Crown of Ellova, Vol. 1 (Crown of Ellova Duology)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I take out the wooden boxes from my satchel. Once the jewelry I brought has been arranged, I look for more hidden in the shop. Pulling up the floorboards in the small kitchen, I find rings and necklaces that did not sell last full moon. In the dirt of a flower pot, three necklaces are wrapped in cloth. Dozens of thin gold and silver bands jostle merrily as I remove them from the teapot on the stove.

All the trays slide into a small golden chest before being covered with purple velvet, ready to be taken to the Iron Castle. Stamped on each side is the crest of Adreania—a black circle that symbolizes the stolen fae crown with a sword going through it.

A familiar knock rattles the front door. I open the door before Theodore has finished knocking. He manages to pull back his hand before it connects with my face, a smile on his. I gave him a pendant for his wife once and have long since earned his crooked smiles. His shaggy gray hair flops forward as he bows at the waist. His companion guard mirrors the respect offered.

“Hello, Theodore, Clive, how are you?” I ask, knowing a response will not be given. All the guards are instructed to remain silent while in the presence of courtiers or royal merchants. The Adreania royals have laws that have deemed the guards “lesser” than me, so I should not attempt to make small talk with either of them.

Clive turns his wide back to me, head on a swivel, looking for danger. Four more castle guards are on horseback, holding long iron spears next to the carriage.

I could have easily walked to the castle but I have no illusions that the escort is for myself. The guards are here to ensure my jewelry is safe so the court can continue to drape themselves in gems and gold while they attend lavish parties on the backs of those who struggle most in the kingdom. My jewelry chest is loaded into the wide royal carriage with me, and we travel the main road leading to the castle.

Theodore and Clive sit in front of me on a wooden bench; outside we are surrounded by the other four guards on horseback, who ride around us in a diamond shape of protection.

Through the windows of the other passing carriages, curious eyes peer out at my carriage, shop owners returning from the coast or other merchants who found some sort of affluence in this broken city but not enough to be invited to the bazaar.

From deep within my bag, I retrieve a blue silk sash with the Adreania crest sewn on the front that marks me as one of the king’s personal craftswomen and courtiers.

It’s an honor not given to many and clashes with the green and gold of my gown. I despise that King Jedrick is even aware of my existence. As much as I long for a few moments with Leon, being in the presence of the stolen fae crown on Jedrick’s head boils my blood.

Every few feet we pass tall, hollow glass pillars. Long branches of slow-burning wood are bright within them, smoke swirling into the night sky while the flames light the way up the entrance of the castle. Thousands of candles hang from the windows, illuminating the tall spikes of its peaks, shadows moving behind them. The guards at the gate part to let us through the dark archway into the gardens. Theodore and Clive carry my chest and continue with me through the servants’ entrance leading to the courtyard.

The courtiers who have arrived stand near the gardens that circle the open area while they sip wine out of golden goblets. When they hear the soft jingle of the jewelry chest, they clear a path, greedy eyes tracking its route to the castle’s main entrance. The large wooden and iron doors remain closed for guests, but they open for me to stride in with my guards and shut again with a loud click.

A gust of wind follows us into the wide hall leading to the ballroom. We trail behind the somber servants carrying heavy trays, who walk swiftly past the gray walls lined with paintings of the royal family of Adreania.

The largest painting is that of King Jedrick’s ancestor, King Drystan. Drystan is painted alone, the black crown atop his head, his hands gloved in leather. The first king of Adreania and the first crown thief. No paintings remain of Queen Inara, the wife he killed, whose fae blood stained his hands until his death. Whichever artist had been tasked to bring his likeness to canvas captured the coldness in his gray eyes. The same gray eyes King Jedrick and Prince Grayden share.

When my great-great-grandmother forged the crown it glowed, alive with magic, delicate leaves overlapping each other to form the golden circlet, the ancient fae language carved into it.

A crown that cannot be removed until death.

Even if there were a painting of Queen Inara, it would have been a lie. King Drystan made his beautiful wife wear a glamour ring to hide her fae appearance. Much like every full moon, the urge to set Drystan’s painting on fire persists in me as we walk to my vendor table.

Music plays softly around us, the ballroom warmer with the massive fireplaces on each side. On one side of the ballroom are the dais and stage, where the royal family will sit and the evening performances are held. Plenty of room for dancing and merriment in the middle, and on the other side the merchants and vendors are setting up.

Twenty other artisans and royal merchants from the King’s Trove stand next to their luxury items, setting up for the rush of sales the beginning of the night brings. My small table stands nearest the main doors, the farthest corner from the dais. I am the last of the artisans to arrive and quickly lay out everything I have to sell. The most important piece I have with me is the delicate sapphire tiara I made for Princess Lyrora. She and I have rarely spoken for an extended period of time but I know she will look divine in it.

A clock on the wall strikes, signaling the start of the King’s Bazaar, just as the last of the jewelry is laid out on silk tablecloths. The doors burst open, bringing in the harsh winds and a steady stream of courtiers as they rush to the tables, eager to spend the copious coins they did not earn.

I take a deep breath and wait for Leon.

Excited women approach my table, loudly selecting their favorites. The wealthiest among them arrive wearing no jewelry but stop at my booth first to purchase the best pieces before continuing deeper into the ballroom to show off their new treasures. Well-kept hands grab for ruby rings with tiny diamonds swirling around a stone from the deepest mines in Ellova. Sapphire or emerald earrings atop golden star hooks are snatched up, and delicate necklaces strung with obsidian, garnet, topaz, or blue pearls fished from the Elbasan Sea are fought over before the buyers thanklessly toss me their coin bags. The more advantageous shoppers purchase multiple items.

After an hour or so, my table holds a diminishing supply, all the best pieces sold. I assist the last few women shopping, but my eyes move around the crowd, hoping Leon will appear.

Bells chime, the nobility abruptly halting their dancing to turn towards the dais at the back of the room to await their king, silence settling over the crowd.

Trumpets blast a moment later, signaling the arrival of the Fasaile royal family and with them the only man I’ve ever cared about. First to appear is Princess Lyrora, youngest of the royal siblings, both living and dead. She sits on her iron-wheeled throne, her head held high. Her handsome guard pushes her up a small ramp and brings her next to her father’s empty and extravagant throne .

“The prince has returned!” A delighted voice carries around the room with it an echo of cheers.

I was unaware Prince Grayden had gone anywhere.

The quiet ballroom is once again filled with shouts and well wishes. A woman near me yells, “Welcome home!” as Grayden ascends the dais with his wife, walking slightly in front of her, never offering the Crown Princess Erenia assistance up the stairs or acknowledging her presence.

Princess Erenia wears the same bored expression she always does. Her long, midnight-black hair is twisted in intricate braids around the crown of her head. Her dark lipstick stands out against her pale skin, only highlighting her frozen frown.

In the ten years I’ve sold jewelry in this room, I’ve never seen her smile. Given she’s married to Prince Grayden, I imagine she has little here to bring her happiness.

He’s lanky with thinning blond hair and a blond beard kept short. Cold gray eyes scanning the crowd do little to disguise his disdain for the evening. He takes his seat on a smaller throne next to his father’s on the opposite side of his sister.

He ignores her too.

Flowers rarely grow here but the ones that do are being wasted as they are thrown onto the edge of the dais in preparation for their king.

King Jedrick hobbles in with Leon and my heart speeds up, overwhelmed with his strikingly beautiful features. Leon has an essence about him, something I could never quite put words to, this pull towards him. One night a month has never been enough; I leave here aching for a few more moments from him.

What started as a silly little crush two years ago has bloomed into a connection so intense it leaves me breathless.

My desire for a future with him taunts me, teases me. Pathetic hope and bitter yearning have become a constant shadow while I walk these castle halls.

Just seeing him soothes something deep within me.

Everything I want is trapped in a place I cannot stay, with a mortal I cannot keep .

Leon’s attire is basic for his role here, black leather boots over black breeches. Going down his spine is a tightly laced vest showing off his broad shoulders. Half of his hair is tied at the back of his head. The rest brushes his lower neck, a few gray streaks throughout his black hair.

At King Jedrick Fasaile’s arrival, the crowd bows immediately while he slowly moves towards his seat, clutching a golden cane with a large gemstone for a handle as he stumbles towards his throne, leaning most of his weight on Leon.

Leon gently helps King Jedrick to sit on the pile of cushions laid on the throne as he takes gasping breaths after such a short walk. The frail Adreanian king coughs loudly, covering his mouth with a white handkerchief, before he leans back into the chair to close his eyes. He was once blond like his children but now his hair is gray like his sallow skin.

My handsome healer glances towards the back of the ballroom where I am and we make brief eye contact before he returns to King Jedrick, the stolen fae crown stuck on his head.

Jedrick wearing it disgusts me and I cannot stop the curl of my lip at the sight of the dark circlet on his unworthy head. His ancestor, Drystan Fasaile, was the reason for the war between the fae and the mortals, each side fighting for the crown Jedrick now wears. The crown my great-great-grandmother, Alvina, forged for a fae queen whom the mortals betrayed so long ago.

The mortal King Drystan murdered his fae wife, Queen Inara, the dearest friend of my great-great-grandmother, Alvina the Forger, and Nueena’s ancestor Zarella, the first Realm Keeper of Ellova.

Concerned murmurs ripple through the crowd.

Two noblewomen drinking wine not far from me turn their heads to each other, lowering their voices. “Poor thing, King Jedrick. He won’t last much longer.”

“Any day now. Prince Grayden will make such a fine king,” the woman near her continues gleefully with adoring eyes at the prince.

“Long live the Fasaile line!” another shouts .

Jedrick coughs violently again, but this time when he pulls the handkerchief away from his face, it is stained with blood. Princess Lyrora leans in to look after her father, gently placing her hand over his arm in comfort.

Leon replaces the king’s bloody cloth with a new one, sympathetic eyes on the king.

Prince Grayden stands, not bothering to check on his father. The crowd is quiet and expectant, waiting for their prince to speak. Grayden is dressed in a fine black velvet shirt with a high collar that almost reaches his chin; it is heavily embroidered and falls to the tops of his slender thighs clad in black pants. The cost alone could have fed so many in Adreania, the neglect of his people sewn in every fiber.

“Noblemen,” Grayden begins, “ I come bearing sorrowful news of the kingdom to the north and Kalvorn’s careless disregard for your lives and the lives of your children.” Grayden takes a dramatic pause to rile up the crowd. “I met with King Zilias and his poor excuse for a queen! They are as heartless as we knew they were. Three days ago, we met in the middle of the Elbasan Sea and I pleaded with King Zalias on behalf of our kingdom. Told him of our suffering, of the sickness, the barren land. How the children of Adreania go to bed hungry, our men have no work, the fields will all be but dust soon.” He moves around the dais. “I beseeched him for aid, medicine, food, for access to his libraries to search for a cure for the sickness. He declared he would send ships of food, Kalvorn’s best healers, but do you know what he wanted in return?” He half screams the last part.

The crowd shouts incoherently back at him.

Fear slithers like a snake coiling around my chest.

I know he is going to say Inara’s crown. How could he not? It was once the most magical item ever created.

It’s what Grayden wants, waiting for his father to die to claim it.

The Kalvornian king must know the legends of what that crown could once do, if on the right head, not the poor excuse for a king before me. How dare Grayden withhold something he has no right to claim at the suffering of his own people. A just ruler would have given Kalvorn what they wanted to ensure his kingdom’s survival.

A servant passing by gives me an odd look and I soften my features to remove the disgust clearly written on my face.

Grayden’s voice is filled with rage, face red as he paces the stage. “HE WANTED THE CROWN!”

My hands start to shake and I slip them into my pockets.

“We will not be enslaved to the Kalvornian king! He claims all he wants to exchange to end our famine, heal our sick, is the crown. We will not give in! If they will not give us what we need most, then we will take it from them by force!” He lifts his arm in the air as the crowd’s cheers start to die. His smile is cruel when he adds, “As if he could wield the power of Drystan’s crown! Only men of the powerful Fasaile line can wear its glory!”

Grayden’s lies spill so easily over his tongue, or perhaps he truly believes it. If it didn’t mean an immediate execution, I would stand on my booth and ask Grayden why Inara, the original wearer, could wear the crown if it could only be worn by Fasaile male heirs when she was neither, but I keep the words to myself. Grayden’s lack of knowledge on how the crown actually works is probably the only reason his sister is safe from him.

All four of Grayden’s older brothers died mysteriously.

Princess Lyrora stares out at the crowd, appearing bored with her brother’s shrieks, and ignores his malice. She should be the ruler of Adreania, not her vile sibling.

The courtiers rapidly speak among one another in hushed tones. They know that any war will impact their leisurely lives; a war will bring with it fewer parties and fewer resources for them to take for themselves. Some are looking at each other, hands over mouths, doubt creeping into their faces at the likelihood Adreania would lose. Only a few shout back at the perceived injustices of Grayden’s venomous speech.

Surely to save his people, he could hand over the fae crown that sits upon his father’s head.

Kalvorn is a prosperous kingdom, one without poverty and illness. Their king and queen are rumored to be kind and generous rulers. Only a small mountain range separates Adreania and Kalvorn, but they are almost two different worlds.

Jedrick looks down at the floor at his son’s words; the once-golden circlet is flush on his head, gray and dull, devoid of the magic it held thousands of years ago when it sat upon Inara’s curls when she was crowned queen of the mortal kingdom, the gold illuminated with the type of magic only a fae could harness.

Now the crown is only a symbol of power, of what once was.

Grayden’s smile is vicious. “Do not worry, for I have found a way to bring back the magic! When I am king, Adreania will prosper again!”

The crowd goes silent, stunned expressions frozen on their faces.

“Once I restore the fae magic to the crown, we will have everything we need! You have never known such riches!”

Liar.

Such a fucking liar. The fae and their magic are just the subject of children’s stories to him.

This is a new low for him and I fight the groan begging to be let loose at his absurd declaration. What he says is impossible. A ridiculous lie to receive support for this ill-fated war over a crown neither man can truly possess.

To promise the return of magic is utter nonsense.