Grendall chuckled low. “Are you so willing to treat with me?”
Vynasha huffed with frustration. “Better to make a deal with you than wait for you to come collect your price.”
He paused, eerily silent behind her a moment, before tying her hair. “Perhaps I simply enjoy your company after being long denied.”
Vynasha was careful to position her feet firmly as she rounded to face him. “You were the one who denied yourself.” Her accusation lacked its usual bite, she found. The ache she had felt after his betrayal still stung. She had been willing to give him everything after accepting the curse, before he had commanded her to flee. He had stolen her choice away. Was this his way of trying to give it back? Or was it all a farce designed to lull her into compliance? Vynasha didn’t know, and she didn’t find the answers in his careful expression or the emotions curiously silent through their bond.
Grendall inclined his head to her then and offered his hand. “Shall we?”
Vynasha bit her lip to hide her smile. “And here I thought I would need to sneak out on my own.”
Grendall rolled his eyes. “Precisely why I’m escorting you. The last thing we need is for you to fall and injure yourself.”
Or run away, he means, her shadow whispered.
Vynasha leaned on the prince eagerly, savoring the contact. She felt his satisfaction through their bond as he opened the door and they entered the servants’ hall beyond. The walls’ whispers increased until she couldn’t make out their words, only sensing their pleasure and shared excitement.
Grendall kept his steps slow, his arm steady as he led her along the familiar corridor.
“I used to explore these all the time. It’s how I discovered Soraya’s room before.”
Grendall paused long enough for her to sense his surprise. “This is why you had her key about your neck.”
Vynasha nodded and drank in the sight of candles casting the stone carvings of the mirror folk in shades of gold. As they passed them by, the figures shifted, whispering to one another, pointing and watching her progress. The walls tittered with giggles.
“Your mother had wings, didn’t she?”
Again, Grendall paused as though considering his answer before inclining his head. “She did.” Something in his tone, in the pain she felt through their bond, bade her look closer.
“What happened?”
He shook his head, turning away and hiding his expression much as she often hid behind her hair. “Not here,” he begged in a rasping tone.
Vynasha squeezed his arm, inwardly cursing herself for giving her jailor comfort.
But you are allies now, you said so yourself, her shadow mocked her.
“Can we visit the kitchens? I want to see the others,” she said instead.
Grendall smiled down at her. “I suppose that would get them off my back. Myrel has been threatening me with cutting holes in my clothes if I did not let her visit soon.”
Vynasha’s sudden laugh echoed down the hall. She covered her mouth with her hand, felt the tips of her claws, and faltered. Grendall stood still at her side and ducked to meet her eye. She wished she hadn’t allowed him to braid back her curls now, as she was forced to meet his gaze.
“What is it?”
“Aren’t you disgusted by me?”
He jerked back as though struck, and she could feel his temper brewing. “Why would I be disgusted by you?”
Vynasha’s knee ached with a sharp pang, and she closed her eyes, unconsciously squeezing his arm tighter. His free hand clasped her waist as he came to face her.
“Vynasha.” He beckoned her to look at him. “Allies?”
She laughed so she wouldn’t cry then held up her clawed hand. “Look at me. I’m not what I was before.” She grimaced and shook her head. “I have never been beautiful, I know, but…”
“Stop.” He pulled his other arm free from hers to clasp her face, leaning forward until their foreheads pressed together. “You are beautiful. You have always been beautiful to me, and so much more than I deserve. I never want to hear such folly pass your lips again,” he demanded. His gaze flickered down, and she stole a sudden breath. “If anyone here is to be compared to a monster, it is me. It has always been me.”
Vynasha felt his self-loathing, could hear it in his voice. She wanted so much to close the tiny gap between them, to press her lips to his, to gently bite and remind him of the truth. They were both monsters now. But she had never imagined he would find her beautiful now. She gripped his shoulders and longed to draw him closer. For a stolen breath, she considered accepting him as she suspected Odym had truly implied. What would happen if she gave in to him fully as she always wanted? Before, there had never been time, and she had been more concerned with reuniting with her nephew than with falling in love.
You were not his first choice, he as much as admitted, the shadow in her mind whispered.
Vynasha bit her lip and pushed against Grendall’s shoulders. He closed his eyes as she removed her forehead and increased the gap. The moment was past. It was better this way. Allies they might be, but she had already given her heart to another.
Grendall’s smile was forced, yet he bowed to her and offered his arm once more as he said, “Let us show the maids how well their creations fit you.”
Vynasha took his arm and took his strength as they continued. The halls were mysteriously silent the rest of the way, and the beasts howled a mournful song that brought tears to her eyes. The song was both the absence of promise and full of her wish for everything stolen from her. Grendall pressed his free hand over her hand on his arm and squeezed.
THE GREAT TAPESTRY of a fire pit, surrounded by mirror folk with wings and horns, appeared brighter than Vynasha remembered. Before, everything in the castle had been faded as the wyne, crumbling ruins. As Grendall reached to pull the fabric aside, she felt the whisper of majik flutter past them. He opened the door to the kitchens, and immediately her heart warmed to see the glowing walls and Lokyr toiling over a pot above the hearth.
“What will she wear this one for?” came the soft, sweet voice.
“Never you mind what it is for, silly girl,” the unmistakable grumbling of Lyttia replied. “We must make do until the rest is sorted.”
Grendall led them from their forgotten corner and further into the vast room. Her legs were unsteady, but she focused on each step, eager to see the maids who had cared for her before.
Lyttia and Myrel hunched over piles of clothing. From the looks of things, they had been quite busy altering old gowns and salvaging what fabrics and ornaments they could. Vynasha had thought the old clothes she had worn upon her first arrival here more than a year ago had been crafted by majik, they fit so well. Now she knew better.
“It is not our place to speculate over their lives,” Lyttia continued, not finished admonishing Myrel, it seemed. “After all, Mistress will need many new dresses once she is crowned.”
Vynasha held her breath at that. She didn’t realize she had stopped walking until she heard Grendall’s audible grunt of frustration. He had twisted his head to hide his expression, but she felt the tension in his arm.
“Shall we have new material then?” Myrel’s whisper was paper thin yet full of hunger. “From beyond the Veil?”
“Oh, I suppose so. Only time and his royal stubbornness can tell now,” Lyttia tittered. “No, no, not that one. Moths have completely done it in. Hand me the velvet.”
Myrel’s hands shook as she passed over an indigo dress bespeckled with pearls. “This one?”
Lyttia threw up a translucent hand. “Drakkors take you, girl! Of course not. Master prefers the red.”
Vynasha glanced back at Grendall with a raised eyebrow at the last then lifted the red skirt he had helped her into earlier. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a hint of a smile, and his golden skin flushed a deeper bronze. The muscle at the prince’s jaw fluttered as he pointedly cleared his throat.
Myrel screeched at the sound, tossing up her ba
sket and upending bits of cloth and precious gems in the process.
“Myrel Blacktree!” Lyttia set her work aside and covered her face. “Sweet Soraya, whatever did I do to deserve being trapped with this one in the afterlife?”
Myrel scrambled to gather her upturned things while gaping at them owlishly.
Grendall ushered them forward. “Good morning, Lyttia, Myrel.”
Lokyr paused in his cooking long enough to turn and bow at the waist before returning to work. His steady gaze caught Vynasha’s, and the spirit’s hard mouth tipped into a smile she couldn’t help returning.
“Well, bless me!” Lyttia tossed her current project to Myrel as she leapt to her feet. Or rather, bounced up to hover slightly above the floor in her excitement. Lyttia’s being shone brightly as she floated over and grasped Vynasha’s free hand. “Sweet mistress, how we have missed you. Oh, but look how lovely the gown sits on her, Myrel.”
Myrel’s mouth worked, but the younger maid seemed yet incapable of speech.
Vynasha’s hand flexed on Grendall’s forearm, and then she released him. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Lyttia.” She wrapped her arms about the wyne’s wispy form. It felt different from the times she had touched Odym, less solid. “Thank you both for the dress,” she added.
The elder maid hitched an unnecessary breath, and her plump, translucent arms wrapped tight about Vynasha’s waist. “How we missed you, dearie.”
Vynasha squeezed the maid again and breathed in her scent, fresh baked goods, dried herbs, and majik. She blinked as she realized the curse ran through them to the point that there was little of the wyne left about them. It took everything she had to force her smile back into place as Lyttia released her, wiping her cheeks and laughing.
“We have been so very concerned for your welfare, mistress, have we not, Myrel?” Lyttia didn’t wait for the younger maid’s confirmation. “I must apologize we could not accommodate you better this time. Perhaps now that you have recovered, you may do something about those awful beasts! No sense of boundaries…”
“Lyttia.” Grendall’s harsh retort cut through the room.
Lyttia pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing as she insisted, “But if you would only tell her—”
“Enough! You shall remember your place.”
Vynasha shifted on her feet, caught sight of Myrel’s trembling expression, and then turned on the prince. Her claws pricked at her palms, reminding Vynasha she was no longer the frail girl they remembered. And she was angry.
“Don’t talk to them like that!” she growled, conscious of the other wyne’s shock.
Grendall flinched as though her words struck him, but he had never been one to back down easily, even now. “I will speak to my household however I choose,” he grumbled.
“Oh yes, go ahead and treat them like inferior beings, just like you do everyone.” Vynasha stalked toward him, buoyed by her fury at their shared blood racing through her limbs. The runes on her skin shifted eagerly as she closed the gap between them. “You want me to think you’ve changed, that you’ve learned from your mistakes? Show me you are better than the tyrant your father was.”
Lyttia’s gasp echoed in the brief silence. Grendall’s lips parted, and the fury in his gaze shifted, twisting into a more familiar expression of self-loathing.
Vynasha shook her head and pressed a hand to his chest as she added, “You want us to be allies? Show me you aren’t the monster you think you are. Show me you can be better.”
“I—” Grendall’s brow furrowed. A strangled breath escaped him then as he covered her hand. His touch sent ripples through their bond, sharing his shame and fear with her, as he struggled for words.
Vynasha breathed in time with him, unsteady and dangerous. A slow tendril of longing spread through their bond. She bit her lip and shifted as the power hidden behind his wanting matched the secret part of her, the part of herself she had denied when he sent her away. Whatever she thought she was feeling, whatever Grendall was about to say, should not happen here. Not in front of the others like it had with Baalor.
She closed her eyes and saw silver hair and emerald eyes, felt his touch grounding her and keeping the majik at bay. Baalor had become her anchor back in the valley, when her majik had been a wild, untamed thing.What she wouldn’t give for his presence in this place, when she felt close to losing herself again.
Vynasha pulled her hand from Grendall’s chest and, opening her eyes, turned to face the others. Lyttia smiled and dabbed her eyes, while Myrel looked upon her with awe. Even Lokyr had paused long enough to bow his head to her, his grim mouth tilted in a soft smile.
A flash of light, movement to her right, and then Odym was suddenly among them. She wondered how long he had been there. He was more solid than the other three, she saw. And she could not keep this up much longer. “Odym, could you please take me back to my room?”
She kept her back to Grendall. To look at him now would be to acknowledge the remorse she felt still, even when they weren’t touching. If she looked, she might listen to him, might even stay. And he was dangerous. He always had been. Hadn’t he tried to warn her long ago?
“You would have done better to have hated me, Ashes,” he had once said.
Odym cracked an uneasy smile. “Of course, milady. I was just about to return to your room with your tray. Lokyr, is it prepared?” At the cook’s silent confirmation, Odym cast a quick look at the room, lingering over Myrel’s prostrate form. “Myrel, if you would be so good as to go ahead and carry the tray to Mistress’s room?”
The maid stood and seemed eager to complete the task. Vynasha focused on her feet to keep from tripping. If she held onto Odym too tightly, he didn’t seem to mind. They were two broken beings, a cripple and a ghost. Together they became more whole, solid. It took every ounce of self-control she had left to keep her gaze on the door leading back into the servants’ passage.
Only after they had passed Grendall did the prince speak. “I could have carried that.” Grendall shifted, reached as if to touch her, but Odym drew her under his arm.
“You have other duties to attend to if I am not mistaken, boy.” The low tone carried an obvious warning that made Grendall scowl and pause.
Vynasha slipped her arm about the old wyne’s waist and squeezed as they followed Myrel’s retreat. She didn’t dare look back. She couldn’t breathe until the door was shut behind them and only the surety and safety of Odym’s constancy remained.
Apart from Grendall and the bond that twisted and pulled emotions she shouldn’t feel, Vynasha could breathe. “Thank you,” she whispered, daring to study the old wyne’s profile.
Odym hummed and for a time did not respond. Any lingering resentment she felt toward him scattered like a cloud of ash as he led her farther down the hall with its abandoned rooms and alcoves.
Navigating the tower stairs was always a challenge. Each time before, the faded spirits trapped in Soraya’s enchantment would pound at her, pushing with each gust of wind.
Vynasha’s runes rippled over her skin as the tower’s whispers jabbed at her conscience.
“Traitor!”
“Mend the bond.”
“Not worthy!”
“Heal the mirror.”
Odym spoke then. “I find once again it is I who should be thanking you, milady.”
At the sound of his voice, the whispers and the wind ceased immediately, instead hovering, listening.
“Me?” Vynasha choked over the word. “But I’m the one who abandoned you.”
Odym hummed again in thought. “You were always going to come back, I think.”
Vynasha did not dare break the tower’s peaceful silence until they had returned to the passage leading to her room. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
Odym chuckled. “If you shall pardon me, mistress, you should lose your temper on him more often.”
She ducked her head and frowned as she remembered Grendall had braided her hair so she could not hide her face. That s
he allowed it, that things had changed to such a point, so quickly…
What would Ceddrych think?
Vynasha lifted her chin. If she thought beyond her brother now, she would be lost. Her steps were slow and painful enough she could not reply then, even had she wanted to.
“Did you know,” Odym began as he opened the door to her room, “you are the first one to stand up to him like this?”
Vynasha tensed with his words then released a sigh as he shut the door behind them. Odym did not press her to respond.
Good.
Vynasha had little she wanted to say about his master, or was he her master again? Even now she couldn’t say who had been in charge during her last stay, Grendall or the false beastly prince, Grolthox.
What happened to Grolthox?
Odym aided her to the bedside and gently removed her boots. He sank onto the chair before her and rested a soft hand over her clenched fist, and she wondered, not for the first time, how old the wyne truly was.
“Of all the maidens called to the curse, you have defied every expectation. You are truly his equal, as the prophecy foretold. This, I believe, more than anything, is why he is in love with you.”
Vynasha pulled free from his grasp with a scoff. “He can’t be. He doesn’t love me, only what I can do for him. It’s only this damned bond, confusing everything.” She scowled down at her clawed hands and curled them into fists.
“The bond allows you to feel one another’s feelings, true. But if you do sense his love, why do you doubt him so?”
Too weary to bother undressing further, Vynasha sank back against her pillows. “A bond I didn’t ask for…”
“Did you not?” Odym’s retort was sharper than she had ever heard from the wyne besides the rare moments he challenged Grendall. It was enough for her to notice the spark in his pale blue eyes as he continued, “You came here seeking the Source, the power to save your nephew’s life. Yet when Master made the bond, he shared his power with you.”
“And it wasn’t enough,” Vynasha growled. “I tried to heal Wyll, I did. But it didn’t work. And now—” she drew in a ragged breath “—I’ve been cursed again. What good is power when I can’t use it?” She wiped the tears from her eyes then growled as her hands fumbled, unwilling to obey. “How am I supposed to protect the people I love if I am weak?”
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