Heir of Stardust and Secrets (Mythic Spark #1)

7. Musing with the Willow

Chapter 7

Musing with the Willow

T he three horsemen turned to face me, eyes widening as I sprinted forward. Feeling the recklessness of my decision as I got closer, I thought about grabbing my dagger, but abandoned the notion. Not only were they built like warriors, but in addition to the sheathed swords on their backs, each of them carried multiple daggers, some hidden, some overt. Perhaps there was a diplomatic way out of this—whatever this was.

I slowed my pace, eventually stopping in front of the man who’d wiped blood from his hands. It was subtle, but his companions moved in, as if taking defensive positions. They were clad differently, although the variance was almost indiscernible at first glance. The blond man’s armor was ornamented with fine detailing that looked like a coat of arms. I scrambled for its meaning, knowing I’d seen it before. Then, realization dawned, and I had to forcefully stop myself from bolting in the other direction. It wasn’t a coat of arms that adorned his breastplate; it was the king’s insignia.

I swallowed, trying to find my nerve as I met the stranger’s gaze. “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked. Mercifully, my voice was steady .

“No. Thank you, lady,” he said, inclining his head. His voice was…smooth, calming, almost timeless, with the soft timber of a loving grandfather. I searched his features, confirming I’d been right about their age—no more than thirty. For a fleeting moment, I naively thought that would be that, but as he continued to hold my gaze, he asked, “Are you Nyleeria?”

My breath hitched, and the world stilled as if holding her breath for what came next. Gooseflesh rippled up my back, and down into my arms. Why was my name on this man’s tongue? Should I tell the truth? Would he know if I lied? What would happen if he did?

“May I ask as to who’s inquiring?” I hedged, unconsciously mirroring his formal diction.

“Apologies, my lady. Allow me to introduce myself and my comrades. I am King Thaddeus,” he said with remarkable seriousness, “and this is my second and third-in-command.” He gestured to the other men in turn.

I almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the declaration—but thought better of it.

“Yes, I’m Nyleeria,” I said, still unsure if this truth was a good thing or bad. “May I ask why you’re inquiring?”

He glanced at his comrades with what must have been a silent order as they stepped far enough away to give us an illusion of privacy.

The king’s attention was now wholly on me. “My lady, I apologize for the intrusion, but we were traveling through and happened upon this cabin. Is this your residence?”

“No. It’s my parents’ home. I live with them, and my brother and sister arrived yesterday to stay for a time. If you require assistance, I’d be happy to introduce you to my father. As head of the family, he’d be better suited to help you.”

“A generous offer, thank you. But no,” he said. “Nyleeria, when my men and I arrived, we made to call upon the owners of this cabin. When we approached the entrance, we found that the door had been forcibly opened, so we entered to investigate.” He paused, and as his unspoken words loomed around us, they sent a sharp chill skittering down my spine. Fingers going numb, I braced myself.

“Nyleeria,” he said in a low, comforting tone, “I am afraid there is no sign of your siblings, and your parents…your parents are dead.”

He stepped forward as if to comfort me, but I dashed for the cabin before his words fully held meaning.

Just as I stepped past him, one of his comrades stopped me in my tracks, holding me in an impossible grip.

My brother and sister were missing, likely taken. My parents had been slaughtered, or at least that was the word I’d overheard. It couldn’t be true. I’d just seen them last night. I’d only been gone since morning.

I screamed and thrashed and kicked, trying to free myself. Biting his arm, I ripped out of his grasp, barely aware of the curses he flung my way as I faintly registered the king telling him to let me go.

I ran into the tiny two-bedroom cabin. Instantly, the sweet tang of fear and stress, the coppery bite of blood, and the putrid stench of vomit hit me. Cassy’s vomit, most likely—she never had a strong constitution. The couch looked sticky in some way, but I barely registered the detail as I frantically looked for the twins.

I navigated the cabin, somehow avoiding the obstacles at my feet, which were no more than shadows strewn across the floor.

Nothing. They were nowhere to be found.

I circled back to the living room.

The word slaughter came back to me as I looked into my parents’ eyes. Cold. Vacant. And dead. I didn’t bother to check for a pulse; there was no need.

I just stood there. Body leaden. Unable to move.

When I was a child, my uncles hunted every autumn. I remembered seeing a stag dangling from the rafters when I was about seven years old. The pelt had been removed, and the carcass was stripped bare, one cut at a time. It had been both grotesque and fascinating to me how methodical it all was, how precise. There was a beauty to the process of making sure nothing went to waste. That was what I always thought of as slaughter . Not just the kill, but the dismembering.

This… this was no slaughter. It was an act of hatred, and no word came to mind to describe it—perhaps it never would. My parents had suffered, that was clear. There was something personal in nature to this killing. Something disturbing about it. Their stilled hearts peeked through their rib cages, as if suspended. Their entrails flowed to the ground, bunching at their feet in the way a long blanket might. Their perfect posture at the ready, as if hosting someone of importance.

I stared, trying to decipher the message as if there were one, silently repeating, how did this happen?

A tender hand settled on my shoulder, jolting me, and I finally noticed the tears flowing down my cheeks through no volition of my own.

I turned and vomited on the blood-stained rug beneath my feet. The warm embrace of a cloak wrapped around me, and I was grateful for the supporting hands that held me as I walked toward the front door on wobbly legs. My footsteps were sticky and made a sickening slurp as we made our way outside.

Stepping into daylight, the spring colors all around me felt like a dream, as if the horrors inside the cabin were now my entire reality. It was too contrasting. Too jarring. Too bright.

As if the king could read my thoughts, he gently scooped me up and eased me down under the massive weeping willow in our front yard—I was too wrung out to object.

I’d always thought of weeping willows as holding deep sorrow. It was something in the way their branches yield to gravity. How they turn downward, as opposed to stretching up to meet the world, confident and open for all to see. Perhaps I was in good company then, and the willow could take some of this newfound hollowness away. Or maybe I too was destined to weep in perpetuity.

“You’re in shock,” the king said with a softness that surprised me. It was enough to break me from my musings with the willow, and look up at him. He held out a finely crafted canteen, offering it to me.

“Why are you here?” I rasped, not reaching for the drink. The absurdity of this situation started to clear away some of the haze surrounding me. Here was the king, my king, nowhere close to his residence, offering me a canteen, and for the love of the gods, I couldn’t piece together why.

Indeed, the whole situation had me doubting my sanity. I was good at foraging; I’d made sure of it. Many had died by being careless. I’d been meticulous today. Then, the scene from the couch flashed in my mind, and I realized this had to be real—there was no way I could conjure up such an image, poisoned herbs or no.

The king’s smile was tentative as he lowered the proffered canteen and crouched down to face me at eye level. “The truth, Nyleeria, is that I was searching for you.”

Madness, utter madness. But he didn’t balk or look away under the scrutiny of my gaze. I weighed his words with the truth that rang in them. “Why?” I asked.

“That is a fair question, and one I promise to answer. But it’s complicated, and dusk approaches. We must be getting back. Drink this”—he offered the canteen once more—“and I will explain everything once you’re settled.”

Perhaps he felt like an anchor, and I was unwilling to let go for fear of going adrift. Or maybe the overwhelming exhaustion that was about to consume me. But I accepted his offering without further protestation.

The canteen was warm—heavier than anticipated. As my hands wrapped around it, I could feel the delicate carvings that donned its face. I breathed in the heady aroma wafting from the vessel, and felt the warm, calming liquid slip down my throat before it swept me into oblivion.