Faythe straightened in cold terror but tried to remain calm at the bold declaration. She mustered every ounce of courage to force the words from her mouth. “If you know about me, you’ll know what I’m capable of.”
It wasn’t a direct threat, but Varlas’s eyes flashed in rage at the implication. “I’m not afraid of a human,” he spat bitterly. Then he composed himself to stand intimidatingly tall. His cruel smile rattled her very bones. “We both know you can’t harm or kill me without signing your own death warrant, Faythe.”
She clenched her teeth in anger. One move on him, through mind compulsion or otherwise, was a sure death sentence. But then she supposed he could have her convicted without any action at all. So, the question remained: What did he stand to gain from exposing his knowledge of her?
“What do you want?”
His grin turned predatory. “Straight to the point. I like that,” he drawled, beginning a short pace. Every step he took toward her made her heart skip a beat, and she became all too aware of the mighty blade at his hip. She highly doubted her death by his hand would be challenged with the lies he could conjure about this encounter. “That insufferable bastard Agalhor had to find an excuse not to be here,” he went on without looking at her, more as a rant to himself than to Faythe directly. “Though it seems it might not all be wasted time.” His eyes met hers. “I see the general has taking a liking to you.”
Faythe tightened her gloved fists at the mention. His observations about their relationship were wholly misjudged. At least Reylan had never tried to hide his distaste and suspicions.
“You’re playing your role well at least. Secret encounters, late-night meets, opposite rooms… Tell me, has he been warming your bed during his stay too?”
Her cheeks flamed at the insinuation she’d reduced herself to being a courtesan. Clearly, the king before her knew every detail of Orlon’s plans to use her. Only, it struck Faythe with immense fear to realize the week, the meetings, had been planned as a collusion between Olmstone and High Farrow against Rhyenelle, and Agalhor was their target all along. It was supposed to be him sitting across from her at the start, during that first evening at the great feast, and then every time after. Instead, she was herded toward the general. His position across the hall wasn’t a mere coincidence. No—they expected her to get close to him, whatever it took.
She couldn’t settle on what filled her with dread more: the thought of an internal conflict between allies, or the danger Reylan was in if he stood unwitting in enemy terrain. His safety shouldn’t bother her, yet as much as he riled her to no end, she didn’t want to see him harmed. Not when she had the chance to prevent it with her newfound knowledge.
“I really hope you managed to coax some useful information out of him, however you went about it,” he continued to degrade her. Though it was all false speculation and he only used the taunts to goad her, she hated that she let herself feel belittled by it.
He was still dancing around the answer to her question.
“I don’t know anything,” she ground out.
Varlas cocked his head. “I do hope that’s not true. What a waste of talent it would be to end you without any insight. Orlon may trust you, but I do not. An ability such as yours, if left unchecked, could work gravely against my plans.”
She knew then exactly why he lured her here alone. It was a test—of both her loyalty and ruthlessness. She’d wholly failed, though it seemed he was expecting that. Varlas was a man of little patience and sought answers from her without the need to involve Orlon. Then he’d dispose of his spymaster out of paranoia she could be used against him.
“What do you want from me?” Faythe kept her voice calm, taking a step back as he slowly closed in. She didn’t expect a real answer, but she fought to keep him talking while she figured out an escape plan. The others would be too far to hear—Varlas had made sure of that. It dawned on her the stag had always been safe as she was the intended prey all along. She’d allowed herself to be herded into the perfect moment for the wolf to strike.
Varlas reached for the hilt of his sword. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about Rhyenelle.” Steel sang, glinting with dangerous beauty against the flickers of sunlight through the canopy. “Then I may have to inform everyone of your tragic hunting accident.”
She blanched, pulse picking up in a frantic sprint. She was running out of time. Faythe was unarmed, having foolishly forgotten to retrieve her sword. It remained strapped to her horse, and she cursed herself for the amateur mistake. Even if she wouldn’t hold out against Varlas in combat, it might cause enough commotion for her companions to hear. It could buy her precious time.
He took a step forward, but she didn’t retreat once this time despite everything screaming at her to run. She held firm.
“If you kill me, you’ll get nothing.” Her voice wavered.
He stepped forward again, slowly, deliberately, relishing her fear. “Oh, Faythe, I will have everything. You’re merely a plan to get it faster. Nevertheless, I will conquer Rhyenelle. The general will be next to die. Orlon doesn’t think it wise to kill him yet and risk retaliation, but with him right within my grasp here, it’s too perfect an opportunity to pass up. To remove the strongest commander in Rhyenelle’s forces…”
“You won’t get the chance,” Faythe snapped, feeling her anger rise to crush her panic.
His eyes twinkled in delight. “Have you come to care for him, Faythe?” he sang mockingly. “Silly, pathetic girl.”
“Why would you seek to destroy the alliance when it is all that keeps us safe?” She seethed.
His irises darkened, and he took another step. “You know nothing. Rhyenelle has taken land in greed, hidden behind high walls, and forced their ideals on us for centuries. I only seek to take back what is rightfully mine yet have been undermined and made to feel a fool by that insufferable bastard and his dogs. I will stand it no longer!” Spit flew from his mouth, his voice unrecognizable as he spoke with unhinged wrath. He stopped advancing, and his chest heaved as he took a few breaths to calm himself. Then he rolled his head, squaring his shoulders, and poised his sword. “I did like you, Faythe, and thought you would make a fantastic ally. But I was right: your heart is too soft. You don’t see that we stand to be stronger with Agalhor removed and Rhyenelle under our command.” He braced both hands around the hilt, lifting higher.
Faythe’s eyes remained on his even though she trembled, wanting to track the looming steel.
“I’m sorry it had to come to this, truly, but I cannot have you running off to warn the general, and I won’t risk you siding with him now you have inevitably discovered my plans.” Varlas raised his arms a fraction higher, poised to take her life in one swift movement.
Faythe cursed the spirits, cursed the world, cursed all the damn kings to burn in the Nether for eternity. Reaching into his mind, she shattered his weak mental barrier and seized control.
The fall of the blade halted.
His fury knocked into her like a physical blow. She gasped and swayed, adjusting her footing before she could straighten from the impact. She commanded him to drop his sword, then his arms. His face contorted in savage rage and disbelief. She tried to maintain her composure, but her mind became a chaos of clashing emotions. His and hers. The nerves and fear, they were her own, from having no plan for how she would keep her life after committing the worse crime possible: high treason.
“You’re going to die painfully for this.” His voice rattled menacingly in her mind, and she resisted the urge to retreat at the ripples of hatred and malice that flowed through her.
Faythe fought to keep herself separate from his erratic emotions. She couldn’t kill him—there would be no coming back from that. But with his overwhelming want to kill her, it was a tough mental battle not to give in to impulse. She threw up walls around herself in his mind, needing a moment to calm and gather focus before she did something irreversible. Taking long, physical breaths, she felt herself regaining her con
trol, remembering who she was and what she was doing. As soon as she dropped her shield, she took away his anger.
Faythe soothed the wicked storm of hatred into a tranquil river of peace. It was reflected on his face as his creased tan skin smoothed his furrowed brow. Quickly sifting through his memories, she brought to the surface something to offset his animosity. It was not his wife or even his children she found in the depths of Varlas’s happiest memories; it was someone else entirely. Someone Faythe had never seen before.
She was impeccably beautiful with auburn hair, and her image did exactly what she needed it to. It brought light to the darkness of Varlas’s mind and eased his melancholic heart. It elated his spirit and joined together the cracks of his broken soul. Faythe knew who she was then.
Varlas’s mate.
Not the current queen; not the female he arrived with. Faythe was stunned, struck stupid at the realization. Varlas’s loathing and coldheartedness had nothing to do with land nor anything as trivial as power.
It was fueled by his eternal heartbreak.
The scene changed, and she fought against the suffocating weight of pain and grief. Varlas kneeled on blood-soaked grass, cradling a limp body while he rocked and trembled. His mate’s body. Faythe could have blocked the emotion from herself, but she felt the need to experience it, to understand it. Varlas snapped his head up. She didn’t know him well, but the utter devastation on his tear-stained face pierced her heart and pricked her eyes. His gaze burned with grief-stricken fury, and she followed his line of sight. Faythe almost buckled at who she found.
Reylan. Only, his silver hair was longer, and he appeared slightly younger in age.
“This is your fault!” Varlas cried.
Faythe couldn’t take her eyes off Reylan’s desolate face. He also looked doused in grief and agony, so much crushing sadness in one memory. Faythe felt the wetness on her cheeks as she refused to shield herself from the flood of emotion. Seeing the suffering on Reylan’s face stabbed her with a different kind of pain. Her own pain.
“It is not, Varlas,” another voice echoed in the vision.
She peeled her eyes from the general, and they landed on a tall, striking male. He too looked battle-scarred and torn with sorrow over the events.
“We did all we could, but it seems we were misled by Valgard this time. I am sorry. I know no measure of time nor words can fix this, but it was not our fault, and we cannot let them win by making enemies of each other.”
It was Agalhor, King of Rhyenelle, who spoke. Somehow, Faythe didn’t need Varlas’s confirmation to conclude as much.
“You said she would be safe here. It is your fault!”
It was a strange feeling, seeing a broken king on his knees. Faythe wanted to hate him for his ill intentions toward Reylan and Rhyenelle, for misleading her this past week, and ultimately, for trying to kill her. Yet she understood and pitied him instead. Though she was in his mind, she didn’t want to comprehend the full extent of his misery in that moment. Those who were lucky enough to find their mate, their equal, one to complete their soul and strengthen the other…it brought immeasurable pain to sever that bond.
Though his vengeance was wrong, Faythe didn’t blame him.
In the vision, Reylan straightened suddenly, a look of the coldest fear blanking his expression. He turned to his king who gave him a nod of understanding laced with his own concern. Then Reylan twisted on his heel and took off running.
Faythe couldn’t take anymore. She pulled herself from the memory, bringing them both consciously back to their woodland surroundings once more. She kept control of Varlas’s movements to keep him still, but she faltered as her dull headache manifested to a throb that began to pepper her vision.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said in barely more than a whisper.
“I’m going to kill you.” He seethed.
She shook her head. “Waging war won’t bring her back. If you attack Rhyenelle, they win. Valgard wins.” It came out as a plea as she was desperate for him to see reason.
“Agalhor was too invested in protecting himself, his own kingdom. He left them as good as undefended there with an incapable general. Reylan allowed himself to be distracted by a small force of soldiers, leaving my mate and others without enough protection in Fenher. He failed to disperse his forces accordingly and see the ambush, the trap, that was laid for them to be pulled away from the town of innocents. They were slaughtered, every one of them, including my Freya. He deserves to pay for what he did. And Agalhor will pay too for being unfit to lead. Rhyenelle will thank me for removing him from power.”
“I can’t let you hurt him. I can’t let you start an internal war.”
Varlas chuckled darkly. “How dare you speak to me as if I require permission from a cowardly human? You cannot stop me, Faythe. It is already in place, and you were simply a means to speed up my intent to strike. As soon as Orlon finds whatever it is he claims we need to make it swift, Rhyenelle will fall to me.”
There was no reasoning with him. The king’s course of action was set, and there was no dissuading him from it. She couldn’t unchain the reaction set in stone the moment Varlas lost Freya and cast the blame on Rhyenelle.
In the present, she had a choice to make. Varlas wouldn’t let her live—not with everything she knew. Faythe remained in control of his mind, but not for long. Reylan’s caution on limits rang chillingly through her head: Recognize when you’ve depleted your well, reached your own limit—and know when to stop.
The void she tunneled into with her ability was depthless, and she felt the talons of that oblivion reaching for her, eager to swallow her whole. Magick as an entity was thrilled to claim her life for the boundaries she pushed. And pushed. And pushed. Every second she extended her ability to grapple the mind of another was one second closer to her end.
But the moment she let go, Varlas would kill her, and she couldn’t kill him without condemning her life. Every solution her mind frantically drew arrived at the same grim ending. But perhaps she didn’t have to surrender in vain. If it meant stopping him and preventing a war…
Faythe’s pulse drummed in her ears, sharpening her breathing. She could sacrifice her life if it meant the safety of innocents. Killing Varlas could stop the perilous series of events that was set to unfold if she released him.
“This is not the way, Faythe.”
She inhaled in fright at the unexpected voice that joined them. It was almost enough for her to lose focus and let her control on the king slip. Reylan’s presence lingered at her back, slowly closing in. The lick of relief at his being here was drowned out by the sickening pulse in her head that started to heat down her neck, veins catching fire as if the Netherworld had already staked its claim on her.
“It’s the only way,” she rasped. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her trembles turning into a dizzy vibration she felt in her bones. She had to make her choice now.
“Not at the cost of your life.” She swore the general’s voice dipped with a hint of fear.
“He’ll kill me anyway.”
“Take his memory.”
Faythe’s eyes widened as she pondered it. Erasing thoughts was not something she had attempted before or was even certain she was capable of. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted weakly.
“You have to try, and you have to do it now, before you burn yourself out.” Reylan’s words were a command that wavered with shadowy desperation.
“I could end it.”
“That’s a fight for another day. It is not your role to prevent it.”
He was right. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. As much as it terrified her to think of the path of destruction Varlas was Nether-bent on in his grief and vengeance, she had no right to claim his life.
With the remains of her ability that had reached a new high—the climax before the final plummet she would not emerge from—Faythe mustered all her strength to focus on the task that taunted her with failure. Reylan kept a
foot away, but through the cracks of her own reservation, a slither of his belief wove into her doubt, and it was enough to straighten her spine in a flare of defiance. She would not be weak. She would not cower.
Faythe latched onto the event in the woods from the moment she was led away from the rest of the hunting party and crouched low with the king behind the bush cover. She gripped it with her whole mental being, straining as she felt the resistance; felt Varlas’s own rebellion against Faythe for taking what wasn’t hers. Darkness closed in on her vision, and before she could pass out, she sunk her claws deeper and tore herself from his mind all at once.
Leaving his mind was not like the gentle slip Faythe was accustomed to. In taking his memory, the link snapped like rope in a strenuous tug-of-war. She stumbled back, her vision cloudy, but her fumbling steps didn’t get the chance to trip her before she was caught by a firm force. Reylan steadied her. When he helped her to straighten, his hands lingered on her arms until she was confident in her stability.
She would have thanked him, but her uneven breaths and dizzy bewilderment left no room for coherent thought. Faythe used all her shredded strength not to give in to the need to double over and retch.
Reylan’s hands dropped, deeming her steady enough, before Varlas could regain full consciousness. They both stood in front of the king who stared back with a blank expression. Faythe focused on her deep breathing, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the violent tremble of her body while they waited in cold anticipation for his reaction.
The murmurs of the woods were completely masked by her erratic heartbeat as she tracked Varlas’s every flicker of expression, looking for the slightest sign she had failed. After an agonizingly slow half-minute, the king blinked once. Twice. Three times. Then he looked between Reylan and Faythe who fought painfully against the rising acidic burn in her throat. She couldn’t speak with the hard lump constricting her airways and was awash with gratitude when the general broke the deafening silence.
“We were just heading back, Your Majesty. It seems the hunt turned out to be something of a disappointment with the lack of game this time,” Reylan said casually, as if they were in the midst of a conversation before.
A Queen Comes to Power: An Heir Comes to Rise Book 2 Page 22
