Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

6. Veyka

6

VEYKA

There was such silence in my head.

Blessed, beautiful silence. I was not kneeling on the rough flagstones of Eilean Gayl’s ancient bridge. Nor was I surrounded by the ragged remnants of my court, my Knights of the Round Table. I did not disappear into the void or try to escape to a realm beyond description or imagination.

I did not exist at all.

How could I?

He is gone, Your Majesty.

Silence reigned. I did not hear those words. I felt them.

The threads of my being snagged and severed. The twisted, intricate knots of love and friendship that held me together suddenly frayed—one critical, crucial, beautiful string severed forever.

I needed that second of silence to stretch out forever. A thousand years. Longer. Even that would not be enough to mourn him. But what I needed was no longer a consideration. I sucked in a breath that could not become a sob.

Then the world came crashing in once more.

Elayne’s voice, giving sharp, precise orders to terrestrials, organizing accommodations for the elemental survivors. Crying—there was so much crying. Children who’d lived through hell and now were a continent away from everything they’d ever known clung to mothers whose elemental facades had long since shattered. I heard Maisri’s dulcet tones, singing a soft terrestrial lullaby to a squalling babe.

Lyrena recounted the details of the rescue to a sniffling Cyara. My handmaiden had lost her father tonight. Or weeks ago. Ancestors, there was so much I did not know. The weight of it pressed in on me, heavier with every word and whimper.

Beneath it all, the low rumble of Arran’s beast vibrated, a constant reminder, an eternal threat.

I needed to speak. They all awaited my reactions, my orders. But when I opened my mouth, no words came out. Just silence.

Arran’s arms tightened around me. No words came into my mind through that bond between us, but I knew he understood me just the same.

“Tell us,” Arran commanded, his voice grave.

I couldn’t bring myself to look up at Gwen. I let myself stare past Arran’s shoulder, to the scarred rocks that formed the walls on either side of the bridge. If I looked at anyone, I would break. My own grief was too heavy all on its own.

Gwen sucked in a measured inhale, but she could not hide the trembling of her voice. “Merlin and Igraine conspired with the Shadows. In attempting to ascertain the depth of their treachery, Merlin escaped. I went after her. Igraine captured Parys.” Her voice broke. “I was too late.”

Too late. He is gone. Too late. He is gone.

The chorus created a sickening cacophony inside my head.

Cyara choked back a sob. Lyrena dug her heel into the ground, grinding it against the stones. Beyond, the sounds of terrestrials following orders had begun to drown out the cries of the elementals. There was so much noise in this night.

Arran’s arms tightened around me as he waited for more words of explanation. So tight, the curls of my new black Talisman began to burn. But Gwen did not speak again. I waited for the anger to rise inside of me, expected the words of rage to dance on my tongue, demanding more from her. But there was no room for anger amidst the sadness that had settled into every corner of my body.

What else could she possibly say? Parys was gone.

Gwen could blame herself.

I could and would and did blame myself.

But there was one word that stood out to me from the explanation that she’d given. One name. Igraine .

“Does she live?”

No one asked who I meant.

“She is imprisoned in Baylaur,” Arran answered.

Not even the promise of being able to punish the Dowager myself cut through my grief. What little energy my body had retained deserted me. I sagged against Arran.

I felt the alarm that tremored through him. He stood, sweeping me into his arms in one motion.

Arran’s orders were brisk and direct. “The Lord and Lady of Eilean Gayl will see to the refugees and the wounded. Cyara, go to your mother. Lyrena, rest and replenish yourself. Your fire saved us; we may need it again sooner than we realize. We will reconvene at sundown.”

The steady steps and gentle rustle of wings told me that Lyrena and Cyara had departed. But the faint feline sense of being watched lingered.

“What is your command, Your Majesty?” Gwen asked quietly.

I wanted to tell him to be gentle with her, that I could sense her a second away from shattering. How often had I been in such a state, myself? But even the energy it took to lift my eyes in her direction was too much.

“Do whatever you need to make yourself whole, Guinevere. I need a general, not a broken warrior,” Arran said. So terribly brutal, those words. He’d said nearly the same thing to me when he first came to Baylaur, calling me useless.

But he was right.

Arran did not linger. As he carried me back toward the castle, I could feel their presence. My Knights of the Round Table lingered still, waiting to see me to safety.

I had friends—a family. They were each grieving, reeling from the revelations of the last hour. But they did not turn away. They did not falter. They wanted to take care of me.

Just this once, I let them.