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It’s strange to watch Wolf change, transforming from the easy-going mercenary I met to a powerful king. He may not remember it all but he is a king through and through, commanding, resourceful, thinking strategies and intrigues.
I’m both sad to see that joyfulness go and proud of him for stepping up. Privileged, to see who he really is. Who he was before the human world put its stamp on him.
And if his family and his counsellors really put a spell on him and sent him away... well my family has nothing on them. Talk about friends who are worse than your enemies.
I want to help him, help him untangle the spell, the curse, the tangled knot he’s caught in. But above all I want him to stop being in pain. I hope his idea with the poison will work. Last time it almost killed him. I remember him, only half-conscious in that farmer’s cave house, burning with fever all night.
What if he is right, though, and it weakens the spell, allowing him to remember, hopefully giving him clues to break the curse, too?
I watch one of the sages—Nekata of the dark eyes—sort her vials of poisons and potions on a wooden tray, her sisters—at least that’s how she calls them—watching impassively.
The Regent is locked up in his rooms, under guard, and Mathes and Kessil have been sent to a suite next door to rest. Wolf decided that it would be better if they weren’t here, in case something went wrong.
He tried to send me away too but I’m not budging from here. If anything goes wrong, this is exactly my place. I don’t trust anyone in here to have Wolf’s best interests at heart. Anyone but me.
“How did the palace take the news of my return?” Wolf asks the seneschal, pacing the room.
“Positively, Sire. You know I would always tell you the truth, good or bad. They were glad to hear of your return. The Lord Regent... he wasn’t a good fit for the throne. He collected all the wealth he could get his hands on, hoarded it for himself. Not a good image for the palace, Sire.”
“You must tell me in more detail,” Wolf says. “Later. You know about how I sent away from here. I’m having some trust issues with my counsellors, as you can see.”
A quick smile flits over the seneschal’s lean face. “I am at your command, Majesty.”
“Princess.” Wolf glances at me and I hurry to his side. He reaches out and I take his hand, sitting beside him. “Are you sure you want to be here for this?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “My question is, are you sure you want to do this? Maybe there is another way. A safer way.”
“Who should I ask? These are my sages.”
I turn to look at the three women. They are gazing at us with inscrutable looks on their faces. “Would they kill you?”
“They wouldn’t,” Wolf says confidently, certainly aware that his voice carries over to them. “They claim that my being here is better than my being away or dead, that there is a chance of lifting the curse and that they need me alive for that.”
The three of them bow stiffly from the shoulders, as if in reply.
“Here is the horned lion poison,” Nekata says, lifting a silver cup from her tray and approaching, stepping so lightly she looks like she’s gliding across the floor, her long purple robe dragging behind her, her unlined face calm, her eyes old and cunning. “Drink as much as you need, Your Majesty, not a drop more.”
“And how will I know how much I need to drink?” he asks, taking the cup from her.
“As much as you need to remember,” she says. “That is not something I can tell you. This is not a precise antidote to magic.”
“You put the spell on him,” I say. “Don’t you have a way to break the spell instead of risking your sovereign’s life?”
“The spell is permanent,” she says, not even bothering with a bow or other sign of respect for me. Her cool gaze glides over me just like she glided over the floor, leaving to tracks. “There is no way to break it. A sacrifice was made to seal it.”
Permanent. The word chills me to the bone. “Who did you kill, then?”
“Nobody you know.”
“You may be sentencing him to death.”
“He commanded us to give him this poison.”
“I think Mina meant the spell you put on me.” Wolf stares into the cup and waves a dismissive hand at her. “You’ve done enough, counselor. More than enough. Let’s hope I can undo some of the damage you have wrought in your so-called wisdom.”
Her face twists with fury, her sisters’ faces mirroring the expression. They move and act as one person. It’s slightly disturbing.
I don’t trust them at all. “It doesn’t matter if the poison works or not on the memories, not if it kills him. What I am asking is how much he can take without dying from it, something you must know.”
“Poisons are unpredictable,” Nekuba of the silver eyes says. “It depends under what moon phase it was gathered.”
“How big and how old was the lion,” Nekina of the blue eyes says.
“How strong the king’s constitution is.”
“I’m strong,” Wolf says, lifting the cup as if for a toast. “Don’t worry about me.”
I jerk, reaching for the cup. “Wolf wait—”
“In for a penny, in for a pound.” He grins at me. “Isn’t that what you humans say?” And tipping the cup up, he swallows its contents.
Gods above. I stare at him, feeling the blood draining from my face. “What have you done?”
“What I had to do. While we’re at it,” he says, wiping at this mouth with the back of his hand, turning back toward the sages, “maybe you can explain to me what the ink on my arms means.”
“Ink?” The three of them echo the question.
“Let me show you before the poison sinks in its claws.”
I watch him shrug off his pale gray overcoat and unbutton his white vest that’s embroidered with black branches, too shocked to move and help him. His eyes are feverish bright, though the poison can’t have entered his blood yet—can it? Impatiently, he throws off the vest, then grabs and pulls his shirt off.
Everyone in the room is staring at him. I notice some aborted movements toward us—like mine. By the time I’ve gathered my wits and made a move to help him undress, he’s standing up, gloriously bare-chested, spreading out his arms. I don’t know if the sages and the servants and the officials lining the walls are noticing what he’s showing them—the glowing inked words on his arms—not if they like the male sex, like me. His body is sculpted as if by the gods themselves, muscular arms and a cut chest, a deep vee leading into his gray britches which are tucked into his tall black boots. With his head bent, silvery hair falling in his face, his expressive mouth and those upswept ears, he looks too beautiful to be real.
Maybe I’m still dreaming on my narrow bed in the tower, waiting for death to sweep me away, dreaming that he came for me, saved me. Maybe he is death, too beautiful to contemplate, too much for my mind to grasp.
But why would I then be lost in this elaborate fantasy where his life and his kingdom are at stake? The ache in my hands where my nails are biting into my palms is all too real.
“Sire.” Nekuba glides closer. “This bespelled ink on you, who put it there?”
“Mirror of the land,” Nekina whispers, approaching as well. “Sword of color. Ball of fire.”
“Beautifully wrought,” Nekata says. “Who is the artist?”
Wolf lowers his arms, eyes narrowing, head tipping back. “I thought you might tell me, though I suppose that giving me clues to help me figure this out doesn’t really make much sense. You never expected me to come back.”
“I told you, we—”
“Yeah, I know. Supposedly you would have brought me back had you known where I was. Funny that sages with such power couldn’t ferret out that I was gone from this world.”
“Majesty.” All three bow stiffly from the waist up. “It is the truth.”
“Blast your truth.” Wolf’s eyes blaze. His hands curl into powerful fists. I wonder if he’d use them to punch these unhelpful priestesses or whatever their role really is across the room.
My own fists itch to do the same—but I throw my shoulders back instead and step between them. “Those words. What do they mean?”
“Mirror of the land, Sword of—”
“Yes, I heard that, but what do they actually mean? Why have them inked on him?”
“Could be the incantation for a spell,” Nekata says but looks dubious. “Three objects, three spins of power. But what for?”
“No answers, then,” Wolf mutters, staggering back a step. His face, I notice with alarm, is pale. “What did I expect? There are never any answers...”
“Wolf!”
The seneschal and the other officials move toward him but Wolf waves a hand at them. “Go away. I want only Mina by my side. I...” He staggers, grabs the edge of a table not to fall. “My room. Now.”
“Wolf.” I rush to his side, sick with worry. He reaches for me, slings an arm over my shoulders. “What should I do?”
“A chance for you to undress me,” he whispers conspiratorially and winks, his eyes feverishly bright. “What do you think?”
“I’m flattered,” I mutter, “but shouldn’t we bring the three sages with us? The poison—”
“I don’t trust them,” he whispers way too loudly.
“Wolf—”
“Let’s away, my betrothed, to our bed.”
Oh, my Gods, I’m going to strangle him. “Stop acting a scene from a play and tell me what I should do.”
“Accompany me, that’s all.” He’s sagging against me, over me, his tall frame heavy with muscle, dragging us both down. “Uh, I don’t feel so good... Fuck.”
“Seneschal!” I meet his wide gaze and gesture. “Come help us.”
“But... his Majesty told me to go...”
“His Majesty has been poisoned and needs your help. Only you, no other. Help me carry him to his rooms.”
“My lady.” He bows quickly and hurries over. “Allow me.”
He takes up Wolf’s other side and I heave a sigh of relief when the weight becomes more manageable and I’m allowed to straighten.
I don’t know why I trust the seneschal. It’s a gut feeling telling me that he won’t slip a dagger through Wolf’s ribs when I’m turned the other way. I feel that he was glad to see the king return to the throne.
Not that I trust him fully, of course. No courtier worth her salt would ever bestow her full confidence on anyone, not even her own family. But seeking allies is also a courtier’s skill, learned over the years, a honed homing instinct, small details about a person’s behavior giving clues as to whether they might be inclined to help as opposed to killing you.
A useful skill.
And we need allies here. So far, Wolf’s only remaining family member has proven the cause of Wolf’s exile and his sages the executioners of the plan.
Together with the seneschal, we carry Wolf to his room, kicking the door open, startling his guards.
“Call Mathes here,” I tell them before closing the door to their faces.
Wolf’s knees buckle and it’s only thanks to the seneschal’s strength that we remain standing. “To the bed!” the seneschal says and I nod, dragging Wolf toward it. “Surely we should call for a healer.”
“No healer,” Wolf growls. “I need to remember... remember everything.”
“Remember?” The Seneschal maneuvers Wolf onto the huge bed, grunting when his grip slips and we almost go to the floor together. “Remember what?”
“He’s lost most of his memories,” I say as we lay Wolf down on the bed. I swing his long legs up. “The poison is meant to help him recover them.”
“Now I understand.” The seneschal stands there, hunched over, his thin face grim. His fingers tap on his doublet. “The more I hear about this story, and more convoluted it becomes. The Regent... he was never beloved by the people or the palace people, but I never imagined that he might have orchestrated such a coup.”
That’s why I have put my trust in this seneschal. He blurts out things like this in the presence of a person like myself, wears his heart on his sleeve, speaks his mind.
Or else he’s the one with the convoluted plan and extraordinary acting abilities. If so, more the fool me for believing his sincerity.
“What is your name?” I ask as I pull on Wolf’s boots, trying to make him more comfortable. He’s mumbling something unintelligible under his breath, twin spots of color on his cheekbones. Sweat beads his brow.
“I am Lord Myrin. Please call me by my given name, though, Sil.”
“Sil. Pleased to make your formal acquaintance.”
“It’s an honor, my lady. So, His Majesty has taken horned lion poison hoping to remember what he has forgotten because he is under a lethe spell?”
“That appears to be the case, yes.”
“Horned lion poison is nasty stuff.”
Remembering Wolf’s previous experience with it, I have to agree. “Very nasty.”
“Do you think that when his memory returns, he will know how to break the curse on the land?”
“I believe that is his hope,” I say, though if Wolf already knew the answer to the riddle, he’d have probably lifted the curse before he was exiled.
“Then we must hope the same,” he says quietly, briefly glancing at the door when it opens, revealing a frowning Mathes, his son in tow. “Nothing else will do.”
***
I think of his words as Wolf tosses and turns on the bed, drenched in sweat, as I keep cold compresses to his brows and squeeze his hand when he seems caught in a nightmare. Despite his decision and my resolve, I come close to asking Sil to call for the healer anyway a couple of times.
The day fades into night and then back into dawn, and Wolf is still burning up. He has thrown up a few times, and what came out of him is black. It doesn’t look good.
Nothing is looking good right now. It doesn’t seem worth it.
Those memories can’t be worth his life.
“Damn, Wolf,” I whisper, sitting beside him on the bed, holding his limp hand and listening to his labored breathing while the seneschal wets another cloth in water for a compress and Mathes paces. “You and your brilliant ideas.”
The golden ink on his arms seems to slither and twist.
The wolf on his chest—now bare, glistening with sweat—seems to move.
I fall asleep by his side, my head pillowed on my arm, as the sun rises in the pink sky.
***
The dream is one I’ve been having for a long time now. I dream of Faerie again, of the long road, of a white tower in the distance. White birds crow overhead—crows but made of ice crystals, crystal feathers raining down on me, rattling on the frozen ground.
Fear grips my chest. Time is running through my fingers like fine sand, like water. I’m late, so late, and behind me run snow wolves, ruby tongues lolling, yellow eyes gleaming.
Coming for me.
Not sure if I’m running away from them or running toward the tower. Is the tower my sanctuary? Then why does the fear become stronger the closer I get to the structure?
I have a satchel slung over my chest and in it are three important items I need for my mission and it’s magic. It’s all magic, and I need to get there in time, otherwise I will forever regret it, otherwise I will forget what was important.
I lift my hand and flames are dancing on my fingertips, a ring gleaming on my middle finger, the gem crowing it is on fire.
Burn, I think. Set it all on fire. Melt the ice. Burn the witch.
But as I run down the road, my satchel thumping against my side, the wolves behind me and the tower piercing the sky ahead, I see the ice crumple and with it all my hopes.