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Those words jumped out at me, as if my drunk brain had decided they were important. I read them several times, realisation slowly forming.
Did the power retain the… temperament of the former monarch? Was it shaped by them, moulded by their actions? From what I’d just read, the Brid’s mother had been a compassionate queen, and the Brid had complained that it was trying to make her the same.
Which meant that now, the power was making me like her.
I shuddered, dropping the book like it had burned me. My skin crawled. A part of the Brid was still living inside me, twisting me into something awful, just like her.
I shoved everything back into the little wooden box, not wanting to touch the goblet or the vial for longer than I had to. After stuffing the fur throw back on top of it in the trunk, I slammed the lid shut and scrambled to my feet to back away from it.
My mouth trembled as I stood in the middle of the silent room. I didn’t want to be like her. I didn’t want to turn into her, but I could already feel it happening. The blisteringly hot temper and flashes of murderous anger. The paranoia that everyone was conspiring against me. The strong desire for control—not over myself, but over others. I’d tried to control Lonan. I’d tried to get him to forgo what he wanted and bend to my will.
It was inevitable. No matter what I did, the power inside of me, the one I had taken from her, would make me just like her, even if I tried my hardest to be better.
Maybe Lonan would become like the Carlin too, and we would end up despising each other just like the two queens had. Maybe we would end up only seeing each other twice a year at the Midsith, where we would trade vicious, barbed words from opposite sides of the room.
That, more than anything, made my eyes overflow with tears as I stood there shaking.
So that was my fate. I was just repeating history.
It had all been for nothing.
Chapter Thirty
Ash
I was numb in a way I’d never really felt before.
Even when my parents had died, when it had felt like a piece of me had died with them, a tiny part of me had known that one day, the grief would lessen. It would never go away, but it would become more manageable. A smaller hurt that would let me keep living.
When I’d thought Lonan had betrayed me in the worst way possible—in every way possible—I hadn’t been numb. I’d been furious. So uncontrollably angry that it had consumed me.
When I’d lost my arm and spent those months in the forest, I’d been fuelled only by rage, but it had given me purpose.
Even when Lonan had left, just a few days ago, I’d still clung on to a weak shred of hope that I’d be able to go after him, to apologise, to fix it. I hadn’t given up. I’d still been determined to fight for him. For us.
But now, after finding the Brid’s journal and knowing what was happening to me, I had no fight left. I was numb.
I give up.
I hadn’t been able to sleep after stumbling out of the Brid’s quarters and back to my bedroom last night. Jora’s hangover cure had been waiting for me in the dining room when I emerged this morning, dishevelled and feeling like total shit.
It had helped marginally, but it hadn’t taken away the horrible sensation lurking under my skin. The Brid’s influence was twisting me into someone just like her. And I just didn’t have it in me to fight it anymore.
I forced myself to return to her bedroom and retrieve the journal. Then I sought out Nua and Gillie, finding them as they left their bedroom. Over breakfast—of which I managed only a few mouthfuls—I asked if they wanted to go for a walk. They seemed shocked, but quickly agreed. Nua eyed me worriedly, which was understandable. I looked terrible. Wild, unwashed hair. Sallow skin. Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes.
Some of the numbness left me as I sat with them in silence. I wanted to burst into tears with every breath I took as I waited for them to finish their breakfast. I hardly spoke, my throat too thick and achy to get many words out.
Everything had gone so wrong, no matter how hard I’d tried to stop it. I’d tried to be good. Better than her. I’d tried to do the right thing. But now, Lonan was gone and it was my fault. Now, I knew that I was destined to become as awful as the Brid and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
I want my dad. I couldn’t stop thinking it as I sat at the dining table in silence, hands fisted tightly in the fabric of my shirt while I tried not to break down in front of Nua and Gillie. I want my dad. I want my dad.
I felt like a scared little boy who’d done something bad and was terrified of telling his parents, but at the same time wanted only their comfort. Like when I’d gotten drunk with my friends when I was sixteen and crept inside once Dad and Mags were already asleep, but spent half the night slumped over the toilet throwing up, terrified they’d find out but wishing they were there to look after me regardless.
Dad had found me eventually. I remembered his exasperated sigh. His big hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. His tired, concerned eyes as he wiped my face with a warm flannel while I shakily told him I was sorry. Then Mags had appeared in her dressing gown, fussing over me as they helped me to bed and made me sip water.
I’d kept telling them I was sorry, mumbling it as I buried my face in the pillow, everything spinning when I shut my eyes. Dad had sat beside me while I drifted off into drunken sleep, his hand warm on my shoulder, and when I woke up, he’d still been there. Sitting up against the headboard beside me on top of the covers, arms crossed and his head tipped back as he dozed with his mouth open.
I wanted that again, I thought desperately as we left the palace after breakfast and started making our way towards the kingswood. I wanted him here. I wanted to hear his voice. It still horrified me that my last conversation with him had been over the phone. Not even in person. Had I told him I loved him? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d said it to him. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever told him how grateful I was to him and Mags for giving me such a wonderful childhood, a happy life.
