Nine Years Later

Anirah

Fear had no place in the Fae Queens' court. I'd learned that a long time ago - and yet, it was still hard to push the feeling down, sometimes. I don't fear what I'm about to do. I've done it hundreds of times before.

It's my soul I fear for. If I even still have one.

My steps echo on the polished marble floor as I make my way to the throne room, and various court nobles avert their gaze as I walk past, suddenly becoming very busy with something else. If I wanted to, I could make them look at me. Force their bodies to obey my command. But I just walk on.

There's no fanfare when I enter the room - everyone in Doranelle knows my name. My queen lounges in her throne, flanked by huge twin wolves that sit stiff and alert by the dias. The black one seems to be staring at me, but I ignore him.

"Your grace," I say, sinking to one knee.

Maeve smirks, gesturing for me to rise. She's wearing a gown today, the material so dark that it seems to be absorbing the light around it. It makes her skin glow paler than usual.

"Bring him in," She says softly. That's when I notice Cairn standing in the corner, that sadistic little smile twisting his face as he reaches behind a curtain and drags a decrepit-looking faerie out. He manhandles him across the room and stops in front of me, not bothering to hide the long, predatory look he gives me. I keep my face neutral. I can't afford to show emotion here.

The faerie is shaking, whispering something under his breath. In the old tongue, by the sounds of it. Cairn returns to his spot in the corner, readying himself for a show.

Maeve's lip curls. "Hold him."

With half a thought from me, the faeries body seizes. He's no longer shaking - he physically can't.

"You are Killion Pitch, correct?" She says it like she's speaking to a lover. Maeve never raises her voice. She must think she sounds more unnerving that way (which she does).

The faerie doesn't answer.

Maeve clicks her blood red nails against the arm of her throne, and the sound grates against my ears. "Cat got your tongue?" She croons.

The faerie isn't that remarkable. Slim build. Straw colored hair. Watery gray eyes. He's the oldest-looking faerie I've ever seen, besides Calypso. He seems like he could collapse with one push - and yet, he keeps his mouth shut.

I don't need a command from Maeve this time. The faerie -Killion, I assume - begins to sweat visibly, and he gasps like he's running out of air.

"Let's try again. Are you Killion?"

The faerie grunts. His skin is starting to turn red. "Yes," he rasps.

"Wonderful. And you live in Mistward, yes?"

"Yes."

Mistward. The place where Maeve forced the demi-fae to live after she barred them from her golden city. I had stayed there for a couple of days, after Rowan first found me. I wish I was there now.

"You're a bit far from home, aren't you." Click. Click. Click. "I wonder how you wandered into my realm without being detected. And into my private office, of all places."

He made it that far? Perhaps I underestimated him.

Maeve reaches for something hidden in the folds of her skirt, and procures a small circular object. She holds it between her thumb and forefinger. "Is this what you were trying to steal?"

It's a mirror, the surface grimy and spotted with old age. It doesn't seem like it has any value, but it must, if this frail-looking faerie risked his life to steal it.

The torture continues for more than an hour, but the faerie remains stubbornly resolute. He endures everything from broken bones to brain aneurysms, and his answers remain vague and useless.

I can see the impatience flit across Maeve's beautiful face. Usually, her victims crack by now.

She finally gives in when the faerie goes unconscious. I've been keeping him awake with my own willpower for the past several minutes, but I can barely support myself at this point.

The torturing also takes a toll on me. My head is throbbing when I release him, and my fingers and toes have gone numb.

Torture is perversion of my gift. Just as I could cool a fever, so too could I make blood boil. Cause bones to grow and twist to the point that they crack. Enflame nerve endings until they burn out. Stop hearts dead in their beating.

It's impossible for most healers to physically harm another person with their magic. And even if they did attempt it, the immense strain of it could possibly kill them. At the Torre Cesme, healers take a solemn oath to only use their magic to heal, not harm. When my sister and I were young, we dreamed of studying together at the Torre. Now I doubt they would take me.

The first couple times Maeve employed me as her torturer, I'd been bedridden for days afterwards. The wrongness of using my magic that way made me throw up blood. Blood of my victims. Rowan never left my bedside, pushing aside the rest of his duties to nurse me back to health. And cursing himself for bringing me to this blasted court in the first place.

I used to think about how my parents would react if they could see me now. The disgust and disappointment on their faces. Then I'd think of how Aelin would look down her nose at me, and then set me on fire probably.

I don't think about them anymore. They're dead, so it's there's no use. And besides, I damned my soul to hell the minute I caused another person pain, so I doubt I'll ever see them again in the afterlife. Better to push them down along with my guilt.

Maeve dismisses me with a flippant wave, and I contain a sigh of relief. I don't know how much longer I could have stood there before collapsing.

The steward is just closing the door behind me when I run right into a wall of hard muscle. I'm so disoriented that the impact nearly knocks me off my feet, but strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.

Rowan lifts me up to his chest, and frowns down at me. "You overdid it." He growls.

"I didn't really have much of a choice, did I?" I say, my voice weak and thin. I attempt to roll out of his arms, but he tightens his grip.

"Why does she make you do this?" He mumbles darkly to himself, and begins carrying me to my room.

I don't have to energy to fight his coddling, so I close my eyes and turn my face into his shoulder.

When the tears come, I refuse to let them fall.

"Who trained you in your healing gift, darling?"

Maeve asks a lot of questions. I don't really mind - she seems genuinely interested. And she usually brings me gifts when I give an answer she likes.

"My mother," I say, without looking up from my daisy chain. Maeve had commissioned a small picnic in a meadow just outside the chateau for the two of us. It makes me feel a bit special to have Maeve's undivided attention.

She slices an apple in two with a snap of her fingers, and offers me the bigger half. "And what did she teach you, exactly?"

I have to think about that for a minute. "Not much," I admit. "I can heal a couple cuts and bruises. Once I fixed a broken nose."

Maeve frowns, and my stomach flips in panic. Did I say something wrong?

"That's it?" She's says with a hint of disappointment.

I look down at my hands, blushing red. "Mother wasn't much of a healer. She said I could study at the Torre Cesme and learn real healing magic, if I wanted."

"And did you want to?"

I nod again.

There's a lengthy pause before Maeve speaks again. "You need not go all the way to the Torre. I will teach you."

I snap my head up, and Maeve is smiling again. "Really?"

The queen of the Faerie realm reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "It would be my pleasure."

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- S.S