"Please, don't let him die for nothing. All he wants is to save you all. Please, go into the city, find your loved ones, and make his dying wish come true." Though I say him, I mean me. I don't want to die for nothing. I want to save them all. It is my dying wish that I will see come true.
Sincerity pulses through my words, a force that washes over the rebels, relaxes them. A buzz begins to stir the air, almost palpable, a tingle of excitement. One man folds, stepping out of formation. Hope shines through the tears wetting his eyes.
"Please," I whisper, voice thick with words unspoken. Please forgive me. That is what I want to say, what I can't say.
But they hear something else. Please believe me.
The dam breaks.
All around me, men and women abandon their stations, first walking and then running down the street, air whipping my face as they pass by. Stuck immobile in the middle of the human river flowing around me, I remember Asher's words from a few nights before.
Hope can be a beautiful thing. It can guide you through the dark. It can make you feel safe even in the most dangerous of times. But in the wrong hands, in my hands, hope is a weapon, bait to dangle before believing eyes.
I follow slowly after the crowd, no interest in seeing the fire disappear from their eyes. It is only a matter of time before they reach the city, before they realize their families are not free, before the queen pulls them under her control. I meander over concrete, lost in my own thoughts, barely aware when I pass back into the greenery of the park, not paying attention as the wall slips into view.
"Jade," a voice calls.
I turn, surprised. By now I thought the queen's curse would have taken hold, that the rebels would be no more. But a single figure leans like a shadow against a tree, hidden beneath leaves, just shy of stepping into view.
My heart sinks.
I would recognize that voice anywhere, the excitement laced tone, the frenetic nature.
"Maddy," I say, slowly, as though I can't quite believe my eyes.
Before I can move, Maddy jumps into the light, throwing her arms around me, locking me into an enthusiastic hug. My arms hang limp by my side, useless. My body has gone numb, dead.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper. Could the queen have possibly planned this? Have seen it coming? Must I lie to everyone who has ever shown me kindness?
"I was so worried about you and Asher. I mean, totally confident, but still, worried." She leans back, grinning and staring at me, before pulling me back down into a firm embrace. Her fingers clutch too tightly, her arms hold on for a second too long, and I realize there is more than just excitement behind her words. There is fear as well, laced into her voice, bringing her pitch a note too high.
I raise my arms, bringing them around her, trying to ease her fears. Soon she won't be able to feel them anyway. Soon all of that worry will be gone. But so will everything else.
"What's wrong? Why haven't you joined the others inside?"
We separate and Maddy crosses her arms, shrugs, bites her lip. Anxious fingers tap on her bicep and her cheeks twitch with indecision. When I first met Maddy, human contact made me uncomfortable. It was foreign. Unfamiliar. But since then so much has changed, and it is completely natural to reach out, covering her hand with mine, calming her nervous movements.
Our eyes meet.
"I'm just," she starts, pauses, takes a deep breath. "What if he's not…not there? You know? What if he's really gone?"
Maddy doesn't have to say anything else. I know exactly whom she means. Her father. My mouth goes dry. I have no idea what to say, how to ease her pain.
"I know it's stupid, I mean I haven't even seen him in ten years, if he is dead nothing will change, it'll be just like it's been. But—"
Her eyes start to water. In those shimmering pools, I see my reflection and cringe. Soon Maddy will forget her father. He will fade into memory, trapped inside her ice-cold heart, lost. And in the split second before that happens she will know that I am the one who broke her dreams, who stole them away, who in essence killed her father. In her wavering voice, I hear the cries of a thousand people, all cursing my name, all broken by my betrayal.
"But what if he is there?" I finish her sentence. Maddy nods, unable to say the words herself. "There's only one way to find out."
I grab her hand, entwining our fingers, trying to give her all my strength. It works. Her eyes lose their wrinkles and her brows pull apart, no longer scrunched together in a tight knot.
As we walk toward the open front gate of the wall, part of me actually thinks we might find him before the queen lays down her curse, that Maddy will be reunited with him first, that maybe I can do one good thing amidst so much treachery. Maybe then she won't hate me so much when she wakes up and remembers what I've done.
Inside, the streets are crowded. The rebels fill the winding roads, weapons forgotten and replaced with old, broken down photographs. Names are being shouted loudly, over and over, intermixing so it sounds like a jumble of noise. I cannot pull the words apart. But it does not matter because the citizens of Kardenia have not been moved to action. They do not leave their homes. Even if they hear their names, I doubt they will understand what it means, who is shouting for them.
Maddy's hand tightens on mine. Her nails dig into my palms.
For a moment, I think she's spotted her father, somehow, somewhere, a face pressed against the glass or a head poking through a window in curiosity.
"I…"
My insides knot in understanding as she trails off. Still connected through our fingers, I halt, turning to meet her suddenly confused gaze.
"Jade, I feel cold."
Maddy drops my hand as her eyes blank, lose focus. The beautifully dark skin on her face grows ashen, depleted of the energy that once filled it. Her lips open to speak, but then close, empty. As the moments pass, she continues to grow unrecognizable.
All around me, the mood shifts. The streets grow quiet, still. Hands drop lifeless to people's sides. Some even sit down on the floor, unable to remain standing. I have never seen the queen's magic in action before. I have lived with the cursed for my whole life, surrounded by it, but that was different. We were all already under the thrall. I've never watched the magic take hold. Observing it now, traces of fear and sadness trickle into my system. The city has gone comatose.
I understand why the queen waited so long. She wanted me to appreciate what I am to inherit, wanted to gift me with a display of the power I will one day hold. She finally believes she has an heir who will see the magic the way she sees it, as beautiful, wondrous, intoxicating.
But all I see is the monster I will someday become.
Silence spreads through the city as the rebels fall one by one, almost in slumber, bodies motionless on the ground except for the rise and fall of breathing chests.
Movement catches my peripheral vision as cheers filter into my ears. The Black Hearts are descending from their hiding spots on the wall, victorious over the rebels they have sought long and hard to defeat.
I want to scream.
A burning ache fills my chest, scratches my throat, singes my eyes.
They don't even know. They have no idea who they've just ensnared, that those are not just bodies on the ground. Those are their mothers and fathers, their brothers and sisters. Those are the people who wanted to save us all from ourselves, from the queen. If they knew, they would not clap. They would weep instead.
I kneel down, tucking Maddy's hand below her cheek, giving her what little comfort I can as the magic takes hold.
"Soon," I whisper my promise.
It will all be over soon.
Commander Alburn isn't even home while I pack my things, not that I expected him to be. I've only lived under his roof for more than ten years, grew up there. He taught me to fight in the grassy backyard, hours upon hours of swordplay, archery, until my face was bright red and my body covered in bruises. Never guns though. Those were reserved for the barracks. He never cared much for them. I wonder
if that's why they quickly became my favorite weapon.
I sigh, looking at the empty walls of my childhood room. My paintings are the only things coming with me to the palace, my new home. I could not bear to let them go, couldn't imagine them growing dusty in the commander's attic. The very idea was wrong, made me squirm. The colors are too vibrant, the scenes too beautiful for such a fate. So I removed them from their frames, slightly guilty as I cut the canvases apart, and rolled them into a loose circle. The floppy cylinder now rests awkwardly in my arms.
I wonder what the queen will think when she sees me. Will she believe it an act of defiance? I'll make something up, an explanation. I've given too much up already.
My mother.
Asher.
Maddy
The rebels.
Even the other objects in my room feel like a loss. The wooden mirror with paint chips flaking off. The colorful glass vases along my window. I was even instructed to leave all of my clothes behind, that a brand new wardrobe awaits—full of bulky skirts and unruly dresses I'm sure. I already miss my pants, the jeans I spent hours scouring the old city for, finding a few pairs that fit just right. Patches line the seams, but the wear only makes them more comfortable.
No. I've given enough up. The paintings come with me. I will need something to dream of while I wait for the warm embrace of death.
With a final glance, I close the door and make my way to the carriage down below. If the driver thinks me strange, he does not react to the sight of my bulky cargo. He just opens the door and silently closes it behind me.
The journey ends too quickly and I arrive at the castle, greeted by another silent valet who leads me wordlessly through the dark maze of the palace, from halo to halo of candlelight, our steps echoing in the empty space.
We stop beside an ornate wooden door, already open, the first welcoming thing I've seen today. I wait in the entrance as he lights candles all around the room, bringing the space back to life. Large red curtains hang from ceiling to floor, completely opaque, blocking out the sun. The wooden bed frame is beautifully carved with flowers, culminating in an ornate canopy draped with silks. There are no books. The shelves rest empty, barren. A small vanity sits in the corner, pristine with a gold leaf mirror that looks hardly used.
Has anyone even lived in this room before? Something about it feels lonely, deserted.
"Do you need anything else, my lady?"
It takes a second to realize he is speaking to me, though there is no one else around. I'm no lady.
"No." I shake my head and he leaves, closing the door behind him. When I am finally alone, a breath escapes my body, deep and tired. Alone once more, my shoulders droop, weary. The past few days have drained me. Gently, I place the paintings on my bed, leaving them for later, and tug open a curtain.
The effect is immediate. Light floods my dark room. The sun hits my skin, warming it, reenergizing me. Breathing easier, I pull the other half aside. As my eyes adjust to the brightness, I take in the view, disappointed. Fields and fields of green fill my vision. Beautiful. Wondrous. But not the old city, not the view I have stared at for most of my life, the one embedded in my soul.
I turn away, retreating into the scarlet box that surrounds me. The closet is full of silky dresses, jeweled and sparkly. The vanity has makeup I've never used and brushes that are encased in pearly opal. The shelves are indeed empty. But my paintings will hopefully make this room more familiar, more like home.
A knock sounds, distracting me. A moment later, the door opens.
"Jade, welcome home."
It's the queen. I'm unused to the cheer in her voice. I've never imagined it as anything but cold.
"Thank you," I murmur, trying to lace some excitement into the sound. "Everything is beautiful, Your Majesty."
She smiles warmly, stepping farther into my room. "There's no need for such formality, not anymore."
But I'm not sure how to respond, so I remain silent, watching her circle the small space, searching every nook. When her eyes land on the paintings covering my bed, she pauses, wrinkling her nose in distaste, but the expression passes quickly. I breathe a small sigh of relief.
My paintings have passed inspection.
"Come," she orders, taking my elbow in her hand and leading me to the vanity. Her touch brings bile to my throat, spins my stomach with nausea, as though my hatred is a physical disease. I force it down. I must act calm, detached, like the Jade she believes me to be.
With a little push, I sit in the chair, facing the mirror while the queen stands above me. The two of us could not look more different. I am dark where she is light. Brown hair. Tanned skin. Eyes blazing green and not blue. Still, there is something in the way our faces perch at the very top of our necks, strong and proud, that makes me feel we are not so different after all. The thought sends a fierce shiver down my spine, a fire scorching my skin, and I try my best not to squirm.
"I've always wanted a daughter," she murmurs as she pulls my hair back over my shoulders. Chilly fingers bring goose bumps to my neck before releasing my skin and reaching for the brush. "My mother and I used to sit like this every night preparing for dinner. She would brush my hair until it shined just like a candle flame. I was always amazed by her nimble touch, how she twisted and braided my hair into the most wonderful creations."
The brush slides through my waves, catching knots, but I keep my face still, free of pain. Did my mother brush my hair? I don't remember. It's hard to recall even what she looked like, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hands. All I recollect is the soft cocoon of safety that always sheltered me, kept me warm. I knew when she was there that I had nothing to fear.
Completely different from my life now.
Each new day brings a new terror. All because of the woman standing over me, touching me as though we are close, as though she has earned some privilege. And I must let her.
"As I got older, I would sit where you are, imagining that one day I would have a daughter who sat like a perfect princess while I twirled her hair."
I watch the queen in the mirror. Her eyes have grown softer, darker, filled with concentration as her fingers move in rhythm, up and down, up and down. The angles on her face don't seem quite as harsh. Is this the woman Asher would have known had he been born a girl? Could so small a detail really have made so large an impact?
"In a few days' time, we will be like family. The ceremony will connect us through magic you can't even begin to understand, but I will teach you how to wield it."
I bite my cheeks to keep from grinning. I have a timeline. In a few days' time, I will kill the queen. But I don't say that. Head downcast, I murmur, "I am excited to learn, Your Majesty."
Queen Deirdre pulls on my hair, braiding it, forcing my head back up.
Our eyes meet in the reflection.
I pause, worried that she has read my thoughts, that she can sense the revulsion coursing through my veins, the pit of anger boiling in my chest.
But a wide smile spreads across her lips, maybe the first real one I've ever seen lighten her frosty features. "I would like you to call me Mother, Jade," she says, voice fragile. Do I dare say vulnerable?
In that moment, I understand two things very clearly.
First, that I truly am immune to the queen. Even her magic cannot crack the shell around my heart if she cannot sense that Mother is the last thing I would ever truly call her.
Second, that hope is a weapon even evil things cannot defeat. The gleam in her eye is unmistakable. She wants to believe that she is on the brink of making all of her dreams come true.
So I open my mouth. I say a word I never thought I would gift to her. But in it, I have sealed her fate. "Mother," I whisper, a small nervous smile on my lips, eyes shining bright—not out of joy, but out of victory.
Without her powers, the queen does not know the difference. She looks away, swallowing, but the grin comes back to her lips, giddy, almost girlish. "Good," she says, pinning my hair in a perfect knot
atop my head and then stepping away. "I will see you later tonight for dinner. Wear one of your new dresses."
"I will," I say, and then I force one more word out just to drive the point home, "Mother."
After the queen is gone, it takes all of my willpower not to scream. Instead, I rip the pins from my hair, breathing heavily, shaking violently until my curls fall naturally once more.
I want nothing to do with her. I don't want her castle. I don't want her magic. I definitely don't want her affection. I ache to toss it all away.
But I can't.
So instead, I stomp to the bed to retrieve my paintings. They will calm me. They will let me escape into daydreams just as they always have. But the canvases have rolled off my bed while the queen was here, as though afraid of her, so I bend, searching the floor until I spot them under the mattress. Reaching, I pull. But just beyond the bundle rests a little box tucked in the corner, almost hidden in the folds of the curtains. I grab it, intrigued.
This is just the distraction I needed.
A mystery.
I lift the wood onto my lap, running my fingers over the smooth edges. The dark stain is broken by a few hints of the natural grain hidden below. The carving is simple, just a rectangle with no extra grooves, no miniature sculptures or words. The only adornment is a little metal plate etched with the words, "For my son. To keep your dreams safe."
I ease open the lid, intrusive, wondering what secrets are stored inside, but all that waits are papers. Scrawls and crude pictures cover the pages. I reach in, lifting a small bundle loosely bound with string. The front cover reads, The Lonely Prince and the Fearsome Dragon.
I open the fragile page, trying not to bend the paper as I read the first few lines of the story. Once there was a lonely prince who lived in a lonely palace all by himself. The prince is drawn below, a big circle of a face, yellow squiggles for hair, eyes a bright purple. Suddenly I know who this is, even with the most childish of drawings, I understand.
Asher.
The box was his. The stories are his. What else was a boy to do, all alone in a castle with no friends, no mother who bothered to pay attention to him? The lonely prince…
Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1) Page 16
