Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  She shrugs her narrow shoulders, making the light- weight black silks she wears rustle. "Even so, where are they now?"

  My head pounds with the thoughts she put in my head: Were my parents fair to everyone? Or was that why they were never able to bring the court together? Because, in truth, they never could have found a way to be fair to the natural ruthlessness of the Second Court….

  My mouth dries as I push the questions away. "Hon- orable leadership is a choice. Establishing laws for all Folk to follow with designed consequences is the only way to proper ruling."

  The dark version of myself simply blinks. "What do you want?"

  "I want you to succeed." She runs a hand over her divine figure. "To become everything that you can be to the fullest."

  I shake my head vigorously, trying to free the chills that creep up my arms. "No," I snarl, body tense and ready as I feel a hand touch my shoulder from behind.

  Pine and smoke fill my nose, grounding me, keeping me focused on reality.

  "Well, the other option is that you do not survive." The queen brushes her hand through the air, opening up another area where darkness grows and bleeds out. This time I immediately recognize myself, as the image shows me as I am now. I hear the fae males settle be- side me, both with their weapons drawn, ready to fly at the queen should she show any sign of a threat. But she casually stands. "Your weapons are no good here, boys. Watch." She points, and we watch the images in the darkness, but they keep their weapons raised.

  A new form takes shape: Mable. I am on my knees, gazing up defiantly at her. We exchange words as she regards me with frozen calm. An overwhelming sense of emptiness fills my real self. Mable is winning—the fact I cannot defeat her nearly brings me to my knees as I concentrate on my breathing, reminding myself it's not real.

  Mable laughs in the image, and an essence pours out of me in a faint, fiery glow and flows into her, pure ecstasy illuminating Mable's face. The more that is taken from me, the thinner, grayer, and smaller I be- come, as if the very life is being sucked out of me. My hair becomes dull and brittle, my skin turns wrin- kled and gray, and my eyes and cheeks sink deeper into my skull. My bones turn visible and sharp until finally my entire body breaks, crushed and crumbled as if the essence was the very thing, the very structure, holding

  me together. My body turns to dust, and Mable simply blows, and poof, I am gone.

  Neither of the males behind me sound as though they are breathing. The darkness fades, and my future- self turns her empty eyes back to mine, that stupid smile still upon her face. I look to her, my horror turn- ing into annoyance that she can stand there so serenely, and I try to relax.

  My throat feels thick. "Basically, you are telling me to be an unfair ruler, or Mable will kill me? You don't have to be a ruler like Mable to be a long and worthy monarch."

  Aiden's voice rings low. "It's not real, Andryad. Even if she were a true seer, the future has many different options. There is always an endless amount of possi- bilities resulting in an endless amount of possible fu- tures. This room, these mirrors—remember, they show you the worst."

  I looked at my queen-self dead in the eyes. To see her so emotionless fills me with rage. "I love my Folk! Mable, you—no one can change that, and I will not al- low Mable or anyone else to take my power from me."

  The fury climbs all the way from the tips of my toes up into my belly, shooting deadly flames from my fin- gertips straight through her as a deafening wailing sur- rounds me. She is uninjured, of course—Aiden's right, it's not real—but her smile falters as the oily darkness opens back up on the mirrored floor, sucking her in. It closes behind her, and she is gone. Breathing heavily, flames still coursing through me, I look up at Aiden,

  his emerald eyes shining and dangerous. Malor's silky wing brushes against my back, a silent sign of solace.

  Swallowing hard, my voice echoes off the structure surrounding us. "I don't want to end up that way." My entire body is shaking with anger and frustration, the fear of my destiny spiraling out of my control.

  Aiden takes my face in his hands and looks into my eyes, but it's Malor who says, "What she revealed, An- nie, doesn't make it real. You get to make your own choices and set your own future."

  I turn to face him, and he brushes a finger against my cheek, wiping away the chill that's crept over my skin.

  "You don't have to be what others expect. You get to be who you want." Malor pulls me against his chest, and I squeeze him back. When he releases me, he grins, and I smile my appreciation. He glances at Aiden be- fore he moves ahead, giving us some space.

  Aiden relaxes his stance, one hand on his hip and the other dangling at his side. "Do you want to tell me what she showed you first? Before Malor and I came over here."

  I shake my head. "It was nothing, just… I wasn't my- self."

  "You know I won't let you turn into anything like her." His lip curls in distaste. "This is real."

  Aiden pulls me into an embrace, cooler than Malor’s, but for a moment, my fears and doubts melt away as I allow myself to sink into him, drinking in his

  scent, his touch. I push my face further into his chest, and his lips brush the top of my hair.

  The images linger in my mind, the fear threatening to take control of me. My fight has always been on the side of good. How can that lead me to becoming any- thing like Mable? I've suffered loss, yes, and it has left a hole in my heart, and it aches with excruciating pain as if someone shredded it like paper. But to those whom I have lost, this is in part for them and the visions they had for Faery too. I choose my own path, and I did long before any of this.

  It feels like endless hours of walking and sifting through a maze of corridors. The mirrors and twists and turns are dizzying, working my nerves even more and keeping me on edge. Aiden is composed; he has been here countless times, since he grew up in this cas- tle. Whatever he sees doesn't bother him. But Malor looks distant. His eyes are hazy, and they flick to every corner.

  I reach out to him, lowering my voice and forcing him to stop. "Did you see a reflection of your own?"

  His lips flatten. "I should've been at your side sooner back there, Annie. Forgive me, I—"

  "What'd you see?" I cut him off.

  His skin is wan, and he offers a weak smile. "It doesn't matter. This is just the worst. It doesn't mean that it is." He fidgets with a curl that refuses to stay behind his ear.

  I hold his eyes for a beat longer before I give him a subtle nod, and he steps around me.

  There is a break, a small archway that opens to a wide hallway lined with windows on one side, not mir- rors, and smooth white paint on the other side. Chan- deliers hang from the ceiling down the length of the hall, looking like ice melting down in bubbled rivers. At the end of the hall is a set of white doors from the floor almost to the top of the high ceiling. Our boots against the polished tiles are the only sounds, tapping quickly as we dash down the hall, noting it's clear. We stand outside the massive double doors, and I notice the glass door handles are intricately covered in a light dusting of frost.

  "The throne room," Aiden informs us. "Queen Mable feels powerful here."

  "This place is a carnival," Malor grumbles. "The twists and turns just to get here…"

  I add, "Luckily there haven't been any more warriors so far. We've been able to conserve most of our strength."

  But we all have sinking feelings in our guts of what lies beyond these doors.

  "Remember," Aiden starts, securing his sword and allowing the ice to illuminate his veins. "Queen Mable will surround herself immediately with her Elite. The Elite is a small team of the strongest and most skilled warriors that also have some sense of ability. Though their abilities should not outrank us, their fighting skills very well might. They're stealthy and extremely experienced with fighting against High fae abilities."

  Malor turns toward me. "Mable's Elites are cunning, strategic. They aren't like the ones we fought in the common room, so be on your guard."

 
Aiden glares at him, and Malor smirks.

  "My dad and I fought a few on a mission out on the west borders of the Second Court a few years back. I nearly lost a wing in that fight." His wings shutter as though in recollection.

  We eye each other, and with an icy blast, Aiden pushes the double doors aside with a soft groan.

  Chapter 17 Andryad

  Mable sits regally upon a massive throne sculpted from ice. The structure is an elaborate piece with se- vere chunks of glacier sticking up higher and higher as they come together in the middle. She must be im- mune to the cold that seeps through the seat of her dress. Her train is meticulously set, flared out around her feet, and she appears to be awaiting an aristocratic audience rather than a battle. I widen my stance and look around the large, open room.

  As we predicted, her Elite team surrounds her at attention, swords still sheathed at their sides. Knives openly decorate their boots, and small blades are strapped to their thighs and arms. The Elite fae males are massive, broader and taller than Aiden. Vhaerath fae, with dark gray skin and different obsidian shades of hair. The Vhaerath were once servants to the elven fae, a rare species with differences in their dark color- ing and lack of wings and magical abilities, though they make up for that in their combat skills.

  None of them look directly at us but past us. Each Elite wears armor plates over the leathers of his chest,

  forearms, and shins for additional protection. They look lightweight, enabling them to move quickly. Mable acknowledges our arrival with a sickly smile. My lip subconsciously curls in disgust.

  "It took you long enough." Her eyes narrow, and her lips drop into a frown. "I wondered if maybe you had given up on your plan to take my throne. I am intrigued by how you think you might accomplish that, though." Aiden steps in front of me, his sword up and poised. "You could just step down. I've asked, and you do have

  a choice."

  The queen's frown deepens. "Ah, yes, Aiden. What a choice you have given me: step down from everything I have built, everything I have earned"—her voice hard- ens—"or die and lose it all anyways. That is hardly a fair choice, if a choice at all." She exhales deeply. "Son, you have been thankless and disappointing for too long. We should fix that." Her skirts sigh as she stands and clasps thin fingers in front of her. "Should you share, or shall I?"

  My eyes slide to Aiden, but he’s looking at his mother. Malor's eyes meet mine, and he scowls before I turn my attention back to the throne.

  Aiden stiffens as he grinds out, "Share what?"

  "Ah, tsk," Mable addresses all of us, eyes landing on Malor and myself in turn. "Your prince here has not had your best interests in mind lately, I fear." She runs a hand absentmindedly through the air. "See, I had to get control of the situation. The funny thing is, my own son assumes I am daft enough not to realize he is

  phouka fae." Mable laughs lightly. My clothes start to suffocate me as anticipation curls an icy hand around my middle. Aiden has gone pale, his stance weakens, and his shoulders dip forward.

  Mable steps down the dais toward Aiden. He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch as she leans up slightly on her toes to whisper into his ear loud enough in the hollow room for the rest of us to hear. "I used your true name and ordered you to bring her here."

  His brow furrows, and as if in slow motion, his face falls as understanding resounds in his mind. "No," he breathes.

  Mable backs up, and a girlish giggle escapes her throat. As if she were an innocent young girl with a naughty secret. "Oh, darling. It is no surprise; few fae recall what happens when they are under that sort of power. They have a temporary blackout." Her hands clasp together. "I am excited, however, that you did so well! I expected no less." Exhilaration glitters behind her dark eyes as she allows her aura to reveal a success- ful band of orange.

  My heart falls to the floor. It was all a trap. While we questioned Aiden, in his mind, everything made sense. But as I look to him now, the defeat and regret weigh heavy on his shoulders, and his skin turns a ghostly shade of white. My eyes cut over to Malor; his hands are fisted at his sides, causing the veins in them to pop. His face—unlike Aiden's—is flooded with color.

  For a moment, I wonder if Aiden will do anything at all or if he will simply curl in on himself. I expect Malor

  to snarl his "I told you so" and lunge for Aiden, but he doesn't. Instead, Aiden's hand lashes out, grabbing Mable's slim, delicate, creamy throat and wrapping it in a thin sheen of ice. He puts his face right in hers. To her credit, she barely reacts.

  "You will regret every move you've ever made against me, any fae, and especially against Andryad." Aiden bares his teeth, his voice deathly quiet.

  Mable's lips curve ever so slightly, and in a flash, her fingers are buried in his abdomen. He grunts in pain and struggles to keep his hold around her throat. Fi- nally, he is forced to release her and gasps for breath as she retracts her hand, her fingers extending into se- verely sharp shards of ice covered in Aiden's blood. Aiden grasps the wound as Malor and I both close in, bringing up our own powers, but Mable is already turning, her back to us, and she glides to her throne. The queen snaps her fingers, and her Elite team pulls their weapons, finally regarding us with interest. I look at Aiden as the Elites close in. He's healing quickly. Good.

  I back up and evaluate the situation. I don't want to burn through my essence while the queen still lives, sitting there on her throne, wiping her bloodied fingers on her gown. I haven't reached the point yet where I understand exactly when I am reaching that limit. If she is too powerful, I will need every drop of my power. The Elites come hard and unforgiving, shifting from statues on the walls to charging stallions. There are ten of them—interesting. There were ten warriors too. My

  confidence in my ability is stronger, but the expertise of the Elites pushes a sliver of doubt into my mind.

  Aiden has half of the Elite surrounding him and seems to have the upper hand. He twists and turns, a blur of black. Metal sings as his sword clashes with those coming at him. He is quick and stealthy. He hits each target with calculated precision.

  Malor, on the other hand, is sly. It is as if he can predict his opponent's next move. His curls fly back away from his face as he charges an Elite twice his size, aiming to shove his blade into the warrior's stomach. The Vhaerath fae remains expressionless, merely fo- cused.

  Though my confidence is growing, doubt continues to creep into my mind. I could take on the males during our practice, and I held my own with the warriors, but fighting with the Elite is a far different story. Two of them surround me, and I stumble to dodge and keep from being on the receiving ends of their swords. My footwork is clumsy, and I curse myself for not paying better attention during practice back home in our pri- vate realm.

  The most valuable asset on my side is that I am so much smaller than them, making it easier for me to move swiftly out of their way before they can land an attack. At one point, I veer from an Elite's sword in front of me, a brute with hair so dark it looks blueish. I swoop to my left just as the Elite behind me, a grizzly looking fellow with a thick five o'clock shadow, barely misses my back and ends up slicing the edge of my

  shoulder. The pain is hot, and wetness seeps up through my leathers where his blade opened the fabric, and it runs down the sleeve.

  I wince but manage to stay upright. Inconveniently, the grizzly Elite caught my right shoulder, and the pain and soreness make it a struggle to maintain my grip on my sword. Just as the grizzly Elite comes back for more, Malor pounces on him and shoves his daggers deep into both sides of his thick neck. He falls hard, chok- ing and gurgling as his large hands clasp his throat.

  My eyes scan the room for the one with the blueish- black hair. Malor and Aiden both stand against two Elites surrounding each of them. Both males appear uninjured aside from a couple cuts already healing or healed. They look drained more than anything else, as the Elites are giving them a solid fight. My heavy breathing assaults my ears as panic pushes up my throat.

  Where
is the other Vhaerath?

  Mable still sits undisturbed on her frozen throne, watching the scene before her. How many more have to die? How much more blood on my hands can I take before turning into what my future-self showed me in the Corridor of Reflection? One being could only take so much brutality before either breaking or giving in to the darkness. Each blow of damage does something that twists the soul in a dark path. At some point the soul either snaps or follows, right? That can never be me. There must be another way. We shouldn't get to judge which life is more valuable than another.

  The blood from the Elites who have fallen seeps over the once-pristine tiles, and my foot slips in some, a sharp, squeaking sound in the air as I right myself from nearly falling. I look closer at that icy queen. Had she once, long ago, thought herself as a good and fair ruler? Had she, too, been faced with a choice to fall onto the inevitable or perish? My throat is thick, and my stomach, light, as if suffering from a twenty-foot drop.

  A streak of blueish-black hair pulls my attention back to the scene. The Vhaerath I'd lost has decided to come back and finish the job. The fae Elite raises his longsword. It's a much less elaborate piece of weaponry than the warriors carried. Simple, useful for one task: killing. He swipes smoothly at my legs, aim- ing not to kill me but to injure me enough to the point of defeat. I dance fluidly out of his reach, but just as quickly, he comes at me again.

  As he plunges the sword toward me, I sidestep, grab his wrist tight, singeing it with a small use of my power, and twist it behind his back, spinning him around. With my dagger, I slice the blade deep across his throat, and the blue-black haired Vhaerath falls with a heavy thunk to the floor.