Chapter 12
Year 618 of the Human Era
949 years passed
Her sister with her pretty ice-coloured wings was adored by their father – he taught her all his great magiks. And it was their mother that taught Avarnaa – her stunning mother who had daughter a powerful wild fae with her siren song. The most powerful of all magiks. The ability to control another.
She knew that their father taught Nyneve to be careful with her magik – that it needed to be used to watch over others, to help. But always at a price, for great magiks could not be undone.
But their mother used magik to get what she wanted. And Avarnaa wanted the world.
It was on their five-score birthday that she left with her sister to apprentice under a powerful wild Fae Queen, who lived in a castle of glittering ice, but had no true Court – her eyes like molten gold. She stayed there for a century, learning the most powerful rune-spells. Ones that no other myrmaid could perform.
She was there when the golden-eyed daughter of the Fae Queen fled in the middle of the night. A brilliant warrior with hair like chestnut. Nyneve had fled with her.
But Avarnaa stayed. She needed to learn.
It was another century before there was nothing left for her. And so she left, in the dead of the night much like her sister had done.
She returned to the sea, to find her mother gone. She had no family left. Her father, eaten by a dragon, and her sister somewhere in the Drylands with the Fae Queen's daughter. And so Avarnaa vowed that she would be better than them all – she would rule the Land and Sea as her mother had always told her she would.
The myrmaid prince of the North was marriageable age, she heard.
And so, a plan formed in her mind.
Her goal set, she made her way North.
….
Year 1, 567 of the Human Era
Present
Aelarra laughed.
It wasn't until Dane had started speaking again that Rhian realised that the myrmaid's laughter had not annoyed her as it once had.
"
They preyed on the villages.
Her brother hunted them.
They had killed so many of her father's people.
They had damaged so many farms.
They had ruined her brother's face.
They deserved to die.
And she was one of them.
Rhian slumped against the wall, leaning against the pillar where none would see her agonised face. She had known from the start that the King had chosen her as a companion to the princess because of her family. She would not be swayed by sparkling eyes and pretty faces.
But that bulge in the princesses sleeve where her wound was still not healed caused Rhian's heart to tighten uncomfortably.
….
They had stowed away the maps and charts in the draws that lined the room, they had taken down writings off the walls. The rounded table now remained bare, save for the blank map which showed the Kingdom's territory and nothing else. The King ordered the windows opened, but the room still remained stifling. Mykaela refrained from the urge to bite her lip as she surveyed the men of the War Council. The King and his advisor's.
The Swordmaster.
Gawayn.
The Fae Knight, was looking at the advisors with an incredulous expression, as if he couldn't comprehend why they were there. His silver eyes were sharp and his hair, more silver than gold, was braided impeccably down his back and he sat perfectly straight.
Why was she even there?
"What of the dowry?"
"What of the gown?"
Instead of speaking of the treaty, they were speaking of a wedding.
She wanted to tear out her hair.
Perhaps she should suggest a marriage for their alliance.
Maybe they would pay attention to her then.
But she wasn't daft – she knew why they rushed the wedding.
She, along with half of the Court, had seen the desire in Laric's eyes as he had touched her sister's face.
She glanced up into those silver eyes.
And she almost laughed when he rolled his eyes.
Almost.
….
Aelarra laughed freely as the gondola sliced through the water; racing. Pride simmered through her as she kept her small boat even with Dane. For though her arm had not yet fully healed, the rune-spells of strength she had uttered had assisted her thus far, and her magik was no where near spent.
She grinned; meeting Laric's eye as her gondola moved ahead and he laughed – ever was she grateful for the lessons she had each morning. For no longer was there hate in his sapphire eyes.
As one they turned, arching towards the small island where they so often basked in the sun.
Laric reached the shore first, tying his gondola to the small pier, holding his hand to her. She took it, her heart hammering within her chest. And she had to tell herself firmly that she could not have him, even as his hand lingered on hers.
Not anymore.
He was to wed another.
They sat on the stone benches, Aelarra grinned as she sat, in those dark blue breeches that Dane had had tailored for her so long ago.
Laric sighed. "Would your father ever force you to marry?"
Aelarra turned her gaze to the sea, its glittering depths that hid so much. Kairavi's marriage to the Southern King had been one of power. But… She had known Elaethan and had cared for him long before her father had suggested the match. And he had forced none of her other sisters to wed. "No, he would not." She smiled softly. Sadly. The sun dipped low on the horizon.
"I can't marry Princess Daniyah, no matter her bloodlines. I can't." Aelarra held her breath, watching the prince through the corner of her eye. "For I love another."
"Another?" Breathless.
"There was a girl, eight years passed," Laric told her, quietly. Perhaps he did not want Dane to overhear. "There was a great storm, I do not know if it affected your Kingdom below the waves. But we were out on the sea. My ship sunk. The girl saved me. I can marry no one but her. She has been in my heart all these years."
As you've been in mine. He loved her. He did not know it was she who saved him, but he loved her. Her. Mykaela had been wrong.
Her heart soared. "Laric, I–"
"Aelarra, Laric, we must go before the sun sets," Dane called to them.
Laric offered her a small smile and helped her stand – his hand is so warm and perfect in hers that it hurt her to let go.
….
Gawayn entered the King's solar, thudding into the body that was exiting.
"Excuse me," the voice growled.
Gawayn looked down, startled at the venom that the Sword-master spat forth. The fae-knight moved to the side to let him past, the hem of his sapphire cloak brushing the fae's boots – the runes stitched in glinted in the soft light. There was something familiar about him; but he had no memory of any human with coal black hair and stormy grey eyes.
"Ah, Lord Gawayn," Alexandyr said, his voice cheerful and cheerful, as if he were greeting an old friend. "I'm glad you could come."
And never had he been more grateful – for if he had to sit through another mockery of 'treaty meetings' he would surely knock one of the advisors heads off.
Though it had been somewhat amusing to see Mykaela fuming in her seat.
The sun had nearly set before they had reached an agreement – that fae would be allowed to set up stalls in the harbour-side markets. He would consider granting some of the estates in the city to the fae – notable fae of course, if the Fae King would offer the same to humans who would wish to reside in his Court.
As he left, he wondered idly what Mykaela's negotiations consisted of. For they did not have the same opportunities that fae of the land did. He knew what her father's main concern was, however: the safety of his people.
….
Naemira woke in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, to the astute feeling of hungry eyes on her. The small clearing, she had slept in was silent; her horse gone. She was still cloaked in darkness, the last embers of her fire lay dying in a broken pile.
Fear gripped her heart.
She knew the forests were those that had been created as a safe haven by the Fae Queen Haviira so many years passed – and it was to those forests that the Cursed retreated. Preying on unwary travellers who thought themselves safe from the fae in a time of uneasy peace.
She could almost feel them stalking through the trees that surrounded them, edging ever closer.
Panic rose within her, frantic and strong as she lay shivering. Though there was no cold.
She lay as still as stone, her hands still tucked under her head as they had been when she slept
Naemira was afraid, she was not too proud to admit.
"Do not move," the voice was as cold as the blade that pressed against her neck, a coldness that could have rivalled the frigid waters of the South where she had travelled but once. Her hand stilled on the bejewelled hilt of her sword, the turquoise reflecting the dying embers of the fire and the tall shadowy form behind her. Male or female, she could not tell, shrouded in a cloak that brushed against the ground, the hood drawn up to cover the face. Nor could she place the accent of the speaker.
But she knew they had not been in the forests long. They were too clean.
In the next instant she was dragged to her feet, harsh fingers biting into the nape of her neck, and forced against a tree.
It was then that her gaze swept the clearing that had once seemed so welcoming. She counted ten intruders, their swords and spears levelled, but the crack of a twig underfoot alerted her to more in the shadows. Or perhaps the werewolves or vampyres.
Her twin swords lay discarded on her bedroll, their wicked blades hidden in their plain scabbards.
"And what might an ugly thing like you be doing out here all by yourself?" the man who spoke held a foot long knife, its curved blade dancing with light. His hood obscured his face, but she could hear the snarl that coloured his voice. "Are you one of those foul creatures who offers themselves to the vampyres for blood? A lover of theirs?"
He thought her human.
Naemira did not move, even as the man grabbed her by the waist, pulling her flush against his body.
The man pressed his blade deeper and a trickle of blood appeared, slowly, so slowly, tracing down her collarbone. The drop of metallic blue-green disappeared between her breasts and beneath the leather vest.
He snarled. "A myrmaid!"
She could not discern who they were, nor what they wanted. They weren't slavers, that much she was certain. "Why don't you sing for us, little siren? We have travelled far this night and are need of entertainment." His knife slid slower, resting on the laces that held her vest together. He pressed down and with an audible snap the laces gave way beneath the blade. The aquamarine of her dress was revealed, the colour of the blood that was smeared unmercifully across her cheek and collarbone.
"By the High Ones," one of the human's breathless whisper was lost in the low growl that filled the night air. Low, wild and feral.
….
She could feel the temperature of the ocean shift, and she knew that they were closer to the Court of Myr, to the tropical waters that she'd not realised she had missed so much until that heavenly water was flowing through her gills and unbound hair. They were perhaps half a week's swim from the Palace – the open water fathomless beneath them.
She knew, just as well as the Guards who accompanied her, what dwelt far beneath them in the Deep. But still she smiled, as the water shone through the Surface and upon her face.
Images danced before her eyes of myrfolk darting in and out of the bright coloured reefs, of the marble spires of the Palace reaching towards the surface, sunlight shimmering upon the white walls. She could see her sisters' smiling faces amid swirling chocolate locks.
It was during her reverie that it felt as if someone had placed a hand over her gills and she clawed at her throat, mouth opening in a silent scream as she cast her eyes frantically about her.
And through the blue-green blood that stained the ocean, she saw those glittering eyes.
….
Naemira shook; she could not help it as those tawny gold eyes stared at her with hunger. A hunger that could easily devour her very soul. It was a wolf, yet unlike any wolf she had ever laid eyes upon. As dark as night, only its face and paws were visible, the rest of its body fading into nothingness as if it were made of mist. The fur that was visible seemed to swirl and change as she stared, unable to move. The blade nicked into her skin like the bitter kiss of winter, cold and unforgiving. It was a woman holding her; she was sure now, one whose pale blonde hair had escaped the hood of her fur-lined cloak. The woman's hand shook and a small stab of pain shuddered through her body as warm blood trickled down her spine.
By all Below, someone save me, she prayed. There was another snap of a twig as firelight from the strangers' torches moved through the clearing, the shadows moving as if they were alive. She saw faces in them, grinning lecherous, outstretched arms that reached for her.
Naemira turned in a blur of movement, blood spraying across the ground as the man's sword sliced through her shoulder, biting deep through leather and flesh as she moved. The palm of her hand met his nose with a deafening crunch. His hood fell back, revealing short pale brown hair and a face that would have been pleasant to look upon before his nose had disappeared into his skull. The blood dripped freely and he clutched at it, stumbling backwards slightly. Naemira watched, her stomach threatening to spill its contents, as the wolf behind him moved closer in anticipation its eyes filled with animalistic rage. The man cried out.
Naemira saw it in slow motion as the man fell backwards into the shadows, his cry far more than scared. It was his arm that was covered in darkness first. The werewolves circling them were yapping and growling. Naemira watched as the creature opened its shadowy maw, latching onto the appendage within reach. The man's scream changed from scared to hysteric and it was as if the shadow was engulfing him. His bloody face sought the myrmaid's for a single moment before he was tugged backwards sharply.
Then he was gone, as if he had never been there; his cries echoing as if he were in a cavern of great depth.
"Teasal!" it was a woman's voice, tortured, cracked and raw. It was as if a spell had fallen over the camp, cast by a spell-caster of such evil intent that it forced them to watch the morbid scene. None could tear their eyes from the place where the man had disappeared.
The wolf howled and Naemira heard a sickening crack and the soft tearing of flesh. But neither the werewolf nor the body of the man were visible. A deep black pool of blood seeped into the ground.
It was a woman's snarl that filled the air as she raised her torch high; the woman who had screamed with such pain. Her hazel eyes flashed with agony and fury, her lips pulled backwards in a ferocious snarl. The werewolves jumped backwards, their fangs bared and dripping, their eyes flashing with malice as she dove forward. But the light did not reveal the werewolves, who merely darted backwards to avoid the flame. Yet as she moved forward into the dark, the shadows closed in behind her as she disappeared between the trees. Naemira barely heard her blood curdling cry before it was cut off. Goosebumps ran along her arms like wildfire, leaving a path of coldness in their wake.
Howls filled the air and the makeshift campsite was suddenly a hive of activity, ropes were dropped as the attackers frantically tried to regroup, their weapons held in trembling hands.
Another scream.
The man had stepped backwards, his foot barely touching the shadow before a midnight muzzle had clamped around his ankle, tearing through muscle and snapping bone.
She looked down at her trembling hands, at the rings she had crafted for herself, a shining stone set in each gold bands. Four rings to replace the rune-casting rings that she'd been forced to return.
She inhaled deeply.
And so she did the only thing she could think of; she cast a shield rune over herself a moment before they leapt at her. It hit the shimmering blue shield a scant foot from her. And the first crack appeared, a hairline fracture.
But she saw those tawny-gold eyes narrow as they saw it.
A fracture could always grow bigger.
And soon her shield would break.
