Page 132 of A Dance with the Fae Prince (Married to Magic 2)
Chapter 38
I thoughtI would depart for the human world immediately. But Davien has been so busy that it’s been logistically untenable for that to happen. He’s insisted that he will be the one to escort me when we ultimately return. For that reason, neither Shaye, nor Oren, nor Giles, nor Hol has been given permission to take me across the Fade, causing the delay.
Miraculously, I’m still doing fine in Midscape. They ask me regularly how I’m feeling. But after a good night’s rest, the weariness from recapturing the High Court has vanished from my bones. Food still has taste, too. All this fascinates Vena. She eats with me at almost every meal now, asking relentless questions about every single flavor. Once, she even tried to test me by serving me food that was laced with an intense spice. I passed that test, much to my annoyance.
The current theory is that the ancient kings’ magic was in me for so long that a bit wore off on me. It gives Davien unexpected hope that perhaps I could stay. Vena tries to curb that, but to no avail. Davien still seems to think that he’ll find a way to grant me the ability to live in Midscape with the power of ancient kings reigniting the old human magics, hidden within me, languished from living in the Natural World.
Yet despite all this, I know the truth. I know what’s going to ultimately happen. And I’ve been bracing myself for it every day. If anything, my time here is becoming more torturous than fantasy. It is growing harder and harder to wake up next to him in the mornings, knowing that I will have to leave him. Returning to the Natural World will be a kindness when it finally happens.
During the day, Davien is busy with the relentless parade of fae coming to try on the crown. Each claim is more ridiculous than the last. Initially, I stand in the main hall as part of the audience. Watching each man and woman come up to explain how they were somehow, tangentially, possibly related to the Aviness bloodline. The tenuous relations are almost as ridiculous as their stories about how they were “lost to history” and “came to remember their calling.”
Davien listens dutifully—more patient than I could ever be—and then invites them up onto the dais with him. The man or woman sits on the throne, and Davien lowers the crown onto their brow. Time after time, it falls to the floor. Naturally, I quickly grow bored of watching this farce, and begin to explore the castle instead. I’m not going to wait around as he places the glass crown on every fae in the kingdom.
But distaste for their disrespect of the glass crown and all Davien suffered to finally achieve it isn’t the sole reason that I begin to wander.
Something is haunting me, chasing me. It has been in my darkest dreams. It is a memory that fades more and more with each passing day, as though it wants to be forgotten again. Part of me wants to forget. But the other part of me remembers that second of clarity I gained during the fall.
That’s how I ended up back in the king’s chambers—the one place that has yet to be changed from how Boltov left it.
That’s how I ended up here, staring out the shattered window, heart pounding. Shaye found Boltov’s body later that night. He has crossed the Veil and into the Beyond. But the ghost of him remains. The memories he forced me to confront seared in my mind.
I bite my thumbnail, worrying it with my teeth. I don’t want to remember. But I have to. This night has haunted me for years and I am on the cusp of recalling something that feels so incredibly important. My back aches again as I stare out and into the sky.
“Remember what?” I curse and storm away from the window. How can my memories become distorted like this? What happened that was so bad my own mind refuses to allow me to recall the details? Why is this truth just out of my grasp?
I pace the room, frustration rising with every turn until I end up punching one of the bookcases with a grunt. As I massage my stinging knuckles, my eyes turn up to the books. I run a finger over the spines, catching in an empty hole where a tome is missing.
On each of the spines the symbol of Aviness is emblazoned. The eight-pointed star over the glass crown ringed in lilies. I run my finger lightly down the stretched leather, coming to a pause on the crown. Like this, the upmost spears of the glass crown’s outline look almost like a mountain.
“No, it can’t be…” I breathe.
“What can’t be?” I jump, spinning to see Davien. He approaches, hands folded behind his back. Even without the crown, he has the trimmings of a king. His movements become more regal by the day.
“I… You’re done early,” I manage to say.
“I can’t stand another person coming into these hallowed halls, spewing their half-truths and half-baked claims of legitimacy.” He runs a hand through his hair as he comes to a stop beside me. “I waited for decades for the opportunity to assume that throne. I trained, and I struggled, and I fought, for the chance to bring peace and prosperity to our people. To see these individuals come out of the woodwork with no comprehension of what it is that they’re trying to assume—”
I rest a hand on his shoulder gently, stopping him before he can get too worked up. “You could always stop the search,” I needlessly remind him. “And rule as you were meant to.”
“Eventually, the Aviness heir would be found. Eventually, some son or daughter would learn of their bloodline and come to claim the throne. It is better to find them now, when I can teach them, when I hold the respect of the people and can give the throne graciously to ensure a smooth transition of power. I will find them no matter what it takes.”
I shake my head. “And that is why you are the king that they don’t deserve.”
“The bar was set fairly low when I assumed this position.”
“And whenever you leave, it will be set far higher.”
“What would I do without your encouragement?” He gives me a loving smile. Before I can answer he asks, “Now, what ‘can’t be’? And why have you come here?” Davien sniffs as if the air offends him. “It still reeks of usurpers.”
“I…” I run my fingers along the journals. My fingers catch in the grooves of the embossing on the spine. I remember my mother’s book, its worn-away title and fraying binding. “When I fell with Boltov…I had a memory of that day.”
“What day?”
“The last time I fell,” I whisper.
“The day you and Helen fell off the roof?” Davien rests a palm between my shoulder blades, over the scar.
“Yes.” The word is gummy.
