Page 2 of Crown of Roses
The cage was her punishment for being cursed.
“Focus, Maeve.” Casimir’s voice dragged her back to the training ground and he pushed her away from him. “Fight your fear.”
Fight your fear.
They paced each other in a slow circle of caution. Each step was the prelude to a dance. The intimacy was there, the knowledge of one’s partner, as well as the slow, simmering burn of anticipation. Maeve lunged for him.
The energy was a spike, a jump in adrenaline, fueled by fury. Every hit was met with intensity, every punch was thrown with accuracy. The rip of fabric against steel echoed in her ears, pain reverberated through her while he matched her every strike, hand to hand. Their swords crossed again, and this time she shoved him back with all she had left. She glanced down at her shoulder. The thin linen shirt she wore was torn open, and crimson slowly stained the white fabric.
“You asshole.” Maeve glared up at him. “You cut me.”
His brows lifted but he offered her nothing more than a casual shrug. “So, do something about it.”
She flipped her sword high into the air, caught it hilt first. With that as her stronghold, she swung hard, and the nauseating crack of knuckle and metal against bone echoed in her ears. Her stomach heaved. Casimir’s head snapped to the side with the blow. Blood sputtered from his mouth, scarlet and sticky. Splatters of it clung to Maeve’s cheeks and chin, even her shirt, but she didn’t want to think about it, because he’d recover.
He always recovered. That was the thing about warriors whose souls were owned; they couldn’t die. They could suffer, but they could never die. Casimir had sold his soul to her mother years ago, and she never dared to ask why. It was the one subject he refused to speak on. Ever.
She respected him enough to let it slide.
“Shit, Maeve.” He spat, wiping the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. His rich brown skin came away smeared with red. Piercing eyes met hers.
They didn’t reveal anger. Or vengeance.
She didn’t allow herself to consider what emotion was reflected back at her, and instead she rushed him again. Weapon poised for contact, she aimed for his throat. He was quicker than she expected, and their swords drew at the same time. Chest heaving, she stared up at him with her blade flattened against his flesh. But she didn’t dare move, because the edge of his sword was pressed firmly to the base of her neck. They were in a draw. Evenly matched.
A steady, abrupt clapping sound pierced the air around them.
Maeve glanced over to see Roth, the queen’s advisor. At least, she assumed that’s what he was, she couldn’t be sure of his exact title. All she knew was whenever he looked at her, it caused her skin to crawl. He wasn’t scary, exactly, just…unnerving. What unsettled her the most, however, was the unearthly pallor of his skin. It was a chalky gray, like it had once been alabaster, then covered with ash. His eyes were too light for his face, and his fingers were blackened all the way to the palm of his hands—like he’d been burned.
Roth stood motionless and the other soldiers ceased their training, all of them stopping to hear what he had to say.
“The queen requests your presence.” His voice was gravelly, as though he wasn’t accustomed to speaking.
“Who, me?” Casimir continued to hold his sword to Maeve’s neck. His gaze flicked over to Roth. “Or the princess?”
Roth’s creepy gaze narrowed. “Her Highness.”
“I thought you meant to address her as such.” Casimir pulled his sword away. “Well, my lady, it looks like we will have to fight another day.”
She lowered her weapon and Casimir snatched her wrist. He hauled her close, so the tips of their noses nearly touched. He smiled down at her, and that rare dimple of his made an appearance. “And for the record, that’s exactly what I was doing last night.”
He released her just as quickly, chuckling as heat bled into her cheeks. Then he bowed. “After you, Your Highness.”
Maeve stood in the long hall just outside the throne room. The floors were onyx and the walls a pale gray, illuminated only by the brilliance of sconces. Massive double doors of ebony wood remained closed before her, their detailed carvings a reminder of her kingdom. The castle was situated at the edge of the Cliffs of Morrigan, though it stood more like a fortress than a palace, with its sweeping balustrade and rugged exterior. Kells overlooked the Gaelsong Sea to the east, and a winding stone path called the Ridge led down to the city’s center situated at the base of the cliffside.
The throne room was a place where she was scarcely allowed. When she wasn’t on the training field, she spent most of her time in the library, devouring books and tomes on the world outside her city. She was a voracious reader, consuming anything from myths and fairytales, to histories and literature. Reading kept her mind off other things, but more importantly, it kept her away from her mother. Away from the harsh reality that her blood curse had stolen everything. Her crown. Her kingdom. Her future.
The slight burning sensation in her left arm caused her blood to tingle. Already, the wound was healing. She was cursed with fae blood, an affliction that gave her pointy ears and filled her with dark and vile powers. Her mother told her it was punishment from the Mother Goddess for being born out of wedlock. She’d never met her father, and as far as Maeve knew, he was a useless man who snaked his way into her mother’s bed, then left her at first light. As she got older, she tried to research blood curses to see if she could find someway to break it, or at least understand why the Mother Goddess would see fit to curse an infant. There was very little information on the subject, and most of it was damning. Blood curses were eternally binding and incredibly difficult to break. While unnatural fae magic ran through her veins, it sometimes proved rather useful, like healing wounds. Her body healed itself and while the heat from the curing wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t too terrible either. She would never dare tell her mother as much.
As soon as the thought of her mother entered her mind, the double doors to the throne room burst open.
The queen stood before her, regal in a gown the color of blood and covered in a fine layer of black lace. A silk cape of midnight was draped across her fair shoulders, pinned in place with an oval stone that seemed to pulse with life. The virdis lepatite was the source of Carman’s magic. It was one of the reasons her mother hated the fae so much. Their power was exceptional, it simply was, whereas hers came from a direct source, and she was ever reliant upon it. The virdis lepatite kept Maeve’s wrists bound in cuffs, kept everyone around her safe from the fae magic coursing through her.
“Your Majesty.” Maeve lowered herself into a proper curtsey.
Her mother didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. It was rare for them to be in the company of one another anymore. Carman saw only a blemish upon their bloodline. Maeve was flawed. Imperfect. But she was also the only heir to Kells.
“I see you’ve been training again.” Carman’s dark gaze flitted over her, lingered on the dirt covering her leggings and the bloodstain on her shoulder. Her thin lips curled in disgust.
