Crown of roses, p.1
Crown of Roses, page 1
Crown Of Roses
The Faeven Saga
Book 1
Hillary Raymer
To all the girls who dream, I see you.
Contents
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“O’er the mountain and through the mist
Is the wild, the magic, and unseen
And none will ‘er be as bright
Nor the sun, nor starlight
As the once now and forever faerie queen.”
* * *
~ Tiernan Velless, High King of the Summer Court
Chapter One
The clang of swords echoing in the early morning air sent a rush of crackling energy down Maeve Carrick’s spine. The skin on her arms pebbled despite the warmth of the sun piercing through the layer of lazy clouds coming in from off the coast of the Gaelsong Sea. All of Kells was asleep, save for those who had no fear in the face of death.
She looked into the dark eyes of her opponent. The space between them was nothing more than some sandy patches of ground and dead grass, a distance easily covered in less time than it took to breathe. Her heart thrummed inside the tight walls of her corset-bound chest as she tossed her sword from hand to hand, silently daring him to make the first move.
Casimir Vawda stood opposite of her, a fierce warrior with a face she long ago committed to memory. Like the dimple that appeared in his left cheek on the rare occasion he flashed one of those smiles, a grin illuminated by the remnants of stolen youth. He stood across from her, outfitted in the colors of Kells. Deep navy leathers, and pants the color of smoke. His hood was pushed back and a faint sheen of sweat beaded across his brow.
He shoved his disheveled crop of chestnut brown hair from his face and Maeve smiled.
“You’re moving slowly this morning, Cas,” she called out to him over the shouts of others on the training field around them. She gave her sword a little twirl and the blade glinted in the sunlight. “Were you up too late last night?”
He was on her in an instant.
When their swords met, it was a thunderous song, and she knew the melody by heart. She had trained alongside him since the day she was strong enough to wield a weapon. His movements and attacks were nearly an extension of her own. She matched his strength and duplicated his caliber. This wasn’t just any soldier. This was Casimir. She knew him.
Arms crossed overhead, he pressed the weight of his weapon and his body against her. “What I do in my free time is none of your concern.”
Maeve laughed. They both knew they had no free time.
She shoved back against him and dropped low, ready to twist away, and pop up behind him. But Casimir expected that, because even though she knew all of his tells, he knew hers as well. He kicked her sword from her hand and it clattered to the ground, just out of reach. Grit and grass slid beneath her, and the solid earth smacked her backside. Her head snapped once, and stars of twinkling black and silver danced in front of her eyes. Pain speared from her lower spine up to the base of her neck. She tried to roll out of the way, but Casimir was on top of her, the coolness of his blade pressed neatly against her neck.
She was pinned.
Casimir stared down her, his body pressed firmly on top of her, the weight of him making it difficult to breathe.
“What were you saying again?” he taunted, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
Maeve seized her opportunity. Distraction was often key. “I was saying that whatever you were doing last night, must have looked incredibly similar to the position you’re in now.”
His mouth dropped open and he lifted off of her. It could’ve been the heat from battle, but she swore the warrior’s face flushed to a deep shade of pink.
It was all the time she needed.
She dragged her knees up and kicked him squarely in the chest. She didn’t miss the fog of admiration in his eyes before he ricocheted backward, and she scrambled over to grab her fallen sword. Armed once again, she barely had time to turn around before Casimir recovered. She sucked in a breath and charged him, leaping upon his back, and this time her blade threatened the flesh of his neck. With her free hand, she gripped his hair and tugged his head back.
“Such a brat,” he muttered.
“Shut up,” she snapped, refusing to be distracted by the tease in his voice. “Drop your weapon.”
“You’re not stronger than me, Maeve.” He smirked. “You’re a warrior. A fighter. But you have a weakness.”
“No, I don’t,” she muttered.
“Oh, but you do.” He knew exactly which button to push. “Fight harder, Maeve. Push yourself. Because if you don’t, if your mother sees how quickly I can defeat you, she’ll send you back to the cage.”
Ice flooded Maeve’s veins. She froze, paralyzed by the memories constantly haunting her dreams.
“Think about it, Maeve.”
She loosened her hold and stumbled back, away from him. But he snared her by the elbow, pulling her closer.
“All that time you spent in a cage…” His gaze darkened and the phony humor vanished. “All alone, while you wondered if you’d fall to your death off a seaside cliff.”
She shook her head and a stolen breath shuddered from her chest. A curtain of dull strawberry blonde tumbled forward to hide the panic. Her throat closed and her knees quaked until her bones turned to mush, and only Casimir was left to hold her up. Images slammed into her. Blinded her. Left her dizzy and sick. Memories from her childhood. Every one of them filled with crippling anxiety.
A frozen metal cage, with a small child curled up inside, dangled precariously on a tree limb over a treacherous cliff. Sea spray from an angry ocean thrashed her, chilled her to the bone. A sinking sun, a starless and moonless night. Empty and all-encompassing darkness, with nothing but the roar of the sea to keep her company.
She’d been five years old the first time.
The cage was her punishment for being cursed.
“Focus, Maeve.” Casimir’s voice dragged her back to the training ground and he pushed her away from him. “Fight your fear.”
Fight your fear.
They paced each other in a slow circle of caution. Each step was the prelude to a dance. The intimacy was there, the knowledge of one’s partner, as well as the slow, simmering burn of anticipation. Maeve lunged for him.
The energy was a spike, a jump in adrenaline, fueled by fury. Every hit was met with intensity, every punch was thrown with accuracy. The rip of fabric against steel echoed in her ears, pain reverberated through her while he matched her every strike, hand to hand. Their swords crossed again, and this time she shoved him back with all she had left. She glanced down at her shoulder. The thin linen shirt she wore was torn open, and crimson slowly stained the white fabric.
“You asshole.” Maeve glared up at him. “You cut me.”
His brows lifted but he offered her nothing more than a casual shrug. “So, do something about it.”
She flipped her sword high into the air, caught it hilt first. With that as her stronghold, she swung hard, and the nauseating crack of knuckle and metal against bone echoed in her ears. Her stomach heaved. Casimir’s head snapped to the side with the blow. Blood sputtered from his mouth, scarlet and sticky. Splatters of it clung to Maeve’s cheeks and chin, even her shirt, but she didn’t want to think about it, because he’d recover.
He always recovered. That was the thing about warriors whose souls were owned; they couldn’t die. They could suffer, but they could never die. Casimir had sold his soul to her mother years ago, and she never dared to ask why. It was the one subject he refused to speak on. Ever.
She respected him enough to let it slide.
“Shit, Maeve.” He spat, wiping the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. His rich brown skin came away smeared with red. Piercing eyes met hers.
They didn’t reveal anger. Or vengeance.
She didn’t allow herself to consider what emotion was reflected back at her, and instead she rushed him again. Weapon poised for contact, she aimed for his throat. He was quicker than she expected, and their swords drew at the same time. Chest heaving, she stared up at him with her blade flattened against his flesh. But she didn’t dare move, because the edge of his sword was pressed firmly to the base of her neck. They were in a draw. Evenly matched.
A steady, abrupt clapping sound pierced the air around them.
Maeve glanced over to see Roth, the queen’s advisor. At least, she assumed that’s what he was, she couldn’t be sure of his exact title. All she knew was whenever he looked at her, it caused her skin to crawl. He wasn’t scary, exactly, just…unnerving. What unsettl ed her the most, however, was the unearthly pallor of his skin. It was a chalky gray, like it had once been alabaster, then covered with ash. His eyes were too light for his face, and his fingers were blackened all the way to the palm of his hands—like he’d been burned.
Roth stood motionless and the other soldiers ceased their training, all of them stopping to hear what he had to say.
“The queen requests your presence.” His voice was gravelly, as though he wasn’t accustomed to speaking.
“Who, me?” Casimir continued to hold his sword to Maeve’s neck. His gaze flicked over to Roth. “Or the princess?”
Roth’s creepy gaze narrowed. “Her Highness.”
“I thought you meant to address her as such.” Casimir pulled his sword away. “Well, my lady, it looks like we will have to fight another day.”
She lowered her weapon and Casimir snatched her wrist. He hauled her close, so the tips of their noses nearly touched. He smiled down at her, and that rare dimple of his made an appearance. “And for the record, that’s exactly what I was doing last night.”
He released her just as quickly, chuckling as heat bled into her cheeks. Then he bowed. “After you, Your Highness.”
Maeve stood in the long hall just outside the throne room. The floors were onyx and the walls a pale gray, illuminated only by the brilliance of sconces. Massive double doors of ebony wood remained closed before her, their detailed carvings a reminder of her kingdom. The castle was situated at the edge of the Cliffs of Morrigan, though it stood more like a fortress than a palace, with its sweeping balustrade and rugged exterior. Kells overlooked the Gaelsong Sea to the east, and a winding stone path called the Ridge led down to the city’s center situated at the base of the cliffside.
The throne room was a place where she was scarcely allowed. When she wasn’t on the training field, she spent most of her time in the library, devouring books and tomes on the world outside her city. She was a voracious reader, consuming anything from myths and fairytales, to histories and literature. Reading kept her mind off other things, but more importantly, it kept her away from her mother. Away from the harsh reality that her blood curse had stolen everything. Her crown. Her kingdom. Her future.
The slight burning sensation in her left arm caused her blood to tingle. Already, the wound was healing. She was cursed with fae blood, an affliction that gave her pointy ears and filled her with dark and vile powers. Her mother told her it was punishment from the Mother Goddess for being born out of wedlock. She’d never met her father, and as far as Maeve knew, he was a useless man who snaked his way into her mother’s bed, then left her at first light. As she got older, she tried to research blood curses to see if she could find someway to break it, or at least understand why the Mother Goddess would see fit to curse an infant. There was very little information on the subject, and most of it was damning. Blood curses were eternally binding and incredibly difficult to break. While unnatural fae magic ran through her veins, it sometimes proved rather useful, like healing wounds. Her body healed itself and while the heat from the curing wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t too terrible either. She would never dare tell her mother as much.
As soon as the thought of her mother entered her mind, the double doors to the throne room burst open.
The queen stood before her, regal in a gown the color of blood and covered in a fine layer of black lace. A silk cape of midnight was draped across her fair shoulders, pinned in place with an oval stone that seemed to pulse with life. The virdis lepatite was the source of Carman’s magic. It was one of the reasons her mother hated the fae so much. Their power was exceptional, it simply was, whereas hers came from a direct source, and she was ever reliant upon it. The virdis lepatite kept Maeve’s wrists bound in cuffs, kept everyone around her safe from the fae magic coursing through her.
“Your Majesty.” Maeve lowered herself into a proper curtsey.
Her mother didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. It was rare for them to be in the company of one another anymore. Carman saw only a blemish upon their bloodline. Maeve was flawed. Imperfect. But she was also the only heir to Kells.
“I see you’ve been training again.” Carman’s dark gaze flitted over her, lingered on the dirt covering her leggings and the bloodstain on her shoulder. Her thin lips curled in disgust.
Maeve pressed her lips together and rolled the snide comment off her back. “Apologies, Mother. When you requested my presence, I assumed you meant immediately.”
“And I assumed you’d be smart enough to make yourself presentable.” Carman waved a slender hand through the air. “No matter.”
There was a beat of silence, long enough for shame to carve its way into Maeve’s heart. Carman’s guards stood at attention behind her, blocking Maeve from the throne room. She’d been banished from there for as long as she could remember. She had no idea what it looked like, and couldn’t recall a day when she’d caught more than a glimpse of its interior. Her mother always met her here, in the doorway, like she was some sort of commoner.
Carman clasped her hands together. “I wanted to ensure you haven’t forgotten about my guests tonight. Distinguished business owners and other important patrons from the city will be arriving within the hour.”
Maeve clenched her jaw tight. Guests only meant one thing; a contract negotiation followed by dinner and dancing. Nothing Maeve had ever been privy to, because her mother liked to pretend as though she ceased to exist. Whenever nobility arrived to pay their respects or ask for assistance, she was told to make herself scarce. It didn’t matter if everyone knew she was alive, if rumors circulated of how and why she was cursed. None of it mattered when she was blatantly ignored.
“I expect you will be on your best behavior.” Carman arched one pointed brow.
“Of course, Mother.” Maeve dipped her head.
“Good. That will be all.” Carman’s words were clipped and she spun away, allowing the large wooden doors to slam shut in Maeve’s face.
She waited for a moment, processing the rejection, and accepting her fate. The pain in Maeve’s shoulder had gone numb. She barely even felt it anymore. The barbs from her mother were often the same. Painful at first, sharp even, but she’d grown used to them over the years—all twenty-four of them—and was accustomed to locking such feelings away because her mother made one thing perfectly clear.
Maeve would never be worthy of the crown.
Chapter Two
Maeve wasted no time after her mother’s dismissal.
She returned to her room, one of the last actual bedrooms before the servant’s quarters. It was smaller, and not as decadent, but it had everything she needed, most importantly her own bathroom. Not that she was shy or timid about her body, but she couldn’t imagine having to share a cramped suite with five other women.
After showering and scrubbing away the grime and sweat from her body and hair, Maeve inspected the wound on her shoulder. Or at least, what was left of it. The burning had subsided and though the skin was still slightly pink, there was no mark. No proof she’d even been cut.
She tugged on a pair of leggings that were as snug as they were useful with all of their convenient pockets. She grabbed another linen shirt and though she knew it would be unbearable with the heat, she laced herself into a corset, just in case. Carman reenforced the boning with magic, so the corset acted more like armor as opposed to something only meant to give the appearance of a skinny waist and ample breasts. Her hair was still damp and hung nearly to the middle of her back in a mess of curls. She finished dressing then slid one hand under her pillow, and her entire body reverberated when her fingers clasped around the hilt of her dagger.
