To Wear a Fae Crown (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “How will you prove yourself?” Mr. Duveau asks.

  “I will do anything of reasonable means that supports the peace of the isle. Once I prove myself, only then will you change the treaty. After it is officially changed, I will defeat King Ustrin and claim the throne. I already have followers who support me.” That last part is only partially true. Or perhaps it’s a full lie. There are followers I intend on convincing to support me, would be more accurate. Lucky for me, I’m not full-fae. My lies go undetected.

  “We should take a brief recess and then deliberate Miss Fairfield’s offer,” one of the jurors says.

  A wave of hope rises inside me as several other jurors affirm their agreement. They’re taking me seriously. They’re—

  “No.” Mr. Duveau’s voice silences the room. With slow steps, he approaches me. Once he’s in front of my chair, he leans forward and lowers his voice. “You seem to forget something, Miss Fairfield. Changing the treaty to allow you to stay may keep most of the treaty intact, but it will sever the Legacy Bond. Why would I agree to that?”

  My shoulders tremble with suppressed rage. “You would put your own love for power over the benefits I offer our people?”

  “There’s more to it,” he says with a malicious grin. “I don’t think you have what it takes to beat King Ustrin.”

  My words come between my gritted teeth. “Then give me a chance. Amend the treaty stating the changes go into effect only if I beat him.”

  “No,” he says again. “The council will not accept. I will not accept. You have no right to ask in the first place. You have no right to defy me. You have no right to even beg. As a human, you are nothing but a Chosen, a sacrifice made for the good of the isle. As a fae, you are the illegal ancestor of a criminal.”

  Fire heats my palms, and it takes all the restraint I have not to set the arm of my chair ablaze. “It’s not for you to decide. The jury—”

  “In matters of the treaty, I am the legal judge and executioner. My word is final.”

  All hope drains from me at once, and with it goes my fire.

  He takes a step away, voice rising for all to hear. “Our original terms stand. You, your mother, and your sister were offered exile or execution. Your sister didn’t come today, so the punishment is death.”

  Aspen shudders at my side, chest heaving. I can feel his anger, his helplessness at not truly being here in physical form.

  Franco lets out several angry caws, while the jurors exchange furious whispers. The councilmen, on the other hand, seem perfectly composed.

  It’s over. Mr. Duveau will never let me stay. He’s sentenced us to death. There’s only one thing left to fight for.

  31

  “Please,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Please reconsider. I told you, I tried to get my sister to come. Just...just let us leave the isle. At the very least, let my mother go free.”

  Mr. Duveau grins. “Oh, now you beg for my mercy? Now you ask me to allow you to take exile?”

  Mother tries to speak, but all she can make is a pained moan.

  I nod. “Please.”

  “I want to see you beg.” The room returns to silence as Mr. Duveau takes a key from the pocket of his black robe. He places it inside a lock on the arm of my chair. With a turn, the cuffs at my wrists and ankles spring open. He steps back and motions me forward. “I want you to plead on your knees.”

  Mother’s teeth chatter as she says my name, but I pay her no heed. With shaking steps, I rise from my chair and move toward the councilman.

  “Don’t dare try anything clever,” he says, pulling his robe to the side. A flash of silver catches my eyes. A revolver, like the one Sheriff Bronson had. I swallow hard. Since when do councilmen carry revolvers? “Iron bullets,” he says with a smirk.

  “Don’t do this,” Aspen says, voice thick with fury. “Do not beg from this monster. We’ll find another way.”

  I ignore him as I lower to my knees and press my palms together. “Please show us mercy.”

  “Beg me to exile you.”

  “Please exile me and my mother.” My words are flat, toneless.

  The councilman responds with icy silence. “Perhaps I’ll consider exiling your mother,” he says. “You, however, will serve a different fate before you meet your exile. You made a good point about the treaty. I can exile you without sending you away right now.”

  I don’t know what he’s carrying on about, as all words have lost meaning.

  He continues. “Before you take your exile, you will serve in the Briar House.”

  My eyes shoot to his.

  “That is the only way I will agree to grant you freedom from execution.”

  My mouth is too dry to say a word, so I give him a jagged nod.

  “Beg,” Mr. Duveau says through his teeth. “Beg me to take you to the Briar House. Beg me to be your first patron.”

  Aspen darts toward the councilman, lips pulling back from his teeth as he roars in his face. Mr. Duveau, of course, can’t see him, nor can he feel my mate’s antlers making their futile attempts to tear into the man.

  I open my mouth to do as told, but this time it’s fury that holds me back. Anger builds in my core, snapping me out of my daze. I’m frozen, suspended between words that will condemn my mother and words that will destroy my honor.

  An unexpected voice shatters the silence in the room. “You will not beg.” Mother’s words are said through chattering teeth, but they’re stronger than I expected them to be. “You will not utter a single one of those words, Evelyn. You do not plead for this scum to defile you. This ends now. I will end my life myself before I see you on your knees before this filth a minute more.”

  Mr. Duveau shoots my mother a glare before turning his eyes back to me. “This is your last chance, Miss Fairfield. Beg now or die.”

  All I hear is my mother’s words, her fire sparking with mine, creating an inferno in my heart. My mind becomes clear. My mother is right. I cannot grovel before this man, even if it’s for my life or hers. I’m not merely a human Chosen or an illegal fae. I’m so much more. I’m a lover and a daughter and the descendant of a king. I am the Unseelie Queen of Fire.

  I turn my head to meet my mother’s gaze. Her eyes have grown clear, swimming with flames. We exchange no words, but a silent understanding passes between us. If this is the end, so be it. Mother gives me a subtle nod.

  I rise to my feet on strong legs. “No.”

  “Seize them.” Mr. Duveau’s shout brings two guards toward me, while the others close in on Mother. A sudden blast of light halts all movement for a split second. I look toward Mother. Despite the icy water soaking her bottom half, fire erupts from her palms, melting the iron cuffs. She yanks them hard, and they break, releasing her. She presses a fiery palm to the chest of the nearest guard, and he shouts in pain.

  “Maven Fairfield.” My mother’s name bursts from Mr. Duveau’s lips, carrying the undeniable weight of magic. “Do not move.”

  To my horror, Mother freezes where she stands, and the guards wrest her arms behind her back. Mr. Duveau retrieves his revolver from beneath his robe and points it at her.

  I look from him to Mother, then back again. That’s when I remember my final weapon against the councilman. One I didn’t want to use unless absolutely necessary.

  “Henry Duveau.” I say it with the same power I touched when I used Aspen’s true name. I await the vision of the bridge, the cliffs, but it doesn’t come. Only a flicker of a vast chasm obscured by fog. Perhaps the vision of the bridge is unique to me and Aspen. I refocus on the power of the councilman’s name. “You will let my mother go. You will allow us to leave this trial unharmed and will not pursue us for as long as we live.”

  My eyes lock on Mr. Duveau’s, his expression unreadable.

  Then, to my horror, his lips pull into a wide grin. “Did you really think I’ve made my birth name public? Did you honestly believe you had the power of my true name?”

  He pulls the trigger.

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sp; My world shatters at the sound of the gun firing, then narrows to the point of a bullet. All sound is hollow in my ears as I watch the bullet strike between my mother’s eyes.

  There’s no moment of hope, no opportunity for Mother to fight against the iron that burrows into her forehead and ends her life.

  A scream that is mine yet sounds so far away bursts from my chest as Mother’s body topples into the tub, the water quickly running a bright shade of red.

  I’m vaguely aware of a raven’s caw as Mr. Duveau shields his head, shouting as a black beak seeks to peck out his eyes. A few of the guards leave my mother’s lifeless form to charge the bird, while others close in on me.

  Anger burns inside my heart, sharpening my mind. The raven shifts into Franco, but he’s unlike any version of him I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, lithe, cloaked in shadow, fangs lengthening in his terrifying maw as he intercepts the guards. The guards shrink back with horrified shouts, and I watch as shadows are leeched from them, being pulled in by the prince.

  The councilmen and jurors begin to shout, clambering out of their seats.

  Mr. Duveau stumbles back from the dark prince, and my eyes lock on him. Heat floods my palms as I pursue his retreat. When his attention meets mine, his composure stiffens. He turns the barrel of his gun on me. “Evelyn Fairfield.”

  I’m too enraged to fear that he’s using my name. All I feel is fire and pain and a burning need for revenge.

  “Don’t move,” Mr. Duveau says, the power of my name heavy in the command.

  I freeze, hating the lack of control over my own motor functions. His fingers find the trigger, but before he can pull it, I say his name again. He may have kept his birth name secret, but the Legacy Bond means I should have power over it regardless. So this time, I seek the power of intent. His true name, his true name. I repeat it like a mantra, seeking it beneath the fog that blankets the chasm. There’s still no bridge, but a thin rope-like tether connects us and is growing clearer by the second. I imagine his hands stiff and immobile, frozen like ice, unable to fire the gun.

  The councilman’s hand begins to shake, and I can see the effort it’s taking him to try and pull the trigger. His gaze intensifies, and I feel his attention on my name. I still can’t move, but neither can his trigger finger.

  Sweat beads at my brow, but I maintain my focus, gripping that tether with everything inside me. From the corner of my eye, I see Franco still fighting with the guards, most of whom are cowering on the floor, convulsing wildly.

  Mr. Duveau blinks a few times, his face growing red. Finally, a gasp escapes his lips and he lowers the gun. In that same moment, an enormous creature barrels between me and the councilman. My heart leaps into my throat. It’s Aspen. The real Aspen, not the ethereal version of him that was here before.

  In stag form, Aspen charges Mr. Duveau, antlers striking the man’s midsection and sending him sprawling across the floor. I’m about to chase after him, my palms yearning to burn his flesh to a crisp, but Aspen steps between us. “Get on,” he says.

  Mr. Duveau struggles to rise, blood seeping from his abdomen. Everything inside me wants to finish the job. To do to him what he did to my mother.

  “Get on!” Aspen repeats, louder this time. That’s when I see the flood of soldiers enter the room. Without a second thought, I pull myself on Aspen’s back. He carries us toward the startled soldiers before they can react, swinging his antlers to clear our way. In seconds, we’re racing out the front of the building, Aspen’s hooves pounding the cobblestones.

  “Get Foxglove and meet us at Lunar,” Aspen says.

  I know he must be talking to Franco, but I don’t bother looking for the raven prince. All I see is blood and flames, my mother’s lifeless body in a tub of crimson water. Sorrow threatens to unravel me, so I seek my anger instead. It burns easily, searing me from the inside.

  I lose all sense of time as we race through the night, Aspen’s stag mouth lathering as he carries us from city streets to the quiet forest. Even beneath the cover of trees, he neither slows nor rests. My anger refuses to slacken as well and only seems to grow with every minute, every hour that passes. The heat becomes tangible, uncomfortably warm as sweat drips from every inch of my skin. I’m only half-aware of the bright glow that emanates from my body.

  Aspen’s voice comes out strained. “Take it to the Twelfth Court.”

  I don’t know what he means, nor can I find words to respond.

  Instead, I burn, burn, burn.

  32

  My next coherent thought is a sudden awareness that I’m surrounded by water from the waist down.

  As if waking from a dream, my mind grows sharper, my vision clearer. Up until this moment, all I saw was smoke and flames. Blood. My mother’s corpse.

  Fire threatens to consume me again, but the water seems to quell it, returning me to neutral.

  I blink several times as I take in my surroundings. The domed ceiling overhead is familiar, as is the quality of moonlight streaming into the room and sending the surface of the water glittering.

  I’m in the moon baths at the Lunar Court, half-submerged in one of the three pools.

  Something soft brushes against my back, a soothing touch. I crane my neck to find Aspen behind me in the pool, a sponge of silky moon moss in his hands as he runs it over my shoulder. I wince, eyes roving to where the sponge made contact. All along my arms are bright patches of raw skin, surrounded by darker charred flesh. The sleeves of my shirt are nearly burned entirely off—or perhaps they were torn by Aspen in order to do what he’s doing.

  He dips the sponge in the water and returns it to my shoulder, letting the water trail down my arm. Each trickle of water and brush of the moss eases a pain that I’m only just growing aware of.

  “What happened?” My throat feels raw, my words coming out hoarse.

  “You were burning.” His voice is quiet, gentle, although it carries a hint of strain.

  “How long?” I’m barely able to finish the sentence as I choke on the last word. My lungs feel like they’re filled with smoke.

  “Hours. It’s just before dawn at Lunar.”

  I’m surprised it’s so quiet, considering this is when the palace is most active. “Where is everyone?”

  “Queen Nyxia ordered the moon baths and the hall outside vacated when I brought you here.”

  “Why?” I wheeze. “Why are we here?”

  “In Lunar, or in the bath?”

  “Bath.”

  “Like I said, you were burning. You burned the entire way here.”

  That explains my scorched skin. I remember how I erupted with fire, how I burned relentlessly until I slipped out of awareness. If it took us several hours to get here, I must have been unconscious for most of the journey. “Why did my fire burn me?”

  He dips the sponge in the water again, then trails it lightly over my burns, easing my wounds some more. “Your powers got out of hand. Fae magic can hurt even its wielder if one knows not how to control it.”

  “Could it have killed me?”

  “Your own fire can never kill you, but when allowed to consume you that way...it’s debilitating.”

  I watch as he dips the moon moss again and returns it to my arm. “I thought water was harmful to fire.”

  “An attack by water, yes,” he says. “However, your fire got out of balance. An opposing element can bring it back to healthy levels without harming you. It’s helping you heal.”

  That much is obvious, but I thought perhaps it had more to do with the moon moss.

  “These pools are more than just for daily cleansing,” he explains. “They are constantly purified by the light of the moon and stars, charged with energy when the moon is full. This was the only place I could think to take you.” His voice sounds pained, expressing an undercurrent of worry beneath his composure.

  Aspen pauses, and I realize he’s finished soothing my arm. In fact, he must have already tended the first arm, because both seem unmarred save for their deep pink h
ue. I turn to face him fully but freeze, startled by what I see. He wears no jacket, no waistcoat, and what remains of his shirt is nothing but charred tatters. His chest is covered with what looks like mild burns, and an angry red color marks his neck...as if...

  I try to circle behind him, but he’s faster. Not so fast that I don’t glimpse a flash of red and black puckered skin. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes. “Aspen! Is that from me?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m already beginning to heal.”

  “But I...I did that.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “You carried me here on your back in stag form and I burnt you the entire time.” This is the first time I’ve been forced to consider what features fae carry between forms. If even his clothing has been destroyed, then I can only imagine his stag fur and flesh burnt to a crisp.

  My stomach churns and I reach for the sponge of moon moss. He lifts his hand over my head, snatching it out of my reach. “You aren’t healed yet.” His eyes flash over my torso, covered only by the remnants of my burnt blouse.

  I try to stretch for the moss, but wince as the motion sears my side. Hoping he didn’t notice, I say, “Let me tend to your wounds, damn you.”

  “No, Evie.” His voice is firm yet gentle. “For once in your life, let someone else put your wellbeing above their own.”

  His expression has me swallowing all argument. Instead, I offer a compromise. “We’ll take care of each other then.”

  He releases a sigh. “Fine.”

  I glance again at my chest, then start to undo the buttons. Aspen averts his gaze, shifting from foot to foot. It reminds me of how awkward he was before our conversation in the alley. Before our kiss. I hope what’s happened since then hasn’t pushed us a step back again.