Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  My cheeks burned at his compliment, and I cast my eyes downward, studying the finely woven blanket be- neath our spread.

  "I had to meet you."

  I tilted my head, and my voice was quiet as I con- cluded, "You don't seem to be anything like your mother."

  "Indeed not." There was no venom in his voice as he said it. It was as if he simply accepted who and what his mother was. My heart ached at that. Especially in comparison to my own mother.

  I watched a tiny black bug with gossamer wings land near Aiden's glass and prance around for a moment. It quickly decided there was nothing of interest and flew away.

  "How do you live with her?"

  "The palace is large. I stay busy on my side and keep out of her way. She has me train a lot, which doesn't hurt anyone and makes her feel as though I'm doing what she wants, and it keeps my mind occuipied." He spoke softly and looked a little saddened by this. "But that can only last for so long."

  "That's awful." And what happened when Mable wanted more?

  He let out a soft laugh. "Come now, princess, let's not dampen the mood. What about you? If you know what Queen Mable is like, why did you agree to this?" He raised his eyebrows and smiled devilishly. "Did you do something to disobey your parents, and now they're punishing you?"

  It was my turn to laugh. "No, I did not. My parents love me and said it was my decision." I said it with pride. "In truth, I wanted to meet the son of one so icy."

  "What's it like?"

  "What's what like?" I took another plump grape and shoved it into my mouth. It burst and filled my tongue with a light sweetness.

  "To have parents like that? Who legitimately care about you?"

  I realized here was a boy sitting across from me who was probably isolated and starved of any real kind of intimacy or love. Word was that he was the object of Mable's deception and used solely where and when it benefited her. What was that like? How lonely did he feel? In that monstrous palace, cold and alone, growing up without any real positive influence…yet he seemed kind to me. He appeared to have a sunny disposition and innocent curiosity, and I wondered how that inno- cence was still intact and how he wasn’t a male version of Mable.

  I caught myself biting the inside of my cheek and stopped. "It's a wonderful feeling to know you aren't alone and constantly have a support system and guid- ance. You probably know, being born into a royal fam- ily has little room for friends and trust, so having my mother and father provides me with that. They are my confidants. They teach me how to be my best self and to be good and kind in order to be a strong and merci- ful leader."

  Aiden studied me quietly with a look of longing in his bright green eyes. After a while, I cleared my throat and said, "Can I ask you something? It's a little per- sonal."

  He spread his arms. "Ask away. I'm an open book for you." He shifted, moving his glass farther out of his way. I thought carefully for a moment, watching the green grass sway in the breeze.

  "How are you this person? I mean, you seem warm and kind. From what I know of Mable, you don't appear to have inherited her, erm, charm."

  "I'm not sure exactly." Aiden sat up, bending his knees and resting his elbows on them. His face creased with thought. "Most people in the Second Court are just like Queen Mable, ruthless for no reason. But every one of us has a choice, we aren't born inherently good or bad. Somewhere along the way, we choose which side we're on." He cleared his throat. "I've always had this vision of something better. The fear that Queen Mable instills has never been something I've admired. While she thrives on darkness, I revel in the light." His eyelids closed for a moment, and when he opened them, he stared past me, out between the bushes.

  "There's this place I like to go to." His eyes bright- ened as he continues, making them clear green jewels. "It's another realm, outside of the courts, but it re- minds me of your realm here. It's bright and sunny. There are wildflowers and mountains and all sorts of beautiful, peaceful things. I go there a lot and practice my fighting moves or just read by the stream." He glanced at me and ran a hand nervously through his dark waves. "That's corny, I know."

  I shook my head and rolled over onto my belly, propping up on my elbows. Very unroyal of me. "Not at

  all, I think that's wonderful. You deserve that. Every- one should have a safe place to go to."

  He tapped a finger restlessly. "Maybe."

  "Don't do that," I chided him, "don't make some- thing that is important to you seem unimportant. You deserve happiness and enjoyment."

  He turned his head to me, eyes alight with the joy of his dreams. "Maybe. What about you? What's your safe space?" His grin was sly.

  I pondered. "No one's ever asked me that before. Probably here, the First Court, with my Folk. Their support and love make me feel safe."

  "You truly are a perfect princess." He scrunched his nose.

  I laughed and rolled onto my back, looking up at the sky. It was a comfy blue color, free of fluffy bits of clouds. "I am far from perfect. And I am so afraid that I will lead the Folk to absolute ruin!" My hands covered my face before falling back to the ground. "I've always wondered if I could be even half the ruler my parents are."

  "Why would you ever think that?" He placed a hand over his heart, under the emblem on the sash. The con- stant reminder of whom he belongs to.

  "My parents are incredible. It's a lot to live up to." Aiden rolled over onto his belly, folding his arms un-

  der his chest so his elbows supported him, and faced me. He murmured his understanding. "What is it you do, sun princess? You know, when you're not running the realm." His voice was playful, almost mischievous.

  "I don't run the First Court, I just assist with certain details." I watched the clear sky above us. "I help plan events, and I personally visit our Folk often and do some volunteer work with them." Shifting back onto my belly, I lifted one eyebrow and tilted my head back to look at him. "Sun princess?"

  He gestured around us with one hand. "The sun. You are the princess here, so I thought it was a nice term of endearment."

  I huffed, lowering my chin back. "Hmm, maybe keep thinking on another term. So what will you tell Mable when you return to court?"

  Aiden surveyed the blanket and cleared dishes. When had the maids taken everything away? "It went well. It is going well, don't you think?" Confidence ra- diated off him.

  "Oh, absolutely." I nodded exaggeratedly. "Do you think that's what she is hoping for?"

  "Certain of it. If she is the one who suggested a be- trothal, I'm sure she wants things to go well and lead to a proposal. She definitely didn't insist on it for noth- ing." Aiden was thoughtful, mulling over the possible plans in his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  A nerve in his jaw twitched and told me he was holding some negative feelings for her back. I reached out and placed a hand on his arm. His eyes watched my fingers wrap around him.

  "What can I do?" I whispered.

  Aiden's eyes went distant and dim. "Do you know she holds pummel parties?"

  "What's that?" I pulled my hand back.

  "The Folk get together and attack a fae with all sorts of gruesome weapons. Just over and over and over again until—" He broke off, swallowing hard.

  My heart dropped at the images my brain conjured. "I just have hopes for my court. That they can be better if they have a better ruler. I think, right now, I am the only hope for that. They don’t know there’s a choice to not participate; they’ll do whatever it takes to please Queen Mable, to not become the one get- ting…pummeled. I have confidence that my court can

  be better."

  I scooted around so that my body was beside his, our arms touching. I felt for him, this young male striv- ing for a better future, a better Folk who would never tear each other apart for crude entertainment. I faced him; he was already looking at me. His eyes dropped for a moment to my lips, then they came back to my eyes just as fast.

  "We could change it," I murmured. "What? How?"

  "Wouldn't a betrothal
do just that?"

  Aiden shook his head. "Not as long as Queen Mable holds the throne. She would never step down. She'd die first."

  “You and I could rule the First Court, side by side." My voice heightened. "We could bring people from the Second Court who want the same future as you do. Of- fer them salvation."

  "You have such a positive outlook, such aspirations, for some of the worst of the fae. None of the Second Court fae are innocent."

  I sighed. "Doesn't everyone deserve a chance?" Aiden just smiled. We sat together under the sun-

  shine until evening. As the sun lowered, it cast shad- ows across the gardens. The sky turned different shades of pink and orange, and Aiden stared, awing at the beauty he couldn't experience in the Second Court. The Second Court only saw dark and gloomy skies. Full of clouds or infinite blackness, Aiden told me. After the colors disappeared, we agreed to say goodbye, and we went over what we would say to our parents when asked how the event went.

  “It went splendidly.” “Yes, he was very nice.” “She is beautiful.”

  “I would like to see him again.” “I would like to see her again.”

  That day in the garden was one of the best days of my life. Once we said our goodbyes, I retired to my rooms. The dress slid off my body, circling my feet on the floor. My thoughts kept straying to the prince con- stantly, and I couldn’t wait to see him again. Pulling a silk robe from the foot of my bed, I slipped into it and tied a bow around my waist. Moonlight cascaded over the plush carpet as I padded to the large canopy bed.

  The prince surprised me with his charm and his goals for the future. But Mable appeared to be worse than I expected, and Aiden was so certain she would

  refuse to step down from her rule over the Second Court. I was not sure “ruthless” was a good enough word to describe everything the queen was. If Mable wouldn’t relinquish her throne, would a good ruler be at peace or opposed to killing her?

  Chapter 19 Andryad

  Silence surrounds me as I hover between the point of consciousness and sleep. Everything feels heavy, every part hurts, and a burning sensation lies behind my eyelids. I am cold and clammy. The air is freezing, raising bumps on my skin. The iron seeps deep, satu- rating my exterior and bleeding through to the bone, soaking my limbs in a weighty sickness. I can feel it and smell it on myself and in the air. Malor's face blooms in my mind, his blue eyes large and pupils di- lated with rage and pain as he struggled against the Elites to get to me. My heart aches, and I rub at my chest, coughing a little. I urge myself to move, but my arms and legs won't cooperate.

  "Up, prisoner!" a loud, gruff voice bellows from the other side of the iron bars. I blink my eyes groggily, thankful for the dark, and groan at the refusal my body presents. Grief causes a disconnect as I attempt to move. As though I am watching someone else experi- ence the action. Flashes of Aiden's body, his eyes dim- ming out, Mable's bloody smile—they all crash into me

  in an overwhelming wave, but there are no tears left. My body and soul are hollow, and my head pounds.

  I manage to sit up, wiping my eyes and the snot crusted around my nose. My clothes are filthy and stiff with dried blood. Aiden's blood. Touching the stone at the hollow of my throat, a whimper escapes my lips. At what point will it fall out? It should be any day now, once it realizes my betrothed no longer walks with the living.

  I blink a few times to clear my eyes in the dimly lit cell. My fae sight is slow at taking over, a result of the iron's effects. A large guard stands on the other side of the bars, dressed from head to toe in those special leathers that protect him from iron.

  The guard peers down at me. His gear hides his face and is probably the cause of his gruff voice. A sword hangs on his left hip, and hilts glint on his forearms as if daggers are slipped under his sleeves and he is pre- pared to grab them quickly. When I don't move any further, fearing if I stand, I might fall flat against the hard, icy floor, the guard inserts a set of keys, and mechanisms give way as he unlocks and throws open the iron doors with a groaning and grinding of metal against metal. He waltzes into the cell, and it hurts my head to continue looking at him, so I allow my eyes to fall to the ground.

  Without a word, the guard grabs me under my arms and hauls me to my feet. I don't have the energy to stand on my own, and surprisingly, he doesn't let me fall. He is strong, easily supporting my weight. He

  wraps an arm around my waist. At first, my hand reaches to push him away, but he holds me tighter, and I don't have the strength. Instead, I lean into him with a shallow sigh and allow him to carry me out.

  We walk, or he walks rather, as my feet barely touch the ground, down a dark hallway and up a short flight of steps. My eyelids flutter open and closed as he guides me into a small, dimly lit room. It's bare, with only a few simple furnishings spread out: a small table against one wall with a large mirror above it, a short stool pushed under the table's surface; a plump, ratty- looking cream-colored chair decorates the corner to the left of the table; and a smooth copper washtub takes up the middle of the room where a mouse of a girl stands, waiting.

  She is a servant and very young, practically a child. She is small, with thick bull horns winding out from under her brunette hair and tufted cat ears directly on top of her head in front of the horns. Three bright white freckles pepper her nose, and she stands beside the washtub holding a porcelain pitcher. Her starched white apron looks fresh and neat over top a drab brown dress.

  "The queen wants her cleaned up before her au- dience," the guard says to the young servant girl, who keeps her eyes downcast. His voice sounds less gruff, but I can't move my head enough to see him. I assume he has pulled the mask from his face now that we are safely away from the iron.

  The servant girl peers at me through a thick fringe of lashes and nods to the guard. "Yes, of course, sir." Her voice is low but clear as she sets the pitcher down on the uneven floorboards beside the tub and di- rects the guard to the plush chair to set me down. He radiates authority, and the girl seems to respect him, but I could care less. I hate him. I hate him for being a part of Mable's court, of her band of killers.

  He moves back from me as my head lolls to the back of the chair. It's so soft, I wish I could sink and dis- appear into the cushions. My body is regaining some strength now that I am away from the cell. From this view of the room, I notice a small bed pushed up against the wall behind the open door. Its metal frame is decorated with a stark white down coverlet and two lush pillows. This must be the girl's quarters.

  "Carla?" the guard calls to her. There is a rustling of clothing as he kneels in front of her. Another rustle and her small squeal of delight leads me to believe he handed her something. "I’ll return in a few moments to collect her." With that, I hear him turn and leave. Then it is just the servant Carla and I.

  The water in the tub is not warm, much to my dis- may, and the air within every inch of the castle makes my skin pucker up. The shock of the cold makes it hard to breathe. It is as if ice melds around my lungs. Carla doesn't speak except to instruct me into the round tub. She barely looks at me. Her brown hair is pulled away from her face, showing her big brown eyes and bringing more attention to her horns and ears.

  She is silent, dutifully washing and scrubbing, her little white freckles scrunched in concentration.

  She dresses me in a gown of icy blue that gathers beneath my chest and drapes loosely to the floor. I remember having servants at the First Court in the palace. Their eyes on my nakedness, their hands scrub- bing and plucking. It is familiar, and for a moment, it is a welcome routine. But I highly doubt it is Mable's in- tention to bring me warm familiarity.

  "Why does she care if I am washed? What makes her take note of my presentability?" The words tumble from my tongue. They are meant more for myself than Carla.

  She finishes tying the back of the dress so that it cinches at the waist and wipes her hands down the white apron, smoothing it out.

  "Her Majesty is very strict about perfection, ma’am." What an easy
answer. Truth be told, it's likely a means to accentuate her control over me, to show that

  no matter what, she dictates even what I look like.

  Carla taps her narrow chin thoughtfully, assessing her work. My dress warms my skin a little, as it’s lined with thick wool. If this were different circumstances, I might feel regal; instead, I feel like a toy. It is as though Mable is playing make-believe with a doll, and I am the unlucky marionette.

  Carla darts to the other side of the room and pulls out a pair of snowy white silk slippers from under a dressing table against the wall. She lays them at my feet for me to slip into and pushes my hands into a fur

  mitt before draping a fur shawl around my shoulders. Both the mitt and shawl match the slippers. My body is still too weak to protest any of it, but I no longer feel that unmoving heaviness I had this morning now that I am away from the iron.

  Iron...iron sword.

  The images that flash through my mind have me paralyzed. They stop my breathing. An iron sword piercing through Aiden's flesh. Blood running freely because the element has prevented his body from clos- ing the wound. The knowledge of never seeing him again twists in my gut as though the sword had landed in me instead. My stomach lurches and my jaw tight- ens as bile rises in my throat.

  Carla watches me. "Sit down for me, ma’am." She leads me to the dressing mirror and combs my hair. Her long, lean fingers work deftly, wrapping strands around one another. I watch her in the mirror in a daze, trying to focus on her movements, and catch my breath. She meets my eyes a few times and presses her round lips into a fine line, as though to keep herself from speak- ing.