Page 8 of Crown of Roses
“A valid point.” Maeve wanted to agree, but in truth, she’d never seen a fae. She’d read stories of their deceit and the mystery surrounding their very existence—how they were made of the breath of life and the soul of death. She always assumed they looked…like her. With pointy ears, much like her own. Though hers were from a curse, but she supposed it made no difference. What she witnessed tonight, however, was horrifying. She didn’t know the fae could be so terrorizing, she didn’t know they could care so little for human life, and she certainly had not been prepared for their frightening appearance. It made her despise them even more. But if this sort of magic was what cursed her blood…
Saoirse pushed up from the bed and stalked over to Maeve’s vanity. She admired herself in the mirror, then smoothed a balm on her pale pink lips, before meeting Maeve’s gaze in the reflection. “About the chasm. Captain Vawda said it’s growing.”
It wasn’t a question, but Maeve confirmed the underlying inquiry. “Yes. He’s right. Whatever it is, it’s alive. I can feel it in my blood.” She shivered, remembering the way the chasm pulsed with magic, how it seemed like something she should recognize. “It will continue to spread until it engulfs all of Kells. It could venture even further, taking over neighboring kingdoms within Veterra if we don’t stop it.”
“Could you sense it somehow?” Saoirse adjusted the flower in her hair. She had already replaced the magenta orchid with a startling blue rose.
“I could, yes.” Maeve absently reached up to where she’d tucked the flower the little girl had given her earlier, before the attack. It was gone. “There was this scent, did you smell it?Orange blossom and cedarwood?”
Saoirse shook her head.
“Well, I did. As soon as we walked into the fortune teller’s tent, this sensation settled over me. The air was dense, almost crackling with a kind of energy.” Maeve unhooked her belt of throwing stars and laid it across the bed. “As soon as she took my hand, I could feel it. The darkness. And you know…like calls to like.”
Saoirse whipped around and her eyes frosted over. “You do not possess the blood of dark fae. What you saw tonight, will never be you.”
“How do you know?” Maeve countered. She shoved up from the bed and her boots clicked noisily against the wooden floor. “I’ve been cursed since the day I was born, before that, likely. I can feel the darkness inside me, the bloodthirsty fury. Most people aren’t cursed with goodness and light, Saoirse.”
A sensation washed over her. It left her skin cold and her hands clammy. She remembered the rage she’d felt toward Casimir during training. How easy it had been to slide into a void of emptiness. And all he’d done was use her memories against her.
“Most people aren’t you, Maeve.” Her friend’s expression softened. “Your blood might be cursed, but your heart is too pure.” She draped an arm around Maeve’s shoulders. “You are the sun. Radiant and glowing. So bright, not even a thousand moonbeams could eclipse you.”
“You have a poet’s soul, you know?” Maeve leaned into the offered embrace. “Despite the outward appearance of a hardcore killing machine.”
“Please.” Saoirse sniffed and turned up her nose in disgust. “Don’t ever insult me again.”
A rough knock sounded against Maeve’s bedroom door, but before she could move to answer, the heavy wood swung open and revealed her mother, flanked by two soldiers.
Carman’s lips were pinched, her fingers clasped tightly before her. She wore a gown of liquid silver which seemed to melt over her thin figure. Chains fell from her waist and the shoulders of the dress were studded with tiny spikes. Her black hair was pulled into an intricate updo, but wisps had fallen from their tightly bound place, which only ever meant one thing—she was furious.
Saoirse dropped onto one knee while Maeve hesitated between a kneel and a curtsey, and ended up doing some foolish mashup of both.
“You.” Carman’s piercing gaze zeroed in on Saoirse, then flicked fleetingly to Maeve. “Both of you. To the throne room. At once.”
Chapter Four
Maeve couldn’t believe her mother’s words, but she and Saoirse followed behind Carman to the throne room. Two soldiers walked just in front of the queen, and two more seemingly appeared from thin air and kept pace with them from the back. Maeve remembered when she was a little girl, how the soldiers of Kells always reminded her of breathing statues. Their movements were always precise and measured. Stiff. They never spoke, simply followed commands.
The double doors to the throne room opened and Maeve smelled the sea before she saw it. It was more than she expected; open to the air, to the balustrade overlooking the Cliffs of Morrigan and the Gaelsong Sea. Bronze squares of polished stone gleamed beneath her boots, each one hungry for light, for reflection. Pillars of slate rose up on either side of her, and darkened alcoves lurked between all of them. Some were illuminated with soft light, displaying statues of human-like creatures carved from ivory, their faces etched with perfect detail, their bodies frozen in time. They almost looked real.
At the end of the room sat Carman’s throne. It was simpler than Maeve imagined, positioned upon a small dais, with three silver spears reaching up to the domed ceiling. Beyond it, was an entire world Maeve would never get to see.
More important than any of the mystique of the throne room, was the number of people currently within its confines. At least twenty soldiers—including Casimir and Saoirse—stood off to the side of the throne, and then there were a cluster of people she didn’t recognize. She could only assume they were the city officials and guests from earlier in the evening. Maeve sidled up beside Saoirse, while her mother took her place upon the dais, taking control of the space with nothing more than a harsh inhale of air. The tips of Carman’s nails tapped ruthlessly against the hardwood arm of the throne. It was enough to make Maeve’s skin crawl. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, Kells came under attack tonight.”
Obviously.
Maeve kept her mouth clamped shut. Those sorts of thoughts would only get her in trouble, but she couldn’t help the rush of animosity. While Carman was enjoying a night of fun and fancy, of feasting and drinking, blissfully unaware of all that went on around her, the city of Kells suffered. Her people suffered. She hadn’t even made an appearance. She hadn’t shown her face, not when her kingdom needed her most.
“I sincerely doubt this will be the last time such an attack occurs,” Carman continued, her demeanor ever cool, ever calm. “This chasm which has erupted at the center of the city is not a tear in the realm. It is called The Scathing. And it is a product of the dark fae.”
Carman’s cold gaze lingered on Maeve.
What was her mother trying to imply? That the Mother Goddess saw fit to curse her with the blood of dark fae? Her mind spun in a flurry of unanswered questions. A hushed gasp and trepidatious whispers echoed up into the cavernous hall. There were grunts of disgust and murmurs of hatred. Maeve recoiled into her skin, when sudden tingles of awareness prickled along her neck.
She shuddered against it. She was being watched. Again. Her gaze immediately sought out Casimir in the crowd, but he was staring straight ahead at Carman, and failed to look her way at all. She stole a glance at Saoirse next, but her best friend appeared to be mumbling a list of obscenities under her breath.
Then the world shimmered. Barely. It was the faintest shift. No more than a breath. Yet she seemed to be the only one who took notice.
“But the dark fae were vanquished to the Sluagh after the Evernight War.” The man who spoke was one of Carman’s advisors. Lord Whorton was a rotund man with ruddy cheeks and an exceptionally large wart that protruded from beneath his left eye.
