Page 39 of Dreams and Dragon Wings (Clean Fairytales for Adults #2)

Aurelia

I dare not sleep. I so desperately want to sleep—to return to the strange garden, to be with Bene even if only in my dreams—but I cannot bring myself to do so.

Not with time so feverishly working against us.

I shift my weight from foot to foot as I stand before the hearth, letting its warmth fight off the natural chill of Umbra Castle.

Restless energy roils through me. I need to pace.

To bounce my leg. But the chains still shackled to my ankles ensure that even those small movements are utterly exhausting prospects.

And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to wield the Earth required to free myself from their clasp.

Rowan , I whisper within the darkness of my mind for the fifth time, desperately trying to reach my unlikely goblin ally. " Believing you can is the first step to weaving ." That is what Bene said.

I don’t yet know what the other steps are, but I am determined to find out.

I picture the brown-skinned creature in my mind, carefully forming every detail: his sharp teeth, his leathery skin, his sorrowful, yellow eyes, his pitiful, scraggly hair.

With his image firmly fixed, I imagine plucking up a thread of Mind, fastening one end to my own thoughts, and firing the other end toward him—a shooting star filled with intent.

“Rowan!”

The doors to my bedroom crack open, revealing a glimpse of the goblin’s narrow face. “There’s no need to shout, Therya’fey, ” he croaks, sounding perturbed.

My heart flutters. It worked! It actually worked.

Oh, I can’t wait to tell Bene. He will be so proud to hear I have managed to weave another element…

That was dream Bene , I remind myself, my mood dampening.

Real Bene does not hold me in his lap and kiss away my tears.

I raise my hands to my face and rub my fingers against my temples, warding off another headache. Everything is becoming so muddled.

“Is Ghoul with you?” I mouth soundlessly, afraid to ask the question aloud.

Rowan narrows his eyes, shaking his head.

My excitement returns. Finally, my luck is looking up.

“Come in,” I implore when he remains lingering at the door, merely squinting at me. “I need your help with something.”

The goblin grunts, suspicion still pinching his features. After a few more moments of hesitation, he finally shambles into the room and shuts the door behind him.

Baring his sharp fangs at me in an expression that is either supposed to be a smile or a grimace, he rasps, “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to ask me to do something that’ll get me killed?”

I wince. “Probably because I need you to weave Earth for me to unmake my shackles.”

“Can’t help you, Therya’fey ,” he claims without even pausing to consider. “I can’t weave Earth.”

“Yes, you can,” I gently counter. “Or do you mean to tell me another goblin infused an Earth weave into the salve you stole from Malice?”

Rowan stares at me for all of a heartbeat before turning on his heel and grasping the doorknob, preparing to go.

“Wait!” I cry out, louder than intended.

He freezes.

“Please, Rowan… I need your help.” I wring my hands together, as if that motion alone might help me conjure up the words I need to convince this creature that he should endanger his own well-being for my sake.

But why should he?

I have no answer. Rowan owes me nothing.

If anything, I owe him.

That thought bubbles up within my thoughts and sticks, refusing to be ignored.

I owe Rowan. I need to help him somehow.

“But you’ve already helped me so much,” I whisper, my shoulders slumping. I was so wrapped up in my own needs that I forgot to think of his. “I can’t possibly ask you for more. But I…” A humorless laugh escapes me. “I have no one else to ask. You’re the last friend I have.”

Without looking at me, Rowan croaks, “Goblins don’t have friends.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Is Ghoul not your friend, then? He teases you as a friend might.”

“No.” Turning back to face me, he sighs and folds his too-long arms over his chest. “He teases me like a little brother. Because that’s what he is.”

“Oh…” My eyebrows knit together. “But then, why did you help me before if you do not wish to be my friend?”

Rowan’s mouth works. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Because,” he says as if the words are being forcefully pulled from his throat, “you remind me of better times. Happier times.” He looks away from me and stares at the hearth. “Back when we all had green-names and the land was alive.”

“The Flora Vale,” I whisper.

Rowan’s attention snaps back to me, his expression horrified. “We can’t speak that name.”

Surprise and indignation flare within me on his behalf. He and his people cannot even utter the former name of their home?

I thin my lips. “I imagine there are a great many things you are not allowed to do.”

Rowan nods, silent now.

My eyebrows raise. “Like weaving?”

The goblin hisses, shooting a look toward the closed bedroom doors. “No. We’re never allowed to do that.”

The absurdity of it all sees me flinging my hands into the air. Here stands an Earth weaver—a weave Malice cannot touch—and Malice does not even allow Rowan to… weave for his benefit?

“That’s ridiculous,” I utter aloud.

Solemnly, Rowan rasps, “ Na’theryn does not like to share power.”

There is a weight to his words this time, as if he’s trying to warn me of something.

A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over me, leaving me too tired to stand and most certainly too tired to drag my weary bones and chains all the way to the bed. I settle myself on the floor instead, wincing when the shackles scrape against my ankles again.

I will have to use more of my precious salve later.

“What time is it?” I ask, fighting against a yawn.

Rowan eyes me warily. “Late. Therya’fey should rest.”

Yes. Rest. That sounds so lovely right now. I could drift off in mere moments. I could be wrapped back up in dream Bene’s arms. Perhaps this time, he will even kiss me properly…

“I’m not tired,” I proclaim, silencing my thoughts before they can spiral out of control. That is an utter falsehood. I am so terribly tired.

But I must take advantage of this opportunity while I can. Rowan and I are never alone.

“Are you marching out with the troops tomorrow?” I pry, wondering just how deeply I can dig before he stops answering my questions.

This one, at least, is deemed safe enough given his grunt and easy reply of, “No.”

A small relief to know I will not be losing my last ally in the morning.

I decide to try my luck with a more prickly question.

Drawing my legs against my chest, I rest my chin atop my knee and ask, “Why have you made Malice your king anyway? He seems terribly rude to you, calling you Grime instead of Rowan.”

Rowan winces. “ Therya’fey is the only one who uses my green-name.”

So many other questions rattle through my mind.

What is a green-name, anyway?

Why do the goblins no longer use them?

What happened to the Flora Vale?

But I don’t voice a single one. I remain silent, watching, waiting for my goblin friend to speak further. I somehow know, deep in my heart, that this piece of information is vital. An important piece to the puzzle of what I’m supposed to do next.

After a time, Rowan groans and settles himself onto the floor as well, as if his hunched body is too heavy for him to carry a moment longer.

He sits in front of the doors, his back leaning against the wood as he rasps, “King Malice is the only one who wanted us.”

I sit up straight, a frown pulling at my lips. “But I thought Malice corrupted you into what you are now?”

Rowan shakes his head and lowers his gaze, taking a keen interest in the floor. As if he can no longer bear to look at me.

Realization dawns. “You were goblins before Malice found you,” I whisper. “You had already succumbed to your Shades.”

“After the death of the last Therya’fey , your mother,” he reveals, a weariness hanging over his words, “many of us succumbed. Soon after, the land began to die. Those who hadn’t succumbed fled.

” He rasps out a laugh. “But no one wanted us.” Chancing a glance up at me, he finishes, “Not until Malice.”

My heart breaks for this creature. I don’t know why he succumbed to his Shade. I don’t know what he’s done. I don’t know what burdens he now carries.

But I certainly know what it’s like to feel unwanted.

“What if there was another way?” I press, leaning forward, my eyes searching his face. “Another king—or a queen—who wanted you?”

I suddenly recall dream Glorana’s talk of redemption.

More urgently, I ask, “What if it was possible to go back to the way things were before?”

He twitches away and shakes his head. “No. There’s no going back. The Vale is dead.” His face crumples, each word clearly bringing him great pain when he croaks, “And so am I.”

“But…” I don’t understand his reluctance to consider allying himself with another ruler. “You are the only one who calls me Therya’fey .”

He blinks owlishly at me. “Because you are the Therya’fey .”

“Which makes me your queen, does it not?”

“No,” Rowan says again, though this time his tone is final. With another grunt, he heaves himself to his feet.

“Rowan, wait—”

“Good night,” he growls, slamming the doors shut behind him.

I groan and press my face against my knees.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I don’t know how to be a queen—either a Therya’fey or a Therya’kai .

Unbidden, Malice’s words from earlier roar back to the forefront of my thoughts. All his talk of my not being Bene’s drakira . I suppose that means I’m not technically his queen either, despite my dragon king’s constant claims that I am.

That thought brings some odd comfort:

The thought that I am only failing at being queen to one people rather than to two.