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Calista nodded. “In the storm, I saw his face. I saw . . . ships with his armies.”
Slowly, I reached out a palm and rested it on her cheek. She didn’t stiffen, even seemed to find a touch of comfort. “Then you are no longer safe outside these walls.”
I closed the door swiftly, locking the knob.
“Silas!” She kicked the wood, rattled the latch. “You bastard, let me go. Let me go. I cannot stay here. I will never choose a captor. You cannot force my hand, you cannot . . .”
Her words cracked and died. The slide of her body down the door and soft, breathy sobs charred another piece of my heart.
It was for her good. I peeled off the mask when the pressure of it caused the scarred skin to ache and burn. One palm on her door, I hummed, low and steady. Power was scarce in the darkness, but I hoped to have enough to bring a bit of rest to her burdens.
My song had always been hers, should she only take it.
It took a moment before the sobs ceased and a gentle thud came from behind the door. Perhaps I could not twist the tales of fate without her, but I could still bring her to a calm. A talent I’d always had, one I’d take gladly. The more her resistance had grown, the more I’d needed to reach her in the calm moments of her mind, and I’d done it through dreams.
Another gift I carried, and the ingenuity behind the Golden King’s dream walk. I didn’t want to dream walk when I could touch her, speak to her, but I would if that was all she’d allow. I’d give her the rest she needed, and cling to the hope when she woke, she’d see reason.
My pace was swift through the labyrinth of rooms and chambers on the upper level until I slipped into the largest of them all. I slammed the door behind me and rushed to the window.
Red moonlight lit the fortress shores. Already the shift was beginning. Tenements stood straighter. Rotting laths were peeling back to reveal stone beneath it. She didn’t know what her simple act of walking through the gates had done.
The sea was undisturbed, but on the horizon grew a swell of angry clouds.
Fate was unraveling at the edges, and if Calista Ode did not accept me, if she rejected all we’d been striving to become, then we would not see a new sunrise in a brighter world.
All I wanted was freedom for the both of us, a world with no more night, no more shadows in my mind. But I could not have any of it. For she did not want me in that world.
Only in the darkness of her dreams.
Chapter11
The Storyteller
An ache ragedbehind my eyes. With the heel of my hand, I rubbed it away and took in the dim room.
Black satin shades covered windows in a sickeningly large room. I’d spent turns in the palaces of every kingdom, but I had never spent a night in such an ornate chamber. Wooden beams climbed to the rafters and marked every corner of a fur wrapped bed fit for at least four men. Overstuffed down pillows took up half the surface of it.
With a groan, I stood from the floor, rubbing the back of my head. What happened? Hells, I couldn’t recall when I’d slept so soundly.
I dragged my fingers over a polished chest of drawers, pausing when I touched the golden handle of a hairbrush. Pieces of golden hair were still tangled in the soft bristles.
I knew this brush. I spun about, wincing as the blood rushed back to the slow ache, and took a second glance at the furnishings. A corner seat near the covered window. The bed, a wardrobe in the corner where . . . where a calming voice had once soothed me.
My pulse quickened. With the toe of my boot, I kicked back a pelt used for a rug. My palm covered my mouth. A few flecks of blood splattered the floorboards. On instinct, my hand went to my throat. The barest of scars was in my skin. A scar that had only appeared after my return from captivity in the North. I couldn’t recall what caused it and brushed it away as some clumsy mistake in my Ravenspire cell.
Until I’d witnessed that brutal night in Ari’s dreams.
A mother that held a knife to her child’s neck. The way she fought against the darkness overtaking her, as her love and desire to save her child kept the blade from digging in too deep.
The wardrobe was painted in . . . roses. I’d always loved those roses, and often sang, tracing them with my fingers as Maj brushed her hair. My hold on the handle of the hairbrush tightened. A spark of white, burning pain clung to my heart when I hugged it to my chest.
This room once belonged to Riot and Anneli Ode.
Or at least it was made as a replica. Hadn’t my parents ruled in the fae isles? Then again, hadn’t they shattered the kingdom into bits and pieces?
Ari’s dreams never gave up what became of those empty Western seas. My father never said, only made plans with his . . . ward.
The king’s ward. The boy.
