushed the other side of the glass, then a weight thrust itself through her head.

  A thousand shrill voices hit unforgiving ground; the mirror shattered.

  Darkness bled over her. In a suffocating instant, everything was gone.

  13

  Emptiness swelled in the pit of Fayre’s stomach, consuming the world around her. She stared blankly ahead, where her father stood, arms folded, face pinched. One finger tapped uncontrollably against his arm, but he didn’t even appear to realize. He also didn’t appear to realize how each tap made her shrink, concave, deeper within the vacant pieces of her mind. A winter’s chill encompassed her, and she felt if she glanced out the window, all the trees would be bare.

  “Where were you?”

  “I don’t know.” The words left her lips, hollow. “I already told you, I don’t know.”

  His finger stopped, but his eyes narrowed.

  “This could ruin everything.” Her mother wrung her hands. Short breaths eased in and out of her. “Roald found you and returned you, but he was angry. What if his opinion of you has changed? What if his opinion of our family has changed?”

  They’d have to leave. If they could.

  “We warned you. How could you disappear like you did?”

  “I don’t re—”

  “You could have damned us all!” Her father’s harsh words clammored in her mind, silencing all thought. “If the prince takes this action as treason…”

  Her mother rushed to her bedside, clasping her arm. “The ball begins at dusk. You have to go, make amends, something. Think of your sisters. We could all be doomed.”

  Fayre didn’t want to think of her sisters. As the story went, Roald found her on the forest ground in a heap some time past midnight the day before, and though she remembered nothing, she had been missing nearly a month. Neither sister had stepped foot in her room to see if she was all right.

  Neither parent had asked either.

  Pulling her wrist out of her mother’s grasp, she stood, heading for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” her father demanded.

  She stopped before her standing mirror, glancing at the glass. A cool sensation ran over her, and she set her hand on the reflection. Heat welled through her fingers. “I have a ball to prepare for,” she lied.

  “All your things are here. I’ll do your hair. You’ll wear your finest gown.”

  Fayre turned to her mother, stilling as the woman plucked an olive green dress from her closet. The silk was more precious than anything she’d ever seen, anything her family could have afforded. But the style. The style was teasingly unrecognizable.

  Lands past yours.

  Her head whipped toward the mirror, and she snapped her hand off when the glass began to burn. Wide-eyed, she stared until she swore grey skin overlapped her image.

  A cry caught in her throat seconds later, her hair ripping from her skull. “What are you doing?” Her father’s fist clenched around her locks and dragged her backward. He discarded her on the bed. “Sit down. We have so little time to fix this, if it can be fixed at all.”

  “Gentle with her! She can’t attend if she’s hurt.” Her mother latched onto her father’s arm, but he pulled free, knocking her to the floor.

  “On the contrary, perhaps Roald’s heart will be softer knowing she’s been punished.” His hand raised, and Fayre tensed, pushing back into the bed.

  “Papa,” she choked. “Please. I don’t remember what I’ve done wrong.”

  Her pleas fell on deaf ears. His backhand cracked across her cheek, biting the bone and jerking her head into her shoulder. Pain rattled her skull, making her hear a strange deep voice screaming in anguish.

  When her head settled, the pain clinging like moss, the voice died.


  “That’s enough.” Her mother stood before her, shaking and separating her from her father. The gown lay crumpled at her feet, and her words shook. “She must at least be able to walk straight.”

  Her father’s head rose, cruelty marring his face. “You will fix this, Fayre.” Spite narrowed his eyes on her mother, then he turned and left.

  The woman dropped to her knees and sobbed. Gasping breaths wrenched from her chest, pouring over the room, filling it with thick waves of sorrow. Fayre fought through them and her still-spinning head to meet her mother on the floorboards.

  “Papa has never treated us this way,” she croaked. “Has he?”

  The trembling woman clasped Fayre’s hands, her lips parted. Her nails bit Fayre’s flesh, but unintentionally. She held on to her daughter for dear life. “No, my girl, but while you were gone, something changed. Like without your presence, his eyes have opened to some truth.” Her voice took on a hissing whisper. “Late at night, he’s stared between your photo and the mirror, getting angrier and angrier. He seems to have come to the conclusion you aren’t his.”

  “But that’s impossible, Mother. You would never—”

  “It matters not what I would never do. Where men are concerned, our voices are mere whispers on the wind.” The woman’s lip quivered. “We must get you ready, Fayre, and hide that mark. God help us.”

  Fayre touched the rumpled fabric of the olive gown, and her heart felt reminded of a place where things like this didn’t happen, a place where even beasts were safe enough to hold. Stroking the sheer lace, she found a rhythm to her breaths. Then she shook her head. “No. Leave it. Father is right. Men like Roald would have their women punished.”

  Cool fingers met her cheek. “But it’s so…”

  Fayre glanced at the mirror behind her. Purple blossomed, encroaching upon her eye. It leeched some color from her darkened skin, and changed it into yellowing splotches. “Ugly,” she said. “Yes, it is.”

  ✶

  With a name that meant beauty, the bruise felt almost endearingly ironic. For something so ugly to grace one so fair, Fayre thought attention would cling to the blemish, but as she was admitted into the palace, everyone’s gazes slid over her body more than her face.

  Painted in the eerie glow of lantern light, every man’s eyes stuck on the low cut and sheer gauze covering her chest before dipping to the fabric hugging her waist. Violated, chilled, and yet to face the worst of it all, Fayre kept her head high and the bile in her throat down.

  She stepped into the stuffy, shining room. All around her, noise tittered, rising, rising, until buzzing insects were all she could here. She kept on the outskirts of the massive ballroom, finding some comfort in a golden mirror that stretched twice her height. Her fingers skimmed the adorned frame, and she glanced through it rather than at herself.

  When had she become so fascinated with reflection?

  “Fayre?”

  Her chest collapsed, pulling inward at the center, when she turned, meeting Roald’s blue eyes. Surprise widened them, then they, like all the others, fell along her body, slithering over her form.

  “I didn’t know whether I’d have to send a carriage for you, all things considered.” He extended his hand.

  She brushed her fingers over the glass behind her for strength before touching him. “I walked,” she replied. Finding little else to say, she added, “I suppose I’m still welcome?”

  His brows lowered, anger twisting handsome features. It all eased. “I would like to know why you vanished like you did.” His eye caught on her cheek, the notice delayed. His hand clamped around hers. “Were you running from me, or…had something else happened that night I found you heading toward the woods?”

  Her lips parted, then closed. She dropped her focus to the tile. “I don’t remember anything about where I’ve been, Your Highness. I don’t even remember this night you speak of; however, if I were already on the road when you met me, I doubt you were involved.”

  The grip around her hand eased to something almost tender, but when his fingers met her cheek, her stomach swirled with distaste. Fear. He moved close, and her breath froze in her lungs. Missing her lips, his touched her ear. “May I have your first dance?”

  “O-of course.”

  He pulled her among the others, away from her mirror, but as he did, darkened flashes pattered through her mind like children’s footsteps. The encroaching walls of the room opened into mammoth balcony windows, each spinning woman’s glittering jewels flickered like countless chandeliers.

  Little bo—

  “Fayre?” Roald frowned at her. “Are you feeling all right?”

  She shook her head, pressing a hand to her cheek. “I’m fine. It’s hot. That’s all.” Someone’s gaze stabbed her back, but when she peered over her shoulder, only the glistened mirror peered back.

  Without invitation, Roald snaked his arm around her waist, drawing her against him. Trapped within his broad arms, she couldn’t help but think he seemed somehow…small.

  “You are more lovely than I remember,” he murmured, a glaze coating his eyes in a way that made her skin prickle and vomit stir. “Truth be told, I thought you knew what I’d planned for this evening and fled, knowing you couldn’t reject me any other way.”

  “What you’ve planned?” Her heart thundered like a herd of stampeding boars.

  His lips spread in an easy smile. “My proposal. By midnight, we’ll be wed, then before morning, far sweeter things will follow.”

  She tripped, avoiding falling on her face only because he held her so tightly. “What? So soon? Not even. Now?”

  “No,” venom laced his tone, “at the end of our dance.”

  Dread welled, each stiff movement a grain of sand trickling through an hourglass. Pressure built in her skull until she couldn’t breathe. “Your Highness,” she squeaked, “I…I don’t know if I’m ready for marriage. I’m certainly not prepared to start a family, much less a royal one.”

  “The kingdom I oversee is hardly daunting, something I would change with several sons. You needn’t worry about being anything but comfortable. I’ll see to it they’re raised properly.” The stillness in his expression shot terror through her. “Whether you’re ready or not, your body won’t wait for your immature mind. Women have limited birthing years, and I—”

  She shoved away from him, shaking. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? You don’t know anything about me. I’m a pretty face and a pleasant form. An attractive, able-bodied female.” She threw her arm out. “There’s nearly a dozen more of me here who may not resist the urge to puke when you touch them. Have your pick.”

  The room tensed, the music fizzling, when she realized not only what she had said but what she had shouted. Anything else she could have added died in her throat.

  Cold, calm, lethal anger enveloped Roald as he dipped his chin down. His blue eyes darkened, and he took a step toward her. “So that’s it. You find me repulsive.” Another step. “I make you sick.” She moved back, people darting out of the way as his advance continued. “I have never said a cruel word to you. I have never raised my hand against you. But perhaps that should change.” His gaze narrowed on her bruised cheek. “Maybe your father understands the right way to handle your impulsive temper. Because you see, Fayre…you’re still the best in my kingdom. And I will have the best, even if I must break it first.”

  Fayre’s back hit glass, and Roald’s hand reached forward.

  A yell sounded through her head as she covered her face, then power exploded in her chest.

  Something slapped against the tile, and she squinted to see. Dark vines with thorns as long as her fingers poured out of her body, out of the ground. Wet drops of blood plummeted from Roald’s wrist, hitting the cracks at his feet.

  Anger remained etched on his unmoving face, jaw slack, for the longest stretch of a moment she had ever witnessed. Heart hammering, confusion muddling, fear building, she remained pressed against the mirror, a spectacle for all.


  Run. RUN.

  The words zipped from the glass straight into her head, so she blinked off her shock and listened. She fled.

  “After her!” Roald yelled before she could make it to the door. “She’s made a fool of me! The enchantress, the witch, has played us all along!”

  “We should kill her!”

  “We must stop the monster!”

  Terror slithered its way up Fayre’s throat, tying knots in her chest, but she let their yells and the women’s shrieks propel her out of the castle. She tore past guards and out of the courtyard.

  “Saddle my horse.” Roald’s voice met her ears, though she didn’t dare look back. Snarling, he added, “I know exactly where she’s going.”

  14

  Although it was futile, Fayre burst into the woods and forced her aching legs to continue. Whatever time Roald spent saddling his horse, the creature’s gait would make up for in minutes. Where could she possibly go? Roald was a master hunter. He had tracked her to wherever he had found her just the night before, and she had been missing for weeks.

  Shouts followed her, so she shook her head. The second she gave up hope was the second he caught her. And the fate she’d face for whatever mystic arts had poured from her flesh would be far worse than the one Roald saw in forcing her to be his wife. She had to move. And continue moving. And fight till her strength gave way entirely.

  A blue light blinked in the distance before her, something like a wraith flame. Another flickered further along. Then another. As though something were leading her. She didn’t have time to be picky, and she knew the direction they pointed her to.

  Lake Avalon. Her sanctuary. Deep in the waters rested an alcove hidden from the surface. If she could just make it there before any saw her dive, she might be able to hide long enough for them to pass.

  She didn’t dare slow down even as she fumbled through the brush. Fallen branches caught on her silk gown. Burrs scratched her ankles. Wind whistled above her in the canopy, singing a song so eerie chills ran down her spine along with a cold sweat.