Eleven

“Devyn, you aren’t supposed to leave the castle grounds!” Rainart called out as he chased after the princess.

She had taken off into the trees, urging Gideon on as quickly as the forest would allow. The horse quickly found a deer path and sped up, galloping eastward. “Catch me if you can!” she called over her shoulder, her braided hair snapping in the wind like a whip.

Rainart dug his heels into Bruno’s sides, pushing him to go faster. It was of little use. The stallion that Devyn had chosen moved like lightning as if he found the speed as exhilarating as she so clearly did.

As exasperated as he was with her sudden change of plans, Rainart couldn’t help but admire Devyn as he trailed behind her. The joy she felt was etched over her features, making her appear even more beautiful than she already was, something he hadn’t thought possible. She was radiant; it was almost like she was glowing from within.

He lost himself in his thoughts and allowed Bruno to follow at his own pace. He soon realized his mistake when, after a few minutes of daydreaming, he looked up to find that Devyn and Gideon were nowhere in sight. He called out for the princess but was only met with the sounds of chirping birds and the footfalls of his horse.

“Shit.” He cursed as he steered Bruno to the right, scanning the ground for Gideon’s tracks.

Devyn rode with her eyes closed for some time, inhaling the familiar scent of the forest deep into her lungs. She felt free for the first time in so long. In these woods, she didn’t have to be the Crown Princess, the obedient granddaughter, or anyone but herself.

Gideon slowed his pace, and Devyn looked around. Rainart was gone. She began to call his name when her eyes landed on a small structure, almost completely concealed by trees and shrubs. She yanked on the reins, dismounting from Gideon before the horse had even fully come to a stop. She hastily tied the reins around a low hanging tree branch and walked forward alone.

It was a house—her house. The cottage she had shared with her mother for most of her life. It had become so shabby looking in the four years since she’d seen it last. When Aristea had died, Valda had a squad of court guards come to retrieve Devyn’s clothes and other personal belongings. She had never come back.

A lump formed in Devyn’s throat and she felt like she could hardly breathe. She got to the front door and touched the frame lightly as if too much pressure would fracture it. Her eyes stung with a sudden welling of hot tears and she didn’t try to keep them from spilling down her cheeks. She had missed this place. She missed what the cottage represented—the time before her life had been plunged into chaos. The time before her heart had been consumed by grief. The time when she felt like she knew who she was.

Devyn grasped the doorknob and pushed, and the door gave way with a soft creaking sound. The guards who had come for her things must not have locked up behind them. Some small part of her crackled with irritation.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light in the cottage. The air was stagnant and dust particles floated around, catching in the available sunlight streaking through the dirty windows. Everything else looked the same as it had the day she had left, as if time had stopped. The kitchen table still had two teacups sitting on its surface, the liquid long since evaporated. The image of Lothar sitting with her, nervous and awkward, flashed through her mind and she smiled a little at the thought.

Devyn stepped a little farther into the kitchen, taking in all that she had been forced to leave behind. Tears continued to fall from her eyes in steady streams and she ignored them. A cabinet stood against the wall, the door ajar. She opened it and found the collection of herbs she had grown and dried herself, sitting in neat rows on the shelves inside small cork stoppered jars. The jars were labeled; Thyme, Lemon Balm, Rosemary, Oregano, Lavender, Chamomile, Mint, and more.

She gingerly touched a jar full of dried sage leaves. Every label was written in her mother’s elegant script. She had wanted to assist Devyn somehow, but Devyn said the practice was more of a one-woman operation. When a crate full of glassware came from the palace one day, Aristea took it upon herself to write a label for each herb that Devyn had in her collection.

Devyn’s heart ached at the memory. She stepped back and glanced around, locating a leather bag on a hook near the door that she used to use when she foraged for mushrooms and wild garlic. She grabbed it and filled the sack with the jars. Even if the contents were no longer usable, she needed to have them with her again.

Setting the half-full bag on the table, she moved toward her old bedroom. She stood in the doorway and looked around, noting the open drawers in her dresser and the general disarray it had been left in. Her irritation grew; the men who were sent to gather her belongings had treated her home with little respect.

On the floor was the crimson fabric that was supposed to have become the drapes for her window, now sun bleached and dusty. The scissors she had borrowed from her mother’s desk lay abandoned next to it. Devyn picked them up, compelled to put them away where they belonged. She carried them across the hall into the study and placed them carefully inside the top drawer in Aristea’s desk.

The drawer caught on something when she went to close it. Devyn opened it again and attempted to push it shut. It stopped short again. Confused, she peered inside the drawer and noticed something hanging from the underside of the desktop at the back. She reached in, fumbling for whatever was jamming the drawer, and pulled out a small book.

She turned the book over in her hands, studying the worn canvas cover. It had definitely seen better days. She carefully flipped it open and saw that the pages were filled with Aristea’s handwriting. Dates were scrawled at the top of each page and there were doodles in the margins. It was a journal.

Devyn’s first instinct was to drop the journal like it was on fire. She had never been one to pry into her mother’s personal things, especially something as private as this, but something told her to look through the book anyway. She glanced down at the page the book had opened to and saw that it was written a few months before Aristea’s death.

March 11,

Today was a blessed reprieve from the pain. The weather was mild, so Devyn and I were able to take a walk through the forest around the cottage and she showed me some of her new favorite spots for foraging. She is so excited to get her garden started in the next couple of weeks. It’s delightful to watch her enthusiasm, but the knowledge that I won’t get to see that joy on her face for much longer is devastating. I can’t shake the dread I feel when I think about how she will essentially become an orphan at only sixteen.

Devyn read the passage three times before setting the book down and collapsing into the desk chair. She knew. Aristea knew she was going to die. But how? Devyn pulled the book to her and flipped through the pages, scanning them for any other mention of that knowledge. She stopped at an entry dated about a month later.

April 17,

Perhaps my death will be a welcome respite from the curse that is my magic. I will no longer have to endure the white-hot pain that sears my mind with every vision I receive. That is the only thing I think I am looking forward to.

I was assaulted by back-to-back visions this morning, meaning the Wolf is once again in the vicinity. He cannot help himself from getting near here, even though he does not yet understand why. The closer he is to the cottage, the more frequent my visions become. I don’t blame him, but I do wish he’d find some other business to occupy his time with.

Devyn hasn’t sensed him yet which is a relief. The longer my binding spell is in place over her, the better. She is safe as long she is powerless.

Devyn slammed the book shut. Visions? Binding spells? How much had Aristea been keeping from her?

“So, you finally found that little book.”

Devyn froze at the sound of the voice. Someone was standing in the doorway to the study, watching her. She looked up, recognizing Emmerich Conall immediately. He was still as devastatingly handsome as the first time she had seen him in the forest. His hair was longer now, almost past his shoulders, and he needed a shave, but it was him.

“What are you doing here, Wolf?” she spat, slowly rising from her seat.

Emmerich grinned, a wild sort of gleam igniting in his eyes. “Waiting for you to show up. It took you long enough.”

That was not the response Devyn had been expecting and it knocked her off her guard, “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Your mother told me you’d come eventually, and that you’d find that,” he said, pointing to the journal, “She made me promise that I’d be here when you did.”

“You’re lying.” Devyn ground out, venom lacing her words.

“I’m not,” he replied cooly.

“Why should I believe you? You’re a murderer. You killed my grandfather, you’ve been trying to kill my grandmother, and you probably killed Mama too.” she shot back, her temper threatening to get the better of her.

“I’ll ignore those baseless accusations for now, Red, but only because your mother asked me to be patient with you while you work all this out in that pretty head of yours,” Emmerich said, crossing the room to stand on the other side of the desk.

Devyn scoffed, “Baseless? You left a calling card at the scenes of your crimes!”

Emmerich howled with laughter, “You have grown up since we last spoke! That day in the woods, your fear was palpable, but now…You’ve got quite a backbone, talking back to me like this. I like it.”

“Why are you here, Wolf?” Devyn asked, scowling at the man before her.

“I already told you why. If you’re trying to catch your mother’s killer, you’ll want to hear what I have to say,” he said.

“Who’s to say I haven’t already caught him?” Devyn replied.

“Because the killer isn’t a ‘him’ at all, Red. It’s a ‘her’...Her Majesty, to be precise.” Emmerich crooned.

It was Devyn’s turn to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s what you’d have me believe? That my grandmother, the Queen of Malvan, killed her daughter?”

“That and much more, actually. It’s surely hard for you to fathom, but Granny isn’t the benevolent ruler she pretends to be. That woman wants power and will take it by any means necessary.” Emmerich said, his grey eyes going steely.

“Not a chance. She would never hurt her family! She grieved over Mama’s death. I was there, I saw it.” Devyn said, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. The accusations Emmerich was throwing around were absurd. Devyn would never believe that her grandmother was capable of murder, much less the murder of her only child. She seethed, itching to get her hands around his throat and squeeze the life from him. He was the one who killed her mother. He had to be. “I should kill you where you stand.”

Emmerich’s lips twitched upward, “Give it your best shot. Then you’ll be a murderer, just like me.”

Devyn stared at him. Was she truly prepared to take a life—even if it was to get justice for her mother? She wasn’t sure if she could live with that on her conscience. “Why are you doing this? Why try to turn me against the only family I have left?”

“I made a promise to Aristea,” Emmerich said, solemnly, “She sought me out before she died. She knew so much about me…it was unnerving. She knew that I had killed the Grand Duke, and why. She knew that my disdain for the royals was more than just petty grievances. She said that was exactly why she needed me. She knew her time was running out, and she was worried about you. The queen has been targeting anyone with magic in their blood for decades, eliminating them to consolidate their power and take it for herself. If there isn’t anyone with magical abilities in line for the throne, she gets to maintain her control of it.”

Devyn thought back to what she had read about how the laws of succession worked. If there was no suitable heir, the reigning monarch would be practically immortal—aging so slowly that they could rule for centuries.

“But I don’t have any magic,” she said almost under her breath.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Aristea did mention something about a binding spell, and that once your powers manifest, you’ll become a target as well.” Emmerich said, beginning to clean his nails with a dagger that he’d pulled from some unseen pocket.

Devyn’s lip twitched. She felt amused by the Wolf’s irreverence though she’d never admit it to him. “So, what, she forced you to become her messenger on the off chance that I’d return here one day?”

Emmerich sighed as if having to explain everything was exhausting him, “Not ‘on the off chance’, Red. She knew you would come. Haven’t you figured it out yet? Your mother was a Seer.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Devyn had begun to suspect, based on the little bit of the journal she had been reading, but to hear her suspicions confirmed…She almost had to sit down again. Seer. The word tumbled around in her mind, forming connections between fragments of memories of her childhood.

“Why did she keep that from me?”

She didn’t know a lot about Seers, other than that they were exceedingly rare, but it made sense if she thought about it logically. Her mother had always seemed to be one step ahead of her. She could easily call out lies or spot some childish scheme that Devyn was plotting. She always seemed to know when they were about to get deliveries from town and when the really big storms were coming. Occasionally people would show up at their doorstep, begging to speak to her in private. She never turned them away or asked how they had found their home but would shut herself in her room for days after every such visit.

“That, I can’t answer. She didn’t share her reasons for everything.” Emmerich said.

Devyn shook her head as if she were trying to unscramble the mountain of information she had just heard. She looked to Emmerich again and found him staring at her intently. His gaze pinned her to the spot where she stood and she stared back, unable to peel her eyes from his face. Her heart beat furiously in her chest as if it were trying to escape.

Emmerich walked around the desk and stood directly in front of her, so close that she could see flecks of deep blue ringing the grey in his eyes as she tilted her head back to look up at him.

“She wanted me to keep you safe. I swore an oath to do so. No one will harm you as long as I draw breath.” he said, keeping his voice so low that it sounded more like a growl. “If you don’t believe me, take this.” He pulled a thick stack of parchment tied with string from a pouch on his hip and handed it to the princess.

She took the bundle and managed to tear her eyes away from Emmerich’s face to glance at it. The top piece of parchment had one word inscribed on it—her name—clearly written by Aristea herself. She felt tears sting at the back of her eyes once more, but she would not let them fall in front of the Wolf. She refused to be that vulnerable.

Gideon whinnied outside, and the sound broke the tension between them. Emmerich was out of the study in three long strides. Devyn grabbed her mother’s journal and followed behind him into the kitchen. Through the window, the figure of a man riding up on horseback came into view. Rainart had found the cottage.

Emmerich saw him too and darted for the open window along the rear wall.

“Where are you going? This isn’t done!” Devyn hissed.

“I’m pretty sure it is Red, at least for now,” he replied, looking over his shoulder at her.

She stalked up to him as he remained poised to climb through to the outside, “No. You are a villain! You tried to assassinate my grandmother—a good man took an arrow in the throat for me! The entire point of my trip into this damned forest was to find you and kill you.”

He pushed off of the window ledge and towered over Devyn, his nose an inch from hers. His eyes glittered with violence and he smirked, revealing a dimple.

“I may be a villain Princess, but I am not the one you are looking for this time. Read what I gave you if you don’t believe me and see if you change your mind.”

The front door creaked open, and Devyn spun around to find Rainart entering the room. She didn’t need to look back to know that Emmerich was already gone.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you Devyn.” Rainart rushed to her, cupping her face in his hands.

Devyn smiled up at him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that we’d been separated, and then I wound up here and I had to come in.”

He placed a quick kiss on her forehead and released her, “Is this where you used to live with your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell it was a beautiful place to grow up,” he replied softly, turning in place to take in the room.

Devyn grabbed the leather bag off the table and checked to make sure the herb jars were secure. She glanced down at her mother’s writings in her other hand and stuffed them into the bag as well. She hoped Rainart wouldn’t notice; it didn’t feel right for her to share the words written on the pages with anyone else.

“We need to go, or we won’t get back before nightfall.” the duke said as he moved toward the door.

Devyn nodded and slung the bag across her chest. She trailed behind him as they walked outside toward their horses. She looked over her shoulder, longing for one more look at her childhood home, and noticed what looked like the gleam of a pair of eyes watching her from the shadows of the tree line behind the cottage. She couldn’t say for sure, but she had a gut feeling that the eyes belonged to the Wolf.