Page 19 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

Melody

I shower in the tiny open shower that looks too much like it comes straight out of the human world. But then, so does the rest of the place.

After that, I put on the fresh set of clothes someone has left for me before I venture down those long corridors.

Everything looks different during the day. Brighter in the sunlight that falls in through the huge windows. Peaceful. Sunlight. For a second I don’t trust my eyes. It leaks in in thick, buttery columns and I gingerly stretch out my hand, pale and bruised, but beautiful in the new morning light. I marvel at the warm sensation on my skin, so much better than I could have ever imagined it back in my bleak room. As if my whole body came alive for the very first time. And against my will, against the lump in my stomach and my nervousness a smile spreads over my face. You will not be afraid. You will have a life one day. For the first time, those words feel true.

Finally I force myself to move on. Doves sing in the lemon and persimmon trees that grow in the courtyards and sparrows bathe in the water of the fountains, ruffling their feathers.

Again, I briefly pause to watch them. I would love to linger, love to soak up some of the warmth and sunshine, but I’m already late.

I head straight to the kitchen as Nidaw instructed. A lot of other women are already gathered. They look similar enough to Nidaw, with the same deep-sea-colored skin and bright eyes, that I assume they are sirens too. But it’s the color of their hair I stare at too often. It reminds me of the sea and its corals, ranging from the palest sea foam blue to Tyrian purple.

They ogle me in return as I enter, mainly my telltale round ears and the still barely healed wounds on my wrists. I quickly look down, suddenly ashamed of my difference, and try to smooth my hair over my ears and hide my hands behind my back.

It is a long day that follows. And I learn what it means to be a servant in a fairy palace. First, in the kitchen, I cut vegetables before Nidaw sends me away with a group of women to clean some of the rooms, each one more luxurious and overwhelming than the next. Velvet-covered furniture and heavy rugs made of silvery silk. Shiny, long curtains of cobalt blue damask sway in the breeze and double-winged doors made of black wood mark the entrances. There are scenes carved into the material, so detailed and exquisite the fingers that made them must have been those of very tiny creatures.

I sweep out huge fireplaces and mantelpieces made of another stone I’ve never seen before, brushing past columns and statues of the same gold-veined, fascinating material that seems to change its colors in accordance with the time of day. I realize that what looked like bleached bone last night now ranges from a shy Isabelline in the morning, to a fiery orchil around midday, only to fade into an ashy heliotrope in the afternoon.

The other women keep watching me, mostly vigilantly. It is only later in the afternoon that they eventually seem to forget about me, and start to talk quietly with each other in a tongue I can’t understand. And I finally have some time to orient myself.

I try to memorize the rooms, the layout of the palace, and potential escape routes. I’ve already figured out that the slave and servant quarters are located on the very edge of the building I’m in, a huge complex on its own. But when we are done with one room and I follow the women onward, I lose track again of where we are.

Occasionally, in the hallways I see other fae hurry by. Some have hooves and horns. When we walk back through one of the patios, I spot two green-skinned, blue-haired men bent over the lush hedges of herbs, translucent pixie wings on their backs catching the light in all the colors of the rainbow.

***

The days are too long, and I can’t help but feel that Nidaw’s giving me particularly exhausting tasks to drain me. When they are over, my back aches worse than after a round of combat training with Kayne or Hunter, and I’m so tired all I can do is wolf down the food someone left in my room—fresh mint tea, a broth, some honey-glazed goose meat, some walnuts, and a piece of chocolate cake with a flower on top, all lovingly arranged—before I slump onto the bed and fall asleep.

It works. To exhaust me, make me so tired I can barely walk straight, giving me no time to think. But when I glance in the mirror in the morning, I’m no longer so pale. I touch my face. A half-fae, Riven said. But my ears are round, and I don’t look at all like them . I don’t have their perfect skin and waves of colorful hair. I look ordinary with my brown eyes and human skin.

But then, better than I ever have. Still slim, or thin, yes, lean with muscles but no longer on the verge of starvation. Some life has crept into my eyes, a rosy color into my cheeks and lips.

Perhaps because I’m no longer constantly hungry. Maybe because my nightmares have vanished, too, as if by magic. The same as my panic has faded down from a wildfire to simmering embers as if something in the Fortress kept them at bay.

Something that sweeps through the corridors and fills the very heart of the complex as if it is a part of every stone, every wall, the fundament itself. A presence that fills the corridors and brushes up my skin like a caress sometimes. Curious. Gentle.

Something soft like dew and night. A dark twin to the balmy breeze outside.

But I’m too tired even for this thought.

** *

On my fourth night, I step out of the shower. The day has been hot, the warm desert air wafting in and out of the palace through its open windows. Even now, so late, it has not lost its heat.

I get out naked, not bothering to use the towel, but rather letting the water and the wind cool my overheated skin. I love it, the hot, arid air, soft as a murmur. I’ve stayed winter-pale from all the time inside, the brief crossings of the patio in the mornings not enough to bring the slightest tan. Though that doesn’t prevent me from marveling at the gleaming, relentless sun every time I look out through one of the palace windows, sometimes over the city, sometimes at a raw stretch of stone and undulating dunes, or the range of blue mountains in the backdrop that are watching over everything like a sentinel.

The nights are equally magical, especially the few hours before the moons rise. I’ve never seen so many stars before. So close. So bright. As if you could stretch out your hand and pluck them from the sky.

I’m too focused on the darkening horizon and the town that shimmers like a puddle of glowing lights underneath to notice that I’m not alone. My instinct alerts me… too late though. My nose catches Riven’s elusive scent a second after I spot his violet eyes.

I shiver from the way he’s looking straight at me, although I’m totally naked.

“That’s not very gentlemanly at all,” I say with all the bravery and harshness I can muster.

“Is it not?”

His form ripples out of the shadows as if he is a part of them. And again I’m struck by how similar he looks to the Dark Lord. But at the same time totally different. I don’t know why it matters so much. I also don’t know why every time I fall asleep, I have the Dark Lord’s blue and gold eyes in my mind. Why the fact that I know he’s somewhere close makes my heartbeat quicken and, absurdly enough, calms me on a deeper level .

I push the thoughts away, grabbing the towel from where it hangs from a rack on the wall and wrapping it around me. Trying hard to ignore another thought as it sluices through me—that I’m a slave now and that Riven probably can do whatever he pleases with me.

As if Riven knows what I’m thinking, he purrs, “My little treat with her lovely cheeks all flushed. Now, aren’t you perfect?”

I scowl at him, knowing that he’s mocking me.

“I see you still choose to ignore the rules for a slave,” he drawls, silky menace lacing into his words as he approaches with this otherworldly grace I would never manage to capture on paper. Not in a thousand years.

Today, he’s wearing a loose shirt that offers glimpses of his body beneath at every move, thanks to the fabric turning partly translucent whenever the light of the single candle burning on my nightstand hits it at a certain angle.

I swallow at the landscape of rigidly sculpted abdominals and rippling muscles, flashing at every step.

Heat stings my cheeks, and I look away. “Other people knock, you know,” I mutter.

“But then I would have missed such a delightful sight.” His voice has fallen to a gentle murmur—a lover’s voice—as he leans down, right to my face.

He smells of wine and herbs and rain and lilac. Beguiling.

I jerk away and glare at him, forcing down my shame. He’s just seen me naked, for fuck’s sake. And now he’s toying with me.

“Why are you here? Certainly not only to see me naked,” I hiss.

His gaze softens unexpectedly when he looks down at my wrists, at the wounds the handcuffs left there, so tight they cut into my flesh. The strangest thing is that they have barely healed. “Indeed, it wasn’t only to sate my desire for something distinctive, mind you. The Dark Lord sent me to look after you.”

“ Look after me?”

“And take care of those wounds. ”

He gently reaches for my arm. But when his cool fingers touch my skin, I yank it back.

“I’m fine,” I snap. I certainly don’t want his pity. I’m also not sure I can stand anyone touching me. No one ever did without hurting me.

“Those cuts are infected from the iron. You need to treat them,” he retorts, unfazed, producing a tiny can out of his trouser pocket. “This is an ointment. Apply it.”

He holds it out to me, but I don’t take it.

“You don’t trust me,” he states.

I’d laugh at how astonished he sounds if my ribs weren’t so tight, squeezing my heart, and my lungs. As if I had any reason to trust him. “I don’t trust anyone. You could tear me to pieces and eat me alive if you wanted to, right?”

I don’t add You do that to girls like me, don’t you? Eat us alive , even though it’s probably true.

He just watches me with the same curious look he had in the woods, his eyes a sparkling violet. They don’t change their color, but I almost expect them to.

His answer comes slowly, along with a frown. “Probably.”

I swallow. At least he’s honest, although I hate the way it speeds my heart. I chase my first question with another one. “What are you?”

He takes another step toward me, closing the distance I just opened up between us without realizing it. As if this is a dance, I retreat once more.

He purses his lips as if he finds me amusing. “You could ask who I am instead. Wouldn’t that be polite?”

“Depends—are you going to lash me if I don’t?”

“Prickly.” He inclines his head ever so slightly, glancing down at me. Gods, he’s tall.

“I told you to obey, which you certainly aren’t at the moment. It’s rather unwise.” His voice holds no anger though. It strikes me that he is simply pointing out a fact.

“Then why not just discipline me? ”

I know this is dumb, speaking to him like this. Provoking him like this. But hells, I spent too long with Lyrian. Faced too many punishments. I would not be afraid again.

His eyes darken as he watches me. “I don’t believe in such things.”

“In violence?”

“For one. But these are the rules. I didn’t make them. I can’t abandon them… simply bend them. It would be wise not to provoke anyone else like you’re provoking me. Or I won’t be able to protect you as I promised.” He adds the latter part like an afterthought, his voice unbearably gentle.

I weigh whatever lies in his face, in his aura. Then I ask a shade more conciliatory, “Who are you?”

“I’m Riven Caedmon, High Lord and Prince of the Enchanted Forest,” he answers in a way that makes him sound almost human.

“And what are you?”

A smile curves his lips. “This is an interesting question we might save for later.”

I probe on nonetheless. “You’re a high lord and also a vampire. Are you an elf or a vampire now?”

He sketches a brow. “We all are and aren’t vampires in the way humans imagine them. And every fae has pointed ears, not just the elves.”

“You don’t drink blood and sleep in a coffin?” I’m too aware of the sarcasm ringing in every word.

His eyes flash in a warning. “Bold. No, no coffin. But as you already figured out, some other clichés certainly hold true.” His smile widens into one designed to show his fangs.

I suppress a shudder.

“The Dark Lord made you a vampire,” I push, refusing to balk.

“Yes, Caryan did.” He lets out a sigh, looking suddenly exhausted. Then he sinks onto my bed and leans forward, running a hand through his ink-black hair, leaving it messy. It makes him look almost boyish.

“Caryan?” I ask carefully .

He waves a hand in a dismissive motion. “The Dark Lord, my king, or just Your Highness to you,” he says.

I try the name in my head. Caryan. The vampire with the ever-changing eyes. The casualness with which Riven uses the name of the king surprises me, though. At Lyrian’s house, it seemed that there was a strict hierarchy between the Dark Lord and them, laden with respect and submission. But now Riven’s speaking of the king almost like a close friend.

I don’t know why it is so hard for me to believe that anyone could be close to such a frightening— man .

I ask quietly, “And he made you because you died ? They say he’s a necromancer.”

I’m not sure I have any right to ask. Not sure it is clever. But Riven takes it with a shrug. An utterly human gesture, strangely at odds with his usual grace and predatory demeanor.

“You’ve already picked up a lot here. I forgot how much servants talk. Well, normally Caryan offers the curse —” he seems to struggle with the word, as if it holds another meaning for him “—to people who have already died or are on the threshold of death. But with me, it was different. We go back a long way and—let’s just say I accepted without having lost my life before.”

His voice has turned grave, as if this burdens him. His aura shifts too; the midnight hues grow darker, gaining depth. He leans forward again, bracing his elbows on his thighs.

I slowly approach and sit a healthy distance away from him on the bed. There’s no more denying that every joint hurts from the day’s work and I need to sit.

Damn it, right now, I’m more tired than scared.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask after a while.

He raises his head, looking at a point in the middle of the room. “ Some people think it is.”

“Some people who mean a lot to you?” I ask carefully, plucking it from his aura.

A muscle ticks in the curve of his jaw. “They used to. They were my people. I was a prince of my lands, my court, once to become king. But it’s a long and complicated story. Let’s just say I would be king if it weren’t for my various… attributes.”

“But you said you still are an elf…”

“A high elf,” he corrects me, but not unkindly. “The difference between an elf and a high elf is their inherent power. We are rare, though. And to answer your other question—I still am a high elf. The fangs don’t change that.”

I stare at him, at the darkness that has gathered around him in thick waves. I’m not entirely sure I understand what he is telling me though.

“But why did you accept then? The… curse? You said the Dark Lord gave you a choice.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “So many questions already, and you have barely arrived. I wonder why,” he muses quietly. But the darkness in his aura stays. And for some absurd reason, I don’t like it at all—to see him sad like this.

“Why not?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can. Then I stand up and walk over, stopping right in front of him. I like how he seems surprised by this, how his pupils widen ever so slightly. How he has to lean back on my bed to take me in fully.

I try to ignore how this turns his shirt semi-translucent again, enough to see everything . A body, honed to perfection. The light dances over every dip of his sculpted chest, the ridge of his abdominals, the sensuous curve of his strong collarbones, as if it, too, likes to touch him.

I ignore the rush of heat in my body as I lean over him and whisper, “Who wouldn’t want to hear the pretty boy story?”

It’s almost comical to watch the incredulous expression flick over his stunning face. My bet is that no one’s ever spoken to him like this.

Dangerous. So dangerous.

He says, “I’m serious,” but I swear his voice is a touch hoarse.

I slip between his long legs. “Oh, so am I. You’re eye candy, and I want to hear the sob story.” I raise my brows at him, smiling at his still slightly shocked expression .

What the hell am I doing? Flirting? But as crazy as it might be, it feels good. For a moment, I’m more than a slave. More than a prisoner. More than a thing .

A stupid, stupid idea.

“My volatile, little villain. Now I know that you can lie, I never know when you’re serious.” His voice is troublingly sincere as he looks up at me through his long lashes, searching my face. As if this really bothers him. And in that moment, I know I’m going to paint him like that. His head tilted slightly back, his throat exposed, his eyes half closed with that lazy expression.

“That’s what makes it fun.”

“For you,” he grumbles.

I bite back another smile, sucking in my lower lip. His eyes follow the movement.

“I’ll admit that you surprise me,” he remarks, almost thoughtfully.

“That a good or a bad thing?”

“A dangerous one, I guess.”

At that, he sits up. His movement is so fast and fluid, I take a step back. And just like that, he’s standing in front of me again, and I’m trembling with a feeling I barely understand.

“You’re hurt…” he starts before he cuts himself off. Then he tilts his head, looking at my face more closely. “No. You’re… afraid.”

I look away at that.

But his sudden closeness startles me. Scares me. Even if it’s not in the way I’m so schooled in. He leans down to me, his breath brushing over my suddenly feverish skin.

His voice drops to a whisper—low, soft, and intimate—as he says, “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I will always be careful with you.”

I feel a tug deep down in my belly as his lips touch my neck then, merely a brush, a second before he pulls back, as if he’s caught himself.

As quickly as he came, he withdraws and straightens, casual and distant. And I wonder whether I just imagined the heat in his words, the brush of his lips.

Of course I did. I look so ordinary next to him, he would never notice me. Would never be here if the Dark Lord hadn’t sent him here to check up on me.

I take another step back, wrapping the towel tighter around myself, suddenly too self-conscious.

He adds, “To answer your last question: there were several reasons I accepted Caryan’s offer. But the most important one is that I would go anywhere Caryan goes. No matter what.” A graveness has snuck into his voice.

Just then, I spot a deep, golden band weaving through his aura.

“You love him,” I whisper.

A smile graces his face, and warms his eyes, heartbreaking in its beauty. “I do.”

“Are you and he—”

“Lovers? No. Not in your sense.” He straightens the fabric of his shirt, and I quickly glance away again. He goes on as if he hadn’t noticed. “I’ve been to your world a few times and I’ve found that humans only have a few, strictly set rules when it comes to their understanding of love. Here, it’s different. We don’t have a human heart, Melody.”

I startle when he lifts his hand to tuck a loose strand behind my ear.

“We don’t love like humans. We don’t feel like humans in a lot of ways, or behave like humans, for that matter. We don’t have so many emotions, but we have bonds. And sometimes a bond to someone can be stronger than anything else, made for eternity.”

I don’t know what I read in his face, in his aura, in his words. What to make of all the hues there, swirling. Only the bond to Caryan, solid and static, like a golden anchor in their midst.

But his words sober me up. “You live forever ?” The thought scares me.

“Not really. But compared to humans, it certainly seems that way. Some of us reach a thousand years. ”

“How old are you?”

“Two hundred and thirty-two,” he says, and my eyes widen. He laughs at my incredulous expression. “I know—immortality and its serene youth. But by elven standards, I’m still young. Now, I think I’ve answered enough of your questions. Let me see to those wounds. After all, I too have someone to obey.” Again, he holds out his hand, ready to receive mine.

“Caryan,” I say.

He smiles at me again, gut-wrenchingly handsome, before he winks at me. “Who else might an elven prince serve?”

I let him take my hand and we sit down again. He opens up the salve tin and starts to gently apply the ointment. I try to sit still, to not pull my hand back, although instinct tells me to do just that. No one ever touched me like this before. He is far gentler than I would have been with myself.

“You said you steal humans away. And… keep them as slaves.” For food. For sex . It gets stuck in my throat before I can say it. I’ve overheard the servants talking about that. Noticed their pitiful glances wherever I went. Heard their uttered words, which they supposed were too quiet for me to catch. Slave. Sex slave. Blood slave. Vampire food. Another stolen one. Poor human. Won’t make it long here.

All those words stalk me. Haunt me. “Is this why I’m here?” I finish. I’ve been dreading this question for too long anyway.

Riven curls his lips slightly, a line forming between his eyes. “It’s true. We do take humans sometimes. As I told you, when we take them, it’s usually because of bargains they made with us. We take them for various reasons, but you’re not here to serve as food.”

“But the Dark Lord drank my blood,” I say quietly.

“I imagine you are rather delectable,” Riven counters in a raw, deep voice that makes me pull my hand back as if I’d burned myself. But he is faster and locks it into place. He laughs softly, and I realize he’s just been playing with me. Just as I played with him before.

To cheer me up.

I throw him an admonishing look. “Very funny. ”

“Isn’t it just?”

“Why did he do it? To make me a vampire too?”

Riven lets out a true laugh at that. A sound so deep and rumbling I just watch him. I wonder whether he knows how different it makes him look. How his eyes sparkle even more.

After a moment, he turns serious again. “Oh, those mortal clichés. No, that would require more than just a bite, including a blood exchange and a blood oath. You would need to pledge yourself to him.”

“Why did he do it then?” I look down at my hand, still in his. His fingers have gone back to performing circular motions over my wrists. The wounds there, to my surprise, are almost gone.

“To get a taste of you—literally. He has a special talent all of us lack. If he drinks your blood, he can see everything you are and were and what made you become who you are.”

I stare at him. “What? What does he see? He can’t really see everything, can he?”

“It’s hard to explain. He sees incidents that happened to you. In your life. Usually major things or events. It’s pretty much the way your memory works too. The bigger the impression events leave on you, the more alive they still are in you, and the more likely it is that they’ll show. The same goes for recent events. Things that don’t lie too far in the past are more likely to show up. The more intense, the more likely it is that Caryan will see them.”

“He can’t control it?”

“No. I don’t think so. All I know is that it’s random—what he sees in your blood and what comes up. These scenes or sequences come in the form of flashbacks. He sees it the way you saw it when it happened to you, through your eyes.”

That’s why he drank Lyrian’s blood—to see what Lyrian kept from him. I don’t want to know what he saw in my blood.

I stay silent for a long while, unable to put into words what I feel. The Dark Lord has seen me and my life and my most personal moments. I can’t shake off the feeling of embarrassment, shame, and nakedness, as if I’m made of glass. I’m angry, too, I realize. Angry about this intrusion, this uninvited trespass.

He stands up, finished with my wrists, and looks me over one last time. “Sleep now. It’s been a long day.”

He turns and is heading for the door when I say, “Wait. Please.”

He stops, turning back to me.

I swallow before I raise my gaze back to him. “If he doesn’t want my blood—what else does he want from me?”

“I cannot tell you for sure.”

“You said I can trust you.” I don’t know why it matters so much whether I can trust him. But it does. As if a strange, new part of me wishes for nothing more than to trust him. It’s a dangerous line to walk, I know.

He seems to consider this.

“Did he forbid it?” I probe on.

“No. He didn’t, Melody. He wouldn’t do such a thing to me. It’s only that I’m very much in the dark about Caryan’s true motivations myself,” he says after a pause.

“But you’re—you’re his friend.”

The shadow over his features seems to grow even further. Something like pain flickers in his eyes before he looks down to the floor.

He doesn’t say anything else though. He doesn’t need to, because I see everything too clearly in his aura. Pain. Loss. Sadness. Desperation. Anger.

It hits me then. “Is this… is this why you did this? Made the promise, in the woods—to protect me?” My voice comes out strained, while my mind still tries to fully catch up to what that means. Protect me from the others. But also, maybe even more from Caryan himself.

The sad smile that curls the edges of Riven’s lips is confirmation enough. It makes my blood run cold.

“Caryan can be unpredictable. I certainly learned that the hard way.”

An answer that is not an answer at all. I don’t know what to say. Caryan can be cruel. Is cruel. And Riven has accepted that because he knows no way to stop him.

No other way than death.

I watch how he walks out the door without turning back.