Page 31 of Tricky Princess
“Well…” Ros said, crossing the line first. He turned back to his friends. “Let’s get going, then.”
It took three hours of walking before he really understood what Billy had said. Each step brought him closer to a memory he’d buried deep. He could feel himself swaying, feeling almost drunk on wine and sex. It brought him back to that night.
The walls of his father’s wing glimmered in the low candle light as he stepped out of the musty room of moving bodies. Taking a steadying breath, he shook off some young lord with curling horns and an eager smile who gripped his arm. He begged Rosier to stay and go another round with him—and anyone else who reveled in sleeping with the crowned prince. Rosier wiped his hands down his linen shirt. They felt sticky with wine…and other fluids. Grasping the wall, he headed toward his room.
Ros’ hand brushed along the rough bark of a wide and ancient tree. He growled low, fighting off the memory. He kept reminding himself that it wasn’t real.
Ros’ hand brushed rough obsidian. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus. How did he end up in the throne room? He swayed again, but caught the wall and turned, looking for the way back to his room. The spinning was relentless, but the main door came into a blurry focus. He reached forward, trying to steady himself, and noticed that his hands were coated in blood.
“No,” Ros groaned, looking down at his hands. They were clean. He blinked once, and then there it was, the blood he could never wash away. The forest spun around him before he fell on his back.
He fell and something warm and wet seeped through his shirt. He rolled to his side, trying to steady himself, trying to find purchase on anything, but his drunken mind kept slipping. Slowly, he looked up, trying to find his bearings. A shape blurred in front of him—a crown. Feeling the top of his head, he felt the simple gold ringlet in place behind his horns, where it stayed no matter the circumstance. Blinking again, he saw a hand reaching toward him, unmoving. A body lay in front of his father’s throne. Her long black hair fanned around her, bones and flowers strung throughout it.
The children in the castle would decorate his mother’s hair in anything pretty and dark. She had her favorite chair in the library where she would read, and they would sit behind her, braiding in their little trinkets.
His mother.
Ros’ chest burned with power.
His mother.
Flames covered his hands, illuminating the throne room. The heat burned out any drunkenness left as it crawled up his arms.
His mother. She lay there crumpled, her hand reaching out. A single finger pointed toward the last throne to the left.
“Mother?” Ros croaked.
He crawled to her, dragging her into his lap where flames touched her but did no harm. They would never harm someone he loved so much.
“Mother?” he whispered.
Her head lolled back, and across her neck was a vicious slash, cutting through skin and bone.
“MOTHER!” he bellowed, and his powers erupted.
Flame and shadow engulfed the room as he curled his mother toward his face, sobbing into her chest. Her many necklaces scratched at his face, and her smell broke through the tinge of iron, of her blood. Her electric smell of thunderstorms clung to him.
“Rosier?” The deep sound of his father’s voice broke through the sobs and magic.
“Rosier!”
Ros sobbed again as hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Opening his eyes, it was not his mother he saw, but his legs as he knelt on the forest floor.
“Fucking Gods,” Ros cursed.
Wiping at his nose, he stood, taking in the surroundings. He felt exhausted, and his friends looked equally exhausted as they looked back at him. Sam was the palest, and he stood furthest from them.
“We have to keep going,” Billy said softly.
Ros turned, and he could almost see the wastes in the distance. A newfound need to get there burned in his chest. He would get Ellea, and he would burn the rest.
After another five hours of walking and fighting old memories, the gates were in sight. Sam still hadn’t recovered like the rest of them, but Ros wouldn’t call his current state recovered either. He could still see his mother’s blank blue eyes and her sage dress. He could see the splattered blood mixing with her freckles and the pained look in his father’s eyes as he took down anyone who came near her body. They’d lost hundreds of people the week following her death, either by Ros’ hands or his father’s. When they never found her killer, Ros left for good.
He looked toward Sam again, worried. He’d thought he would be the least affected by their horrible trip down memory lane.
Sometimes those with the best mask in place suffer the worst, Garm said to him telepathically.
He grunted in response, turning back to their destination. In the distance, he could make out the massive castle where birds and beasts circled the peaks. But closer was a set of massive black gates. Ancient skulls lined each post, and a solemn male stood in front of them.
