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“I cannot stop.” I spoke through gritted teeth. “They come the more I am near her, yet the more I am near her, the stronger her power grows. I cannot hinder her out of fear for myself.”
“You are pushing this because you believe it will bring back Arabeth.” Gwyn shifted, studying her hands. “What if you destroy yourself and the degeneration lifts, yet we still do not know what happened?”
Damn them. Damn them all. They spoke the fears I carried day after day. Life had grown complex, uncomfortable, and dangerous. Adira was strengthening. In early days, I wanted her power for the very reasons Gwyn spoke—if we could recall the past, I might recall seeing something, anything, and I could restore my sister to her eternal peace.
Now, I wanted Adira to strengthen because she was an exhilarating force. I could not help but burn in pride each time something flashed within her eyes.
I was losing my focus and tearing it from one woman to another, and I could not think clearly. It was as though each wall in my own damn room was caving in over my shoulders.
I tucked the missives into my tunic and reached for my black cloak, draping it over my shoulders. “I’m going out. Alone.”
Asger huffed. “Kage?—”
“Just”—I held up a hand— “I need to be free of these damn walls. I’ll be at the cottage.”
For once, they did not protest. Not even Cy. Instead, they were worse—each one staring at me, somber and broken, like I’d already died.
Willow branches createdcurtains of silver with glossy petals the color of dusk. Gardens behind the palace were a world all their own. Ferns, shrubs, trees, and hedges, all of it surrounded a stone fountain of a trio of stars.
I carved through the branches, steps muffled over the moss tucked between the cobblestones on the path. At the bend, I paused. Blue flames of the ever-wicks brightened the window panes of a stone cottage. Spells kept the flames burning through storm and sun, never to extinguish unless the hearts within ceased beating.
I blew out a breath. The same rush of blood, the same race of my pulse, slowed as I strode toward the cottage. As though some part of me always feared I’d arrive to find the flame gone.
From beneath a speckled tile on the front stoop, I removed a marked key. Silver and coiled like ivy on the end, the key recognized few hands.
In truth, I was the only one who came here other than an occasional healer if fever took hold. I could not recall the last time Destin visited. Not that I blamed him—the longer time went on, the more difficult it became to step through the door.
I tossed back my hood and unlocked the latch.
Stale air—dust and smoke—burned through my nose. In the back room, one palm slid over the pale green coverlets. Made of satin from Fae lands and threads spun in elixirs to regulate body heat. A fine resting place.
A beautiful tomb for the living.
“Forgive me for being gone so long, Mother.” I took hold of the woman’s lifeless hand.
The queen still looked as lovely as ever. Starlight pale hair flowed long over her shoulders. Her long lashes shadowed her high cheeks, and there, on her soft lips, I could almost see the playful smirk she’d give before she played a trick with her magic.
Torie Wilder had been gentle. Kind. She spoke to the earth, beautified these very gardens and glens with a simple whisper of a spell.The crown of the queen had blessed her with the gift of healing, and she’d saved many on the battlefield. She’d been one of the mages who’d helped create the tonic that healed the blood plague that robbed us of Arabeth.
Now, the only evidence she lived on was the color in her cheeks, and the slow, lethargic rise of her chest.
My gaze lifted to the man sleeping at her side.
“I’m sure you’d have something to say about my neglect for my mother, right, Markus?” I chuckled.
My stepfather, King Markus, matched my mother’s temperament. A bit sterner, but kind, loyal, and wise. It seemed so long ago, almost hazy, as though it hadn’t truly happened, but I could recall entering the mage palace for the first time. A mere boy of six, terrified to greet the king, to be brought into the royal household.
Markus had asked my mother to allow us time to walk the gardens alone. Man to man, he’d said.
There we’d walked, side by side, the king occasionally pointing out a few interesting blooms or sharing the boundaries of the palace grounds.
Once we reached the fountain, the king had lowered to one knee, removed a cloth-wrapped blade from his belt, and held it out to me.
“A blade worthy of a prince.”
I’d never been so stunned, so captivated. A true royal blade crusted in gold and blue crystal. And the king wanted me to have it. The king had called me a prince, like he did his own son.
Gaze on my stepfather’s unmoving features, I dropped my hand to the crystal hilt of the knife still sheathed beside the larger loop where I kept the occasional dagger or short blade.
