Queen of the Shadow Menagerie, page 11
“I want to be sure it doesn’t rise up from the dead,” Raife explained. “I’m beginning to learn that nothing, especially dark magic, stays down for long.”
Ruenen and his Guard took twice as long as usual to return to Kellesar, with the gurneys dragging behind them. Ride too fast and the injured men would be tossed off. Ruenen was beyond bone-weary by the time his retinue arrived inside the grand, white-moonstone entrance to the castle.
“Send for the Royal Healer,” Avilyard told a passing servant.
Mayestral, ever the attentive shadow, rushed over the instant Ruenen’s feet touched the tiled floor.
“Are you injured, my King?” he asked, brown eyes wide as he took in the way Ruenen cradled his left arm.
“Thora will mend it in a heartbeat,” Ruenen replied, although the arm hung at a weird angle, and the pain had increased during the long hours of riding.
“Our King was very brave,” Aresti said. Ruenen could tell by her edged tone that she wasn’t pleased with his recklessness. “He took down a shadow creature.”
Mayestral gaped. “Brave and skilled, Your Grace!”
Ruenen frowned. He hadn’t felt particularly brave or skilled killing the creature. It was just something that had to be done.
He then turned to Raife. “Be sure Thora heals the men first. They’re in worse condition than me.”
Raife and Aresti disappeared as Avilyard shed his helmet and thick gloves.
“I hope your visit to Dul Tanen was a success, Your Grace,” Mayestral said, bobbing behind Ruenen as he walked towards the stairs. Candles flickered in their sconces, lining the staircase. “Despite your injury, of course.”
“As good as could be expected. Any word on Lady Marai? Lord Nosficio?” Ruenen asked.
The Groom’s anxious expression fell into a sincere, empathetic frown. “No, my King, and I’m sorry for it.”
“Avilyard, keep sending out scouts,” Ruenen called over his shoulder as Mayestral ushered him upstairs towards his chamber. “Send as many as can be spared. I’ll take a team out to search tomorrow.”
His commander sighed and shook his head, but said, “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Perhaps it was foolhardy, spreading his soldiers so thin while the relationship with Tacorn remained so tumultuous, but Ruenen hoped that his visit had at least accomplished some goodwill.
He asked Mayestral to send up dinner, and some time after he collapsed into a plush armchair in his room, Thora and Raife appeared at the door. She carried her leather medicine case, a gift from Ruenen when he’d awarded her the title of Royal Healer.
Damn, I was kind of hoping it was dinner.
“Are my men okay? Did the unconscious Guard wake up?” Ruenen asked as soon as she entered the room.
“Yes, both are fully healed and alert, Your Grace,” Thora said, and sat on the floor in front of him.
“When we’re in private, you can call me Ruenen,” he reminded her for the thirtieth time.
Thora was more hesitant than Raife or Aresti to speak so informally with him. A hand grazed over his injured arm as she assessed his condition. “This is a bad break.”
Closing her eyes, blue healing light radiated from Thora’s hands, seeping into Ruenen’s skin. The magic numbed the pain as he felt the bones snap back together, reforging like a broken blade.
“Raife told me you put yourself at risk by killing a shadow creature on the road,” she said as Raife hovered by the fireplace.
Ruenen scowled at the male behind her. “I handled it fine.”
Raife put his hands up in defense. “She pulled the details from me. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Pushover,” Ruenen muttered in jest, flashing a smile at Raife, who tried and failed to suppress a chuckle. “That thing was after me. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt because it made me its target.”
Thora’s stern, ginger gaze pinned Ruenen in place. “Marai would be furious if she knew you put yourself in harm’s way like that when you had plenty of guards around you.”
“Well, Marai’s not here.” The words came out clipped. The despair, caught in Ruenen’s chest for days, tumbled from his lips. “She’s not here, and no one but us seems to care. No one else is worried about her or Keshel. Every day I feel like I’m farther away from her, from the person she wants me to be. The person I want to be.”
“You’re doing good work, Ruenen,” Raife said. “Progress takes time—”
“I’m tired of being patient,” snapped Ruenen, yanking off his crown and throwing it onto the chair. “I’m tired of everyone telling me what to do, who to marry.” His gaze darted to Raife by the hearth, then back at Thora. “And I’m not helpless without Marai. I can defend myself. I don’t need her or anyone to protect me. What I need is for her to be here. I need her to be alive.”
He instantly regretted his terse tone as a wave of hurt flashed across Thora’s face. She, too, was frightened that Marai and Keshel were lost for good. That two more people she loved had been taken from her.
“I’ll never give up hope, because I know they’ll return to us. Marai will . . . she’ll do whatever she has to in order to get free. I swore on Kadi and Leif’s graves that Marai and Keshel would come home,” Thora said, silver lining her eyes. Then that hurt and terror transformed into determination. “But you must also be alive to greet them when they do, Ruenen. We understand that you’re upset and frustrated, but you cannot make rash decisions.”
Thora had never scolded him before. It reminded him of Mistress Chongan, when she’d chastise him and the boys for swiping food before dinner, or trailing soot from the forge into the house. Thora was so steadfast in her belief that she loosened some of the tension in Ruenen’s heart. He needed to be strong, as well. Everyone in the kingdom was relying on him.
“I’m sorry,” he replied in a softer tone, ignoring the stinging in his eyes. “I’ve always been reckless. Marai used to hate that. It was wrong of me to take out my anger on you. But the truth is that I’m terrified, Thora. I’m scared I’ll never see Marai again, that she’s somewhere suffering, and I can’t help her.” Ruenen took Thora’s small hand in his own as he released a quavering breath. “But you’re right—Marai and Keshel will come home. I won’t give up, and neither will they. Marai will fight forever if she has to.”
Thora smiled and squeezed his hand back. Ruenen then noticed a thin metal band around her troth finger. He stared and stared at it.
Thora’s cheeks turned a rosy pink. She pulled her hand from his grasp. “We should, um . . . get going. You’ve had a long day.”
Raife cleared his throat and avoided Ruenen’s eyes as he extended a hand to Thora, lifting her off the couch.
A strange, hollow pain gushed through Ruenen, seeing their entwined fingers.
They deserve happiness, he thought. This shouldn’t bother me. Thora and Raife had suffered so much loss and hardship. Marai had told Ruenen that the two faeries had loved each other for a long time, but never felt safe enough to act on those feelings. They’d finally found security in Nevandia, and Ruenen was glad that they were beginning a new journey together. That love could still exist when things seemed bleak.
But Ruenen couldn’t stop the ache from spreading; the loneliness and longing for the woman who’d vanished on him twice. Would he get to place a ring around Marai’s finger? To openly display his affection for her?
He swallowed down the lump in his throat, and forced himself to smile. He flexed his fingers and moved his arm—completely healed thanks to Thora’s power. “Thank you, Thora. I’m feeling much better now. Go home with her, Raife. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Raife slung Thora’s medical bag over his shoulder, and gave Ruenen an embarrassed sort of smile. Ruenen caught a glint of metal around Raife’s troth finger, as well.
When had they married? Did Aresti know?
And why didn’t they tell him?
You know why. They didn’t want to upset you. Ruenen was a mess these days, barely holding it together. Lirr’s Bones, I’ve snapped at my closest friends tonight.
As the door closed behind them, he released a heavy sigh.
You can’t stay sad forever. Pull yourself together.
Thora was correct: Marai would be furious if Ruenen squandered precious time. No matter what, Thora tried to improve relations with humans through her healing practice. She hadn’t lost focus. She woke up each dawn determined to make a difference.
Ruenen had important work to do in order to heal the fissures in his war-torn nation. And then there were the things he knew Marai wanted him to do, such as finding ways to empower women, to create equality between humans and magical folk.
The world needed to change, and Nevandia would lead the way.
Ruenen had to get to work.
Chapter 9
Marai
How am I still alive?
Marai’s body was utterly ravaged, but the pain in her back was the sharpest and deepest, slicing into muscle and bone.
She waded through the haze of dark mist within her mind. Her head lolled on her shoulder, but Marai eventually came to. The brain-fog cleared, allowing memories to come flooding back.
Where am I?
Marai opened her eyes to find that she was sitting on cold, patchy grass inside a tent that smelled of cat pee and mold. Her hands were tied around a wooden pole behind her back. Something heavy sat between her shoulder blades—an unfamiliar weight pulled down on her muscles. Dried blood crusted her baggy sailor’s clothing. The cool metal of the collar was still firmly ensconced around her neck, and iron shackles remained locked around Marai’s ankles. However, nothing but the wooden pole was holding her down.
And she was alone.
Where’s Keshel? Her pulse galloped. Had Cavar tortured Keshel after he’d finished with Marai?
She struggled, wincing from the strain on her back, and tried to get her feet beneath her in order to stand. If Marai pulled the pole from the ground, her arms would be free, and she could run to find Keshel.
Marai turned her head to look behind and assess the pole situation.
She gasped, heart skipping a beat.
Her father’s dazzling lavender and cerulean wings were attached to her back.
No, not attached . . .
They were hers, sprouted from her own body. She felt the tingle of cold through them. The tickle of grass as they drooped on the ground. They were exactly how she remembered them on her father’s back; the hues of blue and purple bled together like paint in water, with swirls and dots of lavender around the edges. But unlike her father’s, a jagged white line sliced down the center of both forewings, shimmering and electrified. A matching pair of lightning bolts.
Marai’s head spun, suddenly lightheaded.
How? How is this possible?
Only pure-blooded faeries, like her father, were born with wings. How could she suddenly have wings growing from her back?
But then she remembered—Cavar had summoned her “dormant blood” using his amulet. Somehow, he’d changed her. A prickle in the tips of her ears told her that they were now pointed, as well. She could hear with greater clarity than before; the sound of someone coughing far off in the distance, the flutter of a bird’s wings, the soft breath of wind stirring a leaf.
Her eyesight had also sharpened. Marai stared in wonder at the grains and grooves in each blade of grass, at the uneven stitching of the tent’s canvas, at the dozens of shades of white and yellow in the strands of her hair.
And the wings . . . she had to admit that they were beautiful. Seeing them again after so many years brought a dew of tears to her eyes. They didn’t feel monstrous . . .
Marai scolded herself for her brief fascination. Dark magic formed them. If the stone could bring out her dormant blood, she couldn’t help but wonder what else Cavar could do with its power?
I need to get as far away from here as possible. I need to go home to Ruen.
She reached for her magic, and lightning struck within her veins, sending a wave of searing pain through her. Shocked, as usual.
Marai tried to lift her wings. The muscles in her back screamed at the weight, the unfamiliar usage. She barely got one wing off the grass before she broke out into a sweat.
The tent flap opened.
Marai froze, expecting Cavar or Koda coming for more torture. She steeled herself, ready to fight, no matter how weak and restrained she was.
Instead, two women entered, and Marai had to stop her jaw from dropping.
The first was far shorter than Marai. Brown curls framed her large forehead, and her blue eyes rounded at the sight of Marai tied to the pole. She carried a bundle of gauzy, silk fabric in her small, pale arms.
The second figure’s skin was dusty-pink, hair an odd lavender-gray, with vibrant white eyes, and wings. Tall and thin as a twig, the winged female carried a wooden washbowl and cloth in long, boney fingers. In all of Marai’s travels, she’d never seen anyone like her.
Am I dreaming?
The pink-skinned female wore a familiar metal collar around her neck, marking her as one of Cavar’s prisoners. The human woman, however, wore no chains.
Marai openly stared at them as they stared back.
The shorter woman coughed politely, interrupting the silence, and gave Marai a smile. “We’re here to clean you up, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that,” Marai croaked, voice rasped from her earlier screaming.
“Well, what do you want us to call you?” asked the shorter woman. “I know you lot enjoy your respectful, flourishing titles.”
Not me.
Marai scowled. “You work for Cavar?”
“May we approach, Your Grace?” pressed the shorter woman. “Or Your Majesty. Or O Mighty Queen. Take your pick, I have more.”
Marai would’ve normally snorted at the woman’s cheek, but the shooting fire in her back reminded her that no one who worked for Cavar could be trusted.
“Are you employed by the Governor?” she asked, punctuating each word.
The short woman exchanged a glance with the winged female, whose face crumpled with shame as a boney, pink finger touched her collar.
“No, we’re like you . . . his property . . .” The accent in her voice was heavy, and it took Marai a moment to fully understand her.
Why was Cavar taking people prisoner? Marai could possibly understand why he’d trap magical folk, but the human woman’s presence didn’t make sense. What did he do with his prisoners?
“Where’s Keshel? My . . . companion. What has Cavar done with him?” Marai questioned, leaning forward and pulling on her bindings.
“He’s well and unharmed, a few tents over,” the short woman said. “We just came from tending to him. He’s very worried about you.”
At least Keshel’s okay. Or so the women said. Marai knew she shouldn’t trust the word of these females, but the sorrow on the winged one’s face was so plain, so deep, she couldn’t help but feel minutely eased by their presence.
“I’m Gunnora,” the shortest said, “and this is Anja.” She blinked at Marai expectantly.
“Marai.”
Anja, in a ratty homespun dress, dipped into a polished curtsy, making Marai’s cheeks heat. “It’s an honor to be in your presence, Your Grace.” Her translucent wings, longer and thinner than Marai’s, fluttered with zeal.
“No need to curtsy,” Marai said. “I’m not a queen.”
No, she was an ex-pirate, ex-mercenary, who may have led troops into battle and defeated an enemy king, and was once loved by the King of Nevandia, but was now nothing more than a prisoner in a piss-smelling tent.
However, Anja looked up, tears welling in her striking white eyes. “After all of these long decades, waiting for a faerie queen, here you are. When Koda told us about you, all of us in camp got very excited. I couldn’t wait to meet you, and seeing you here now . . . well, it means a lot to me, Your Grace, even if you are a prisoner, like us.”
Her words were filled with a reverence Marai couldn’t understand. Why? Why does Anja, Cavar, or anyone for that matter, care so much that I have royal blood?
“You’re not exactly what I was expecting for a faerie queen,” said Gunnora dryly, giving Marai a skeptical look. “I thought you’d be a little more . . . regal.”
This time, Marai did snort under her breath. There had been one moment where she’d felt regal. She’d been wearing a queen’s gown, her arm looped through the arm of a king, who’d led her down an aisle, in front of hundreds of eyes, and kissed her in a hallway. If she hadn’t been taken from Ruenen’s side, what might have happened? Would she have stayed in Nevandia, and become his mistress? Or would she have set out on her own, searching for meaning in her newfound title as Queen?
“What camp is this? Where are we?” Marai asked, shoving thoughts of Ruenen aside.
“One step at a time, Your Grace,” Anja said in a soothing voice. “Please, if you’ll allow us to approach, we’ll clean you up and give you this change of clothes.”
Marai had no reason to fear these females. They were in the same predicament as her: slaves to a greedy madman. She nodded and Anja smiled, teeth pearly white against her unusual skin tone. She stepped forward with a washbowl, and sank to her knees at Marai’s side.
Dipping the cloth in the water, she said, “There are rumors going around camp about what happened. You have so much blood on you.” Anja’s smile disappeared as the cloth turned from white to rust-colored. She gently wiped blood from Marai’s back, and Marai flinched. Anja jerked her hand away. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.”
Marai clenched her teeth as a ghastly stinging and burning radiated from the wounds where the wings had punctured through her skin. “No, it’s fine. Keep going.”
Anja’s lip trembled. “Is the pain . . . unbearable?”
Marai’s back throbbed and smoldered; she could deal with that, but something deep and vital had changed within her. Tiny, charged needles in her veins jabbed at her from the inside. If the collar wasn’t dousing her magic, Marai wondered if it would be even stronger than before. Her body, while aching, felt entirely new.
