Fist of the Furor (10 page)

Freemont stiffened. “I can’t relinquish my half of the dragon pendant. It would spell certain destruction for this kingdom.”

Lochlen’s head rose. “It would also mean war with the dragons.”

Prince Arien’s face went red, his thin, frail looking hands clutching his wife’s shoulders. “My son, Father. It’s my son.”

“Don’t you think I know that!” the king bellowed.

He marched to his throne, his body lowering wearily. “My grandson and the future heir,” Freemont murmured. His eyes swept the room. “The measure of a good ruler isn’t how much blood is on his hands. The measure of a good ruler is how much of his own pain he is able to endure for the greater good.” His gaze stopped on Cadeyrn. “Even when the pain is unintended.”

I was beginning to learn that sometimes being a hero also meant giving up family. It was the loneliest feeling in the world. While I’d found companionship in battle, Prince Cadeyrn and King Freemont were pushing away their families. There was hatred in the eyes of the royalty. Whether it was directed at me or at the king was beyond me, but either way, it didn’t bode well.

Chapter 12

That night, the dream began. This dream was different from the grief-stricken, blood-filled nightmares I’d been having since coming to Sadeemia. It was different from the visions I had about Kye, the ones where he lay dying in a tent in the Ardus, his leg full of poison. Those dreams woke me up in the middle of the night, my shift soaked in sweat. No, this new dream never filled me with terror or pain. The new dream was a quiet dream that filled me with peace.

The first night it came to me, I dreamt simply of mist, a curling mist that stole over my prostrate body until it cloaked me like a shroud. It hugged me, the pressure more comforting than startling. When I woke, I was covered in moisture, but it wasn’t sweat and it wasn’t tears.

“A dream?” Oran asked.

Staring down at my body, I nodded, words escaping me. I was trapped in the fog’s arms.

The next night, the dream came again. Mist curled up from the floor, climbing the side of my bed until it covered me. It had more substance than it had the night before, a pair of wispy fingers reaching for me in the dark. I woke to rivulets of condensation rolling down my cheeks, the faint feel of phantom fingers on my skin.

By the third night, the mist had become a lithe figure that paced my dark room before leaning over me. Its void face peered down into my eyes, a transfixing wall of wispy white that knelt closer and closer and closer, its hand rising. I woke gasping for breath. I’d felt no malice in the spirit, but it disconcerted me.

Weariness weighed me down. I walked the castle halls with circles smudging my eyes. In training, I was clipped by a sword because I wasn’t quick enough to block it. My arrows missed their targets. I found myself asking people to repeat their conversations. Nothing mattered except the mist in my dreams. The constant talk of war and the sound of arguing nobles as they entered and exited the war rooms meant nothing.

“Maybe it’s the lingering effect of wyver poison?” Maeve asked, her worried gaze following me.

The king’s guards shadowed me, their lips thin, their gazes burning with a ferocity that should have frightened me. But the mist distracted me. I noticed nothing and no one. There were rumors that the prince hadn’t visited Gabriella or Catriona’s chambers since the consummation. The news should have been oddly pleasing, but I couldn’t make myself care.

“She should be locked away,” Gabriella continued to argue.

I didn’t protest. Her threats were becoming more vocal, her rants heard throughout the castle. There was a fight with Cadeyrn. Horrible yelling that ended with broken trinkets and a knife plunged through the prince’s bed. Some said jealousy was triggering insanity in the princess. It wasn’t jealousy, it was a need for power. And yet, nothing touched me. Nothing.

It was on the fourth night that I woke to find a woman sitting on the side of my bed. Parts of her were nothing but mist. Other parts were more corporeal, her long body cloaked in a green-hued dress. The garment was too transparent for me to know where it began and where it ended. She had a pretty face, her eyes wide and full of understanding. Although she appeared young, she had untamed, silver hair with a garland of wild flowers resting on the crown of her head.

“Hello, Drastona,” she breathed.

Her voice was so beautiful, I found myself weeping tears of joy. It was a drug, her voice. It sounded like a meadow full of waving flowers should smell, it sounded like the way Lochlen’s scales looked when they gleamed in the sun, and it sounded like the way honey should taste on the tongue, heavy and saccharine. Her voice filled the senses. It was a sweet sort of freedom.

Sitting up, I glanced at Oran, but he slept soundly next to me, his fur relaxed. The woman’s elegant, long fingers hovered over the wolf, her mist-like grip suddenly digging into his fur. He still didn’t stir.

“They are beautiful, my creatures,” the woman said.

I gawked. “
Your
creatures?”

Her full red lips curved, the smile transforming her face, making it so strikingly beautiful I had to fight not to look away. Tears flooded from my eyes, soaking my cheeks, my neck, and my shift.

“You know who I am,” the woman insisted.

A vice-like grip settled around my heart. “Silveet,” I whispered. It couldn’t be.

The woman shrugged. “I am many names, my child. Did you think I would not come to you? Did you think I wouldn’t visit the one mortal who can speak to what I command?”

The gods and goddesses of my nation were said to be beautiful, but they were also said to be dangerous. Once touched by the gods, there was no escape from servitude.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

Silveet stood, her green dress transforming, becoming white gossamer lace that did nothing to hide her nudity. Even as translucent as she was, I felt my cheeks heat.

The goddess laughed. “You are too modest, child. Look at me. I come here not to shame you or to embarrass you. I come here to warn you.”

I stiffened, dread causing me to shiver. “I’m in danger then?”

“You are my daughter in many ways. Your blood carries ancient powers, powers great enough to bring great destruction or wonderful peace. But you belong to more than one god, Drastona. You belong to three. Remember, it is often powers we overlook that grant us the means for greatness.”

Three gods?

I stared. “Will I save my people?” I asked her.

Again, she laughed. “You assume too much. And so you have read the prophecy. Mortals are such literal beings.” Her chuckles grew, and with them my weeping increased. Silveet paused, her gaze suddenly meeting mine. She had piercing eyes the color of gold. They were frightening. For a moment, I didn’t see her as a protector, but as a destroyer. “Your destiny has yet to be written. You overtax yourself.”

The woman was fading, her misty figure sweeping toward my bed, the only visible thing left in the fog was her eyes. They glowed.

“I warn you, child, there are many things yet to come. In war, much is misunderstood. Power is often misrepresented. Look to the dragons. Rule as a queen would rule.”

She was almost gone when she whispered, “You are not the phoenix.”

I woke to my own sobs.

Part II

Chapter 13

For three days, I stayed in bed. I was completely and utterly crushed, full of overwhelming loss, grief, and betrayal. At first, it was easy to pretend I stayed in my room because of the wound in my thigh. There were whispers about me in the castle, some of them horrid, others making me into something I could never be.

My thoughts were consumed with the words of a goddess.
“You are not the phoenix.”

I didn’t expect to feel so much grief over those words. After all, hadn’t I fought against the idea from the beginning? And yet, we as a condemned people had lost so much over the assumption that I was the girl of prophecy, that I would lift them out of slavery and set them free. I’d begun to believe I was the one. The forest had crowned me their queen.

Sitting up in bed, I leaned over, my fist in my stomach and tears streaking down my cheeks.
So many deaths; all because of me.
I couldn’t bear it. I knew books. I knew words. In all of the epic, heroic adventures I’d ever read, the hero led his people to triumph, gave them hope, and gave them their happily ever after. I couldn’t recall a single one where halfway through the adventure, the hero discovers he isn’t their savior.

Oran paced in front of me, his claws clicking against the wooden floor. I hadn’t spoken in three days.

“It’s more than the wound, isn’t it?” Oran asked. I glanced at him, but said nothing. “You’ve got to come back to us, Phoenix. We leave soon.”

Horror filled me. “Don’t call me that!”

Oran backed away from me. “The phoenix?”

My hands covered my face, and I wept. How long I sat there is beyond me, but there was a sudden dip in the bed. An arm fell across my shoulders, and I fell into the cool, familiar chest. Lochlen never made any noise. I breathed him in. He smelled like smoke and fire.

“This isn’t the girl who survived a wyver attack and faced off with a king,” Lochlen murmured.

I looked up at him. Out of everyone, only Lochlen had ever doubted I was the chosen one. It was his doubt that made me tell him.

“I’m not the phoenix,” I confessed. “I’m not who everyone thinks I am.”

His reptilian eyes dilated, but other than that, there was no reaction. “Something happened.”

I nodded. “The goddess came to me.
Silveet
came to me.”

Oran gasped from his place on the floor. I couldn’t make myself look at him.

Lochlen touched my cheek, his cool skin even colder against the heat of tears. “Tell me everything.”

And I did; from the misty dreams to Silveet’s sudden appearance. Four nights. One devastating realization.

Lochlen froze. “Have you asked yourself what you are, Stone? If you are not the phoenix, then what are you?”

I stared. “So many deaths,” I whispered.

Lochlen sighed. “A forest crowned you queen. A goddess came to you.
You
. So, you are not the phoenix. Look past that. Look at what else she told you. You carry the power of three gods. She told you to rule, that your power could bring great devastation or great peace. Don’t walk away from that because you suddenly discover you are not a savior. You still have rebels to lead.”

I gawked. “I can’t deceive them, Lochlen.”

He grinned. “You are not deceiving them. You’re leading them. You’ve never claimed to be anything other than who you are. The forest and the people gave you the title of phoenix. You filled that role for them. You’ve given them hope. All we can do now is heed
the goddess’s warning and continue
to fight. There is much more at stake than a prophecy.”

I slumped against Lochlen, the burden I’d carried the past few days shared now with him.

Oran jumped onto the bed. “You are the forest’s champion,” he said fiercely. “You are our phoenix.”

My fingers found his fur, and I gripped it, a sudden realization falling over me. “I’m not the cause of the prince’s death.” My head snapped up. “I’m not the one who will destroy Cadeyrn or the infant heir.”

Lochlen’s gaze stayed on my face. Hope filled me. I wasn’t going to be responsible for the fall of a prince, but there was still someone out there who would be.

I didn’t know who I was anymore. It was a humbling feeling, to suddenly lose an identity I’d just begun to grasp. I had to reinvent myself. Give myself a purpose. I was Queen of the Forest, the daughter of
Sadeemia’s
Minister of Government, the leader of a group of condemned people, and I was a scribe with the powers of a mage. It was oddly empowering to be so much and yet not be the one thing people assumed I was. The goddess had said my destiny had yet to be written. It was freeing knowing that my life was not yet planned. I was a rebel fighting for freedom.

I stood. “Remember, it is often powers we overlook that grant us the means for greatness.”

Lochlen rose. “Take that with you,” he said. “You are great on your own, Stone. Not because of a prophecy. I’m not giving up on you. I’m not sure how, but your life is too entwined with Medeisia’s turmoil not to be tied to the prophecy somehow.”

Oran sat up. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

I looked at them. “I feel so small,” I whispered.

Lochlen ruffled my hair. “You’re only as small as you let yourself feel.” He gestured at my shift, his nose wrinkling. “Now go! Bathe and change. There is much to do.”

He walked away from me, his auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight streaming in from my partially open window.

“Thank you,” I told him.

He paused and glanced back at me. His eyes suddenly reminded me of Silveet’s, a sinister gold that could destroy as quickly as it protected.

“You’ve achieved so much,” he said. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

I swallowed the tears of gratitude. I’d cried enough.