Curses of Lavender, page 23
King Artus’ expression was hard. Unamused. “He is my grandfather.”
Elian scratched his head. “I guess I overestimated how much time has passed.” He chuckled to himself. “Is he still around, then? Perhaps not… If he was, he would be old as bones.”
Thicket touched Elian’s arm. “Perhaps we shouldn’t anger the man we want to help us,” she whispered.
“I am just making sure he does not doubt who I am,” Elian said, a bit too loudly. “No one else would talk so abrasively about my brother. He was a real hard ass.”
“So,” King Artus interjected. His eyes were narrowed, and Thicket had the impression he was not pleased to have been easily forgotten. “You are the Vindryan Queen-to-be. The one who shut herself and her people in a wall of thorns, ignoring their allies for a century.”
Thicket refused to let him get under her skin. She met his gaze, wanting him to know she was made of steel and fire, not brittle, submissive glass. Just because she wasn’t queen didn’t mean she didn’t have authority. Just because she needed his army didn’t mean she was powerless. “We did not ignore you.”
“Oh? So, you made contact in the last century?”
“No, but—”
“A letter, perhaps? Don’t tell me, the messenger was shot out of the sky by hunters?”
“No.”
“Then what efforts were made, Your Highness?”
“We did not intentionally ignore you.”
“So what, did you manage to forget to reach out?”
“No,” Thicket said, tone sharp with annoyance. “We were stuck inside a wall of thorns.” She took a deep breath, regulating her temper. “Have you heard about my sister—”
“The runaway Princess,” King Artus interjected. “Yes… We have heard all about her.” The King’s tone dripped with disapproval. Thicket didn’t know why, but she felt a stab of defensiveness for the Soumort Princess. Which was crazy. Thicket didn’t owe her anything, least of all her sympathy.
“She created the wall and trapped us inside. We just managed to escape.” Thicket inwardly cringed at the word escape. It made them sound weak.
“A single girl managed to conquer an entire kingdom?” She could hear the mockery in his voice. “And here I thought you to be the rumored power of the land. The wielder of the blue flame.”
Thicket stood straighter. “I am.”
“And yet your sister managed to beat you. With purple fire, none the less.”
Thicket’s fists clenched. “We dueled for the throne, but she broke the law and used magic. She cursed her blade and when it cut me,” she yanked down her sleeve to expose the scar, “I was put under a sleeping curse. I woke up only a few weeks ago.”
King Artus smirked at her and Elian. “True Love’s Kiss, I presume?”
Thicket’s brow furrowed, but that was as much of a reaction as she would allow. True Love’s Kiss? Caspian hadn’t said anything about that. Beside her, Elian stiffened. She forced herself to shove the confusion aside. Prolonged silence would only seem suspicious. “I woke myself.”
She was pleased to see King Artus’ eyes widen. “Curses are almost unbreakable, save for True Love’s Kiss, or the caster’s desire to release it.” He narrowed his eyes. “How did you manage it?”
Thicket shrugged. “Like you said. I am the wielder of the blue flame. Surely, that title holds its own weight?”
King Artus’ eyes darkened. “Why are you here?”
This was it. Thicket took in a steadying breath and said, “To ask for your help.”
The darkness morphed into a cruel gleam. “Why do you need my help, wielder of the blue flame? Can you not magically invent your own solution with the power of your name?”
It took all of Thicket’s restraint to not conjure her kiwi to set his pretty furs aflame. “I can handle my sister. It is her army that concerns me. She has found a way to control the animals of Vindrya.” When the King didn’t interrupt, Thicket went on. “All I need is time. Time to get to my sister and break the control she has. Then, I can face her one-on-one.”
“So, it is my army that you require? Do you not have your own?”
Thicket gritted her teeth. “My sister didn’t get where she is from dumb luck. She’s smart, ten steps ahead of everyone at all times.”
“Meaning, she destroyed yours.”
She pinched her lips together. “I need more numbers to ensure we can withstand the force of hers.”
“Why should I risk my men’s lives for your cause?” The King’s spine straightened as he glowered down at them from atop his golden throne. “What entitles you to believe you elicit the right to enlist such demands? An ally who shut us out, and an irrelevant crown prince whose position holds no more authority than a commoner."
Both Thicket and Elian bristled.
“Your Majesty,” Thicket said, fighting to reign in her growing temper. “We have already explained the misunderstanding—”
“Justifications,” interjected King Artus, “do not erase bitter feelings, Your Highness. Allying with you without support from my people would be foolish. It could entice a rebellion.”
“So that’s it?” Bern demanded.
The King’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”
Bern gave a mocking bow. “Bernadette Brooks, Daughter of Cyrus Brooks, Duke of Minloc.”
The king’ attention flicked away, dismissing her. Bern's cheeks heated, fists clenched so tightly Thicket feared for her bones, but her friend knew when to stay silent.
King Artus stroked his beard. “Alas, I would prefer you as an ally rather than foe, breaker of curses, wielder of the blue flame.”
Hope lurched in Thicket’s chest.
“My hesitance, however, lies in your cachet. You no longer hold respect nor authority in Dymree. Especially you.” King Artus’ eyes fell on Elian. If he was bothered by this, she had no idea. He was all pleasant smiles and indifferent shrugs. “Did you ever complete the rite, Elian Delmore?”
This did seem to affect Elian. His skin dipped into ghostly territory. “No, I did not have the pleasure. It was scheduled for after my wedding, which was rudely interrupted by my future sister-in-law.”
King Artus’ mouth opened in an ah. “Well then, I will make you two a deal. Pass the rite—and convince my people you are worthy allies, then I will lend you what resources you need to regain control of your kingdom.”
Thicket couldn’t ignore the lingering foul scent, or the feeling that King Artus was leaving out some key details that could give him a loophole. But, considering she was in no place to bargain, she swept into a curtsey and said, “You have a deal, Your Majesty.”
Her friends begrudgingly followed her lead.
King Artus grinned. Opening his arms out wide, he said, “Then welcome to Dymree, kingdom of affluence and luxuries.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
King Artus hadn’t been exaggerating. Everything about Dymree reeked of luxury. They followed the guards along plush woven carpeting. Paintings surrounded them on either side, detailed in paint so rich and colorful Thicket knew it must have cost more than the golden fastenings holding the sconces lining the hallways.
The guards finally stopped in front of a series of large white doors decorated with golden embossing. In unison, they swung the doors open. Bern and Lotta filed into one. She heard their gasps resound through the hall. Marcellus and Elian hovered outside, watching as Thicket peered into her room.
Her mouth fell open as she took it in. Soft, ivory walls tinted yellow from the crackling fire; parquet wooden flooring, covered in a fur rug; large four poster bed; bathroom; vanity; couch; and a wooden coffee table with curving bronze legs.
It was beautiful. Even luxury hotels displayed on commercials couldn’t compare to this. She remembered what Caspian said about the upper class leaving Malont. All of their combined wealth created an empire of perfection, however cruel and frostbitten it might be.
The door behind her closed and Thicket jumped. Elian stepped into the room, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes flicked from her to the floor. He was nervous.
“In Dymree, couples usually move in together the night after the engagement. Since we have been engaged for one hundred years, I thought it best not to ask for a separate room. It might arouse suspicion.”
“Oh…” She glanced at the bed—the only bed. “That’s fine. Good call.” She wrung her fingers together. “Can I ask why? They move in together, I mean.”
Elian shrugged. “Most marriages in Dymree are seen as business transactions. Once engaged, the arrangement is seen as complete so the families kick them out and send them to live in one of their properties. The wedding is just a formality—a way to celebrate the transaction, if you will. They don’t even propose with rings.”
Thicket frowned. Her right index finger absently traced the smooth skin of her left ring finger. She’d never even noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring. “Does no one marry for love?”
“Some do, but the engagement is still seen the same. Even if it is for love, the only reason to get married is for the benefits.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Dymree is definitely different. As you can see, presentation is the most important thing. The founders ignored the horrid location—a mountain that lures snow almost year-round—because they liked the idea of building an empire on the famed Golden Mountains.”
White and gold. Snow and stone.
“Do not worry too much about it. We do not have to do things the Dymrian way. I will happily take the couch.”
“Thank you.”
Elian nodded in return. They fell into an awkward silence. Thicket grabbed a loose lock of her hair and wound it around her finger. Released it. Wrapped it again.
Elian cleared his throat. “Why don’t you take the shower first?”
Thicket’s nose wrinkled. “Are you suggesting I stink?”
Dimples creased the corners of Elian’s mouth. “No. I was trying to be courteous. If that is not to your fancy, I could always barge past you and into the shower first, leaving you to wait at my leisure.”
Thicket snorted. “Well, thank you.” She feigned a curtsey, nearly toppling forward. Cheeks warming, she rightened herself and mumbled, “I won’t be long,” as she made her way to the bathroom.
“I doubt that,” Elian called after her, forcing a smile she couldn’t contain across her face.
Minutes later, hot water trickled down her skin, washing away the sweat, grime, and blood from her journey. She had minor cuts and lots of bruises, but nothing a little magic couldn’t heal.
Halfway through her shower, Thicket tried to pry her hair from the braid Lotta secured it in that morning, but it had been matted in the fight, resulting in a large clump of frizzy, tangled brown hair. The water only made it worse, so she slathered some soap on top of her head, rinsed it, and called it good enough. She’d ask Lotta to help her with the enchantment later.
Spells were easy. She only had to manipulate what was there. But enchantments? She not only had to supply her own energy, but had to have some understanding of the properties of the object she wished to manipulate. For her hair, she was unsure what she should target. She could get the hair tie out easily enough, but without understanding the fundamentals of de-knotting hair, she didn’t trust herself to not make it worse.
When she was finished, she dried herself off on the softest towel she’d ever felt. It soothed her aching body and warded off the cold air curling around her shower-warmed skin. Wrapping herself in it, she made her way to the door. She paused, hand still outstretched.
Elian was out there.
Panic was a hummingbird in her chest.
She had no clothes. At least, none that weren’t torn and filthy. Cursing, she opened the door and peered out. Elian was standing in the furthest corner of the room, nose practically stuffed in the crack as though he were in a self-imposed time-out.
“What are you doing?”
“Thicket? Are you done?”
“… yeah?”
“Lotta brought in some new clothes for you while you were in the shower. I set them on the bed.” He waited a heartbeat. When he didn’t hear footsteps, he added, “I’m not looking.”
“I can see that,” she said, swallowing down a laugh. Trust had her crossing the room, wet feet creating puddles wherever she stepped. “I’m out. You can go in now.”
Elian clapped a hand to his eyes and carefully stepped away from the wall, turning to angle himself towards the bathroom. “Is the way clear?”
“Yes.”
He walked forward steadily, hand still covering his eyes. He didn’t hesitate—not even for a single step, feet landing in a confident beat against the floor. She realized it wasn’t confidence in his own ability, but in her.
Maybe it was because he couldn’t see, but she let her face split into another grin. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Smiling. “A bit to the right. Good. Now the left. Straight. Keep going. The knob should be right there.”
Elian grabbed the knob with his free hand. Eyes still covered, he looked over his shoulder at her. “If for some odd reason you are a slow dresser and are not fully clothed by the time I am done, give me a shout. I will occupy myself with my reflection in the meantime.”
Thicket laughed. “Alright then.” Elian disappeared into the bathroom, his own clothes tucked under his arm.
He was easy. Easy to be around. Easy to be comfortable with. Easy to laugh with.
Surely, it would be just as easy to fall in love with him.
The thought chased her towards the bed. On it lay a rose-gold gown patterned with shimmering snowflakes. The cloth was silky, as if woven from the fog surrounding the castle. Her wonder dissipated as quickly as it had come.
The people of Dymree had the luxury of time and safety. They could sit around and stitch until they reached perfection. Clothes could be a luxury, could be beautiful, not a necessity. Her stomach twisted as she remembered Lotta. It was her passion to make dresses like this, but she was limited by time, balancing dress making and her duties as a maid. Even if it was her full-time job, there weren’t enough materials in Bilya to make a dress like this—and not enough money to purchase such a thing. Thicket pulled the fabric over herself, trying to ignore the guilt churning in her gut.
Minutes later, Elian stepped out, water droplets still clinging to the sides of his neck. He wore a silky white shirt, which he tucked into a pair of black pants. Over the shirt was a vest so blue it made his eyes nearly glow. The buttons, woven onto the vest with golden thread, were loose, giving him a slightly disheveled look.
He looked like Prince Charming had stepped out of the pages of a fairytale.
Thicket lowered her eyes, cheeks flushed and stomach swimming.
She heard the second Elian noticed her. His footsteps faltered and he took in a sharp breath. She fought the urge to look up, not knowing what he would see on her face. Not knowing what it would mean.
Everything was still. Silent. Yet the air felt charged. Alive. Buzzing with anticipation and worry and perhaps a touch of longing.
She could feel him across the room. Knew exactly how far he stood and how much space he took up without even looking.
It was a long while before either of them moved. Spoke. Breathed.
And when Elian finally did, the sound of his footsteps chafed against the stillness. She sucked in a breath and held it as he drew nearer, nearer—nearer.
“You look beautiful.” His voice rumbled in her ear. He hadn’t even spoken that loud. Didn’t have to. The words tumbled through her body like anxious pebbles. “I do not believe even that word begins to describe how you look. If it can describe what I feel when I look at you.”
Thicket’s heart kicked.
Fingers wrapped gently around her chin, turning her head to meet a pair of cobalt eyes. “Vier.” The enchantment was no more than a whisper. Elian looked at her so intently Thicket was rooted to the spot, heart hammering against her ribcage.
She watched a smile spread across his face. “You look nice in Dymrian clothes.”
Thicket’s cheeks burned.
He cocked his head to the side. “Why didn’t you take out your hair?”
“Oh.” The word came out as a surprised breath. Her hand flew up to touch the monstrosity that had been her braid. “Well, having curly hair is like constantly battling with a beast. Sometimes, I get tired of fighting with it and just let it have its way.” She shrugged. “It’s out of my face, at least. That’s as much as I can hope for.”
“I refuse to believe that Princess Thicket, wielder of the blue flame, would succumb to diabolical hair.” He put a hand to his chest. “At least I would not submit. As you can see, my hair is flawless.” He ran a finger through the top of it for effect. The dampness muted the gold tones, yet it still found a way to radiate with light.
Thicket snorted. “You try then, oh brilliant master of hair.”
Elian’s eyes glimmered. A lump suddenly took shape in Thicket’s throat. She swallowed it down as he moved even closer. “Maybe I will.”
“Fine then,” she said. It was meant to come out snappy but lacked the fire.
She was aware of his breath, tickling the back of her neck as he came to stand directly behind her. “What manner of trap is this?” he asked, lifting the chunk of matted hair up to inspect it.
“A braid.”
“It looks dreadful. No wonder your hair rebels.”
Thicket didn’t have the breath to chuckle. “It was nicer—before being mauled by a mountain lion.”
“Hmm.” He ran his hands through her hair, feeling for the tie bunching it in place. “This is worse than a mother bird’s nest.”
“Admitting defeat so soon, oh great master of hair?”
“Never.”
Elian led her to the vanity and pulled the seat out for her. She sat, turning her eyes up to the mirror. She fought a wince. Her hair really was bad. But Elian wasn’t deterred. He fumbled with the ends of her hair for a good minute before he found the hair tie. After meticulously unraveling it from her hair and handed it to her, triumphant.
