Bloodguard

chapter 22

Maeve

I leave my uncle as other officials and delegates enter the room, their voices competing in varying pitches and accents, interrupting one another and requesting a moment with him. The skirt of my floor-length dress brushes the well-tailored breeches of several men scrambling to Vitor’s side. It’s startling how they beg for his favor. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this switch in power. Stars willing, I won’t have to.

I was at Grandmother’s and Papa’s sides my whole life, until three years ago. They included me in conversations, taught me how to act, what to say, how to deliberate on big decisions, and how to interpret information that we received.

“Everyone has their own agenda,” Grandmother used to say.

But since her death, and with Vitor assuming control as regent—because I am too young and unmarried and, let’s be honest, because no one is ready for the Queen Killer’s daughter to take the throne—I am treated differently.

But the blame is partially my own. I’ve not been as strong or visible as I should have been. In avoiding the arena, the grand parties and interactions at court…I’ve diminished my presence.

If I want to be queen, I must act like it.

Yes, indeed.

I decide to adjourn to my uncle’s private council room and wait to speak with him alone. The way Tut and Pua acted…I will not tolerate such petty behavior. And Ugeen…I don’t trust that jackass of a human at all. He should not be privy to matters of country. Thankfully, Vitor and I are in agreement on that front.

I enter my uncle’s private chambers and stop short at a loud and pronounced moan.

I jump, which makes Soro smile. Eyes never leaving mine, he uncoils Aisling’s legs from around his waist and lifts her bare ass off my uncle’s desk.

“Maeve,” Aisling says. “This is a surprise.” She shimmies her gown’s skirts down, not looking the least bit embarrassed.

Sparks of lavender magic color her pale skin as she slides closer to Soro’s side.

Soro crosses his arms. “What are you doing here, Maeve?”

“Mm, my guess is she hasn’t spent enough time with our cherished lord regent,” Aisling drawls. She plays with one of Soro’s braids. “Is there perhaps a way we can be of service?”

A way we can be of service? Aisling is getting rather bold with her claim on Soro. But she can’t make Soro king. It’s the one thing—besides a soul—I have that she doesn’t. I suppose that’s why she makes such a grand spectacle of placing her head against his shoulder.

“No, there’s just something minor I need to discuss with the regent.”

“Do you think he’ll listen to you?” Her eyelashes bat as she looks up at Soro. “Perhaps your desires are best made known through his son?”

Aisling is well aware that I have more clout than Soro with Vitor. I should warn her she’s feeding an already bloated ego.

Soro preens. “Aisling does have a point, Maeve.”

“Does she?” I ask.

He chuckles, barely acknowledging Aisling even as he speaks of her. “Aisling has many skills.” He shrugs. “Perhaps they can be of value to us.”

“Us?” I ask. Hell would sprout daisies and sunshine before I’d ever consider Aisling an ally. The sweet talk is as phony as she is cruel. As children, she and her friends would bully Giselle, targeting her because she was small and weak and couldn’t fight back. I could, and I did. That is, until Aisling’s magic sparked to life. The woman is rotten all the way through. “There is no us , Soro,” I say. “Not with you, and definitely not with Aisling.”

Swirls of shimmering magic ribbon up her bare arms as she glances down at the way I thrum the hilt of my sword

Aisling doesn’t like me seeing right through her. Neither does Soro.

“Go,” he says.

I think he means me until Aisling’s pinched features jerk in Soro’s direction. “You need me,” she presses.

“Perhaps.” He nods thoughtfully. “But for now, Maeve and I have business to attend to.”

Aisling rights herself, her chin up and her hips swaying as she strolls past me as if it’s her decision to leave. Soro watches her exit, turning only when she shuts the door tightly behind her. He’s taken many lovers over the years, but it appears Aisling’s charm might have at last claimed whatever shriveled-up sliver of a heart he has to give.

Soro moves smoothly across the room and to that gaudy chair Vitor swears he’ll never part with. It was supposedly a gift from my grandmother.

The back and seat are heavily cushioned and covered in rich, brown leather, the frame and arms real gold. The arms stretch upward at an angle to form a phoenix taking off into the heavens on each side.

Soro strokes the head of one phoenix before leisurely dragging his hand down the length of a body resembling a peacock, which once soared over all of Old Erth.

“Vitor doesn’t respect you,” he says. Although directing his words at me, he fixes his attention on the lead windows behind Vitor’s desk. Each panel of stained glass tells the story of the phoenix. It starts with her as a hatchling breaking free from that single egg, as legend has it. Her body grows in each proceeding pane until her fiery feathers lengthen enough to take to the sky. The panels that follow reflect her fall from grace and her ultimate death. She plummets farther and farther yet. The last panel shows her sprawled across the field, a bloody sword beside her broken form. What a terrible fate for a being once regarded as a god.

“And as you know, he doesn’t respect me,” Soro continues.

I cross my arms. Soro and I once played together. I have memories of us reaching for each other’s hands as his mother held him and Papa held me. Soro’s mother tucked him against her hip, tickling his belly and making him laugh as he stretched out his hand, wanting to link our fingers. We were maybe three or four years old at the time. It’s one of my earliest memories.

My “mother” was a concubine from a distant royal house contracted for the sake of conceiving me. There was no tickling or shows of affection. There was simply a role to play and a handsome sum to play it. As soon as I was weaned, she returned to her homeland and has not set foot in Arrow since—though she was, before my grandmother’s death, always welcomed. There was a brief point in my childhood in which this arrangement bothered me, but I see now how lucky I am to have two loving parents. After Soro’s human mother succumbed to illness, my former friend had none.

“I don’t like the way Vitor dismisses you,” I admit, remembering the boy who laughed with pure glee.

Soro caresses the chair’s sculpted phoenix arm as if it is alive. It’s not perverse, but I still find it odd. The way his hand strokes along the phoenix’s back. She’s not real, but she’s disturbingly real to him. My fingers drag along the scars on my neck as I push the strands that have escaped my braid behind my ear. “I think you should talk to Vitor alone. Explain how his snub affects you.”

Soro laughs, the diamonds and gems sewn into his long chestnut braids gently tapping the plush leather cushion along his back. Amusement tugs the corners of his mouth, revealing a hint of that little boy who adored his mother and used to be my friend. But as quickly as that glimpse arrives, it fades in a way that leaves me chilled. “You don’t think I’ve tried?” His expression twists with rage. “Long before Mother passed, I asked—no, I begged —for him to hear me. But Vitor always had someone smarter and more experienced to listen to. Does that sound about right, Maeve?”

I notice the way Soro refers to his father as Vitor these days. It’s an intentional effort to sever their connection.

“Why aren’t we working together?” he asks. “We’re just whispers in the wind alone. Wouldn’t you rather be a shout that echoes from atop a mountain for everyone in Old Erth to hear, to heed ?”

“I’ve no interest in a dictatorship,” I say. “My goal is to do right by Papa and Arrow.”

He pushes away from the awful chair, stalking toward me, all but snarling as he readies to pounce.

I hold my ground. There’s an inch at best between us as we meet face to face. “Work with me. Marry me. And let’s show the High Lord who is really in control.”

Dear sun above, he means it.

“And what will I get?” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. I will never marry him, but I need to know what he plans.

Soro lifts his hand, watching me as he strokes the skin just below my ear that bears the marks from that fire. “What do you want?” he asks, his eyebrows arched. “Besides freeing Andres?”

“I want control of the games,” I say, my voice stern and unyielding. He drops his hand, and I continue, “I want to return to the days where opponents could actually walk out of the arena alive—”

Soro paces to the chair and then back, fists balled. “No,” he says. “That’s the one thing I have in this bloody place that’s all mine.” He points to himself. “I make the games what they are. Vitor handles the betting side, but the obstacles, the genius behind each challenge—they come from me. ” Soro shakes his head. “Why do you think Vitor hasn’t encouraged you to marry?”

The abrupt question stops me cold.

“Your birthday is fast approaching,” he says. “You’ll be of age at twenty-one. You’ve only to marry a royal, and the crown will pass to you…”

Where is Soro going with this?

“Why do you think there are no other noble houses offering up an eligible spouse for you to marry, Maeve?”

Because of you , I want to say, but I hold the words back.

“Do you think I influenced them?” He chuckles. “Well, maybe a little. But more so, Vitor held that honor. Why do you think he did that? Because he values you so much that he’s focused on your happiness and truly finding the best husband for his dearest princess?” Soro snorts. “Don’t kid yourself. Vitor only remains regent and retains power if you fail to marry.”

I suck in a breath. Oh, Vitor…

“My father will never be king, Maeve. He knows it. It’s why he doesn’t openly praise you even when you’re right, even when you exhibit the sort of critical thinking and leadership skills expected of a queen. He doesn’t want to empower you because in doing so, he loses the power he steals from you.”

It’s a truth I’ve long seen and suspected, but I never expected to hear it out of Soro’s mouth.

My “uncle” often supports me and exhibits fairness, but I’d be a fool to think him wholly benevolent. Vitor serves Arrow and himself above all things.

Soro levels his gaze. “My father will accept me as your king because through our marriage, he thinks he’ll still be in control.”

It’s true. Vitor doesn’t respect his son, and he treats me like I’m still thirteen. It’s not a leap to assume he intends to rule through us. For us , so to speak.

If I’m to reclaim my rightful throne, I must stop conflating the uncle who taught me to fight and trained me in military strategy, the elf who carried me on his shoulders and read me stories, with the regent who is blocking me from my destiny.

Vitor loves me, I know, and he loved my grandmother so much that I often wondered at his relationship with the queen. He never left Grandmother’s side after—

“Soro, what really happened the night of the fire?”

“The fuck, Maeve?” His eyes narrow, and his body tenses.

Is he rearing to hit me? I shift my stance, ready to block or counterattack if necessary. My right hand slides to the hilt of my sword again. “You know so much about everything. Tell me what happened.”

I’m not stupid. The two people who have benefited the most in the wake of my grandmother’s demise are Vitor and Soro.

They have motive. They have means.

They convicted and imprisoned my father.

And I…I have no memories of anything that night.

Soro’s caught off guard. Why? He lived in the castle with us when it happened. He flicks a loose yellow gem free from his hair. “You actually don’t remember?”

As the gem skids to a stop at my feet, a lump forms in my throat, threatening to choke me if I don’t swallow down my fear. I asked for this. Why am I so afraid?

“There was a candle on the bedside table. It toppled over, but it’s not known how. Its fire caught on the canopy of the bed you were sleeping in with the queen.”

By some blessing of the stars, I keep my face neutral. I’ve heard this story countless times. It’s the same shit I heard from Vitor and even my own father. Except…I hadn’t slept with Grandmother in years. Why would I do so as a grown woman?

“The smoke rendered you unconscious.”

That much, I do believe. I coughed for weeks afterward. No number of elixirs or potions could clear my lungs completely. Because I was unconscious from the smoke, I have no memories of the fire or its immediate aftermath. I’m lucky to have survived, I know.

“Avianna tried to gather you in her arms,” Soro says. “But she’d also inhaled a great deal of smoke and wasn’t moving well or thinking clearly. From what Vitor says, Andres wrenched you from her arms but left her there to burn.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why do you think?” he asks, genuinely confused.

When I don’t answer, Soro huffs a sigh and plops onto that ridiculous phoenix chair. “Maeve, Andres wanted your grandmother out of the way. He saved you from the fire. He got you out. As a general, as the prince , he should’ve saved the queen. But he didn’t. I know you love your papa, but he didn’t just abandon Avianna.” He leans in. “He pushed her into the flames when she tried to rise. He killed the queen.”

My stomach twists as disbelief mixes with anger.

Even after hearing these words over and over again…I just can’t make myself believe them.

Despite the trial, the purported witnesses, even Papa not denying a single thing…it just doesn’t make sense. Papa would never hurt Queen Avianna, his own mother.

Worse, Soro isn’t gloating or baiting me. He isn’t even trying to be cruel.

I’ve known him my whole life, and right now he’s speaking with sincerity. Whatever the truth may be, Soro believes what he’s telling me.

He expels a deep breath when all I do is stare. “Maeve, look. Forget Avianna. She’s gone. You want the throne, take it, but take it with me as your husband. I need you for the throne, and you’ll need me to handle what you’re incapable of doing on your own.”

“And what is that?”

He smiles. “Painting your hands with blood.”