Chapter 11

Year 1, 547 of the Human Era

20 years passed

She had been wed perhaps a few months when she witnessed the first coming-of-age ritual in the South. They did not simply gain their legs under the full moon and walk ashore. For the land of the South was not like the land of the humans. The icy landscapes teemed with wild fae who were bound to no Court. There were great creatures long forgotten from human memory, great whit lizards with wings and an icy breath; bears bigger than giants. She had shivered when her new husband had told her, thinking it fanciful.

"What is this rite when you get your legs?"

"We go hunting, of course," Elaethan had laughed at her puzzled expression. "Upon the land, and bring back the head of one of the creatures. But no one is ever clever enough to kill a true fae."

For the bodies had to be burnt, she found out later – the wild fae of the South had a strange magik. A blood magik that they could use to raise the dead, though they had trouble controlling those they brought back.

"I hope we have a daughter, my love," she told him, thinking of the children they would one day have. "I would want no son of mine battling dragons and wild fae."

….

Year 1, 567 of the Human Era

Present

Nuvian watched from atop the parapet as Laric circled the myrmaid princess. Though she was quite useless with the sword, he could see in her a determination to learn, holding it in the arm that was bandaged from wrist to elbow.

To be better.

The lessons had spanned only a week, but she did not drop the weapon as much as she did when they had started.

The courtyard was full of life; smiles and chatter flowed around the pair. Pages and squires lined the walls, stopping their tasks and watching the myrfolk princess with unabashed curiosity. For surely the picture that the court ladies had painted of her was far different from the girl they saw before them. She surely looked like no monster – with her dark hair held off her face by a myriad of small braids, the rest flowing freely down her back in a cascade of chocolate and almost-violet curls. She was dressed in men's clothes, tight breeches and loose cotton shirt – dressed little better than a whore.

No, not even a whore would wear clothes that hugged every curve of their legs.

"He's softening," Siri scowled at his shoulder; though her tone did not reflect on her timeless face, her sky-blue eyes wide as if she had just complimented the princess. She wore her rune-spelled cloak, despite the heat around them and a parasol to keep the sun from her fair face; and to keep her face from others. "Perhaps he is more weak-minded than we thought. Maybe she's already woven a siren-song around him."

Nuvian shook his head, watching the mismatched pair closely. "It is simple feminine wiles that she's using, much like your sister tried to use on me. She's so weak and helpless that he feels she can't be a threat. He's been fooled by her pretty smile and fluttering lashes."

"Are we going to lose him?"

"Not if I have anything to do about it."

….

Laric blinked, staring at his hand. Which hand bee grasping his short-sword not a moment before.

He glanced down at Aelarra, who looked just as shocked as he, her eyes wide. And then her mouth split into an ecstatic grin.

"I did it!"

He blinked again.

He did not tell her it was because he was distracted for a moment by the way the sunlight had shimmered across her ocean-blue eyes. His eyes swept her face, small and pointed, so different from any of the women he'd had before.

Her distinctly non-human beauty was drawing him in.

She was full of energy, he'd come to realise, like an excited child – wanting to learn everything.

You're no better than them. Her words had reverberated through his mind. They had not spoken of it since – but he had to show her that he was different.

He could admire that determination in her eyes when she levelled her sword at him. She had been apprehensive at first – perhaps he had thought he wished her harm. But a sharp pain lanced through him every time he glimpsed the bandage wrapped tightly around her arm.

"Aelarra," he said softly, forgetting for a moment they were in the courtyard surrounded by courtiers, as he brushed an errant curl that caressed her cheek. It was as if there were no one else in that courtyard with them; he saw nothing but the sun-kissed hart shaped face. "I wanted to apologise. For my behaviour. You've done nothing to deserve such treatment; and I – "

"Laric!"

It was the Swordmaster's voice that cut through the air like one of the blades they were meant to be practising with. It was then he realised just how close they were, how much her chest was heaving. How much his was. He stepped back hastily.

He watches stormy eyes appraise the young myrmaid – nothing discernible in those inky depths. "You will never be a warrior, little myrmaid."

Aelarra smiled up at him, oblivious to the tilt of his lip that indicated a sneer. "I've never wanted to be Warrior, Master." The way she said it made it seem like a title. "That has never been my path. But if I have to learnt to defend myself, then that is what I will do."

….

Bound in dark leather, cracked and dry with age, the thin volume smelt faintly of dust and an otherworld scent he could not quite decipher. The pages within were brittle, and what remained on the original stitching was barely holding it together.

A faint scrawl on the inside of the cover told Dane that the author's name was Niamh – a fae name. One of the library's few fae books.

He traced the delicate curlicue script, cursive letters of fae-words and wondering what kind of fae she had been. The writing did not look to be like the harsh lines of vampyric – and they were far more gentle and looping than the few books that the Fae Queen had gifted to them.

He had hoped that he would find some link between fae-runes, but what was before him seemed to be a journal. There were few words he could decipher from his study of fae-language; war, humans, shifters.

He closed it with a sigh; it would be for another time.

For since Aelarra had told him she could cast runes with his voice, there had been only one thought that had pervaded his mind. Could human runes be used thusly? He'd not spoken to his father of his research, for had his advisors found out what he was doing they would find a way to use it as a weapon.

When he had asked Aelarra how she could do it, her response had been a not-so-delicate snort as she leafed through her own book.

I just can.

Dane chuckled to himself at the memory, ignoring the glares from the dark-robed scholars who occupied the library.

His finger traced his silver flute.

The music that Aelarra enjoyed so much.

Could he create runes with the notes from his flute?

Did one magik negate the other?

His brow furrowed.

For Aelarra had told him that the myrfolk could learn to cast written rune-spells, though it was a higher level of study. Did that mean that other fae could learn to speak rune-spells?

The thought was a daunting one.

He tucked the book up under his arm as he made to leave the library; for he'd not yet seen Aelarra that day. And he sorely missed her smile.

And it was as he was making his way to her chambers that the messenger found him.

Summons from the King.

….

Laric blinked.

And blinked again.

His father's face did not change; severe and solemn.

His mind was blank.

Marriage?

Never before had his father pressed upon the matter – though he'd always known that his marriage would be one that would benefit their empire.

"I cannot afford for my heir to fall for any of the fae that may be within the Palace," the King said sternly. Of course, there were more fae in the Palace that had ever been before.

Aelarra's face flashed through his mind, that pretty honey face with wide expressive eyes and her tumbles of chocolate curls – a face that he would not mind waking up to each morning. His eyes slid to Dane, who had never been good at hiding his emotions.

His brother was staring at their father, his mouth open in shock.

"I want an alliance with the fae, Laric, a strong one," the King inhaled deeply. "But the human King must always be that, human."

Laric stopped listening to his father then, as he explained that the princess would arrive in a few nights. A ball would be held in her honour. A princess of Kiish – the desert lands across the mountains to the east. One of the Emperor's many daughters.

His eyes slid to Dane, who was uncharacteristically silent, his own sapphire eyes downcast.

He was not sure if he was relieved or not.