Chapter Nineteen Felicity

Chapter Nineteen

Felicity

"T HERE IT IS. " M ORDEUS'S SILVER eyes drag over her, assessing and bright. Satisfied. "There's the power I was promised. It blazes bright inside you."

She wants to spit at him but, again, has no control over her body. These visits are worse than the cell. Worse than the torture by the guards and the bugs crawling over her food. This paralysis is everything her sister was talking about when she warned her against the fae. And I didn't listen.

The cry that rips from her lips is the only way she knows she has control of her vocal cords again. She tries to wiggle her fingers, to squirm from her chair, but nothing happens. Speaking is all she can do.

Tears stream down her cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You have a gift. I see it behind your fear." He cocks his head to the side. "Why did the gods see fit to grant such magic to a human girl?"

He's mad. A mad faerie king raving nonsense at a human girl he stole in order to play some mad faerie game. She has no power, and if she did, she would never use it on his behalf. Never.

"I have no power." She's sobbing and hates him for it. Hates herself for it. She's so sick of being powerless, so sick of being weak and letting these horrible creatures know it.

Then the darkness grabs ahold of her—biting, clawing, pulling her in all directions, threatening to tear her apart. Her sobs turn to keening cries for help. She cries for her sister, who hasn't come, for her mother, who left them long ago, for the gods, who left them to be preyed on by the fae.

The pain is there. It is one with the darkness. And then, in a flash of flames, it's gone. The room reappears—the table before them with its flickering candles.

She flies to her feet and falls to the floor just as quickly, unprepared to have control of her limbs again. The pain is gone, but she can feel its echo in her bones. She curls into herself because moving is too terrifying.

Mordeus kneels in front of her. "The pain makes you stronger, little human. Endure."

His face is blurry through her tears. Nothing he's saying makes sense. The only thing she understands is her hatred. It boils and rages, a tempest inside.

If she ever has any power, she will use it to end him.

"Do you believe in destiny?" Maybe it's a strange question to ask a goblin, but I trust Nigel more than I trust almost anyone, and I know that with the collective knowledge of the goblins, he understands this world better than I ever will.

"There are certain inevitabilities," he says. He's playing solitaire on the floor in front of my bed while I sit curled up in a chair by the window.

It's a cold afternoon in the Wild Fae territory, winter threatening to blow in early, and though the castle remains warm, I always feel cold weather in my bones.

"Inevitabilities?" I ask. "Sounds like another word for destiny."

"You can call them destiny if you like." He flips over a card and cackles in triumph. He loves solitaire. I gifted him with his own deck of cards years ago, and he asked me to keep them for him—said he doesn't like to play alone. He didn't see the irony.

"So there's no free will?" I ask.

He looks up from his spread of cards. "My child, for every vision that oracle had of you plunging the blade into your father's heart, she had another of him cutting your throat while your first cries still filled the halls of his palace. Both cannot be true, so there is most certainly free will."

I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. "So you don't think I'm being selfish for refusing to assassinate my father?"

He shakes his head but keeps his eyes on his cards as he shuffles one pile to the next. "My girl has never been selfish, though I might call her foolhardy."

I scoff. "Foolhardy? How can you say that?"

"She who tries to manipulate the fates falls right into their trap."

I shake my head. "I can't do it. I won't sacrifice Hale if there's a chance we can bring Erith down another way."

He flips over a card and smacks it. "Drat." He sweeps the lot into a pile before looking at me again. "Are you asking about destiny because you're curious about who you kill or because you're hurt that the male you're falling for has been avoiding you?"

I frown. Misha is avoiding me. He wasn't in the training yard when I arrived there at sunrise today, even though I hadn't spoken with him since we tussled there yesterday. Tynan ran me through my exercises. When I asked if Misha would be meeting me for breakfast, I was told the king had left the castle on court business and I could take my meal wherever I pleased.

I shouldn't have spied on Misha and Amira. I was nervous that he was onto me, but afterward I realized that may have been nothing more than an excuse. I wanted to know what Misha was feeling, but hearing him contemplate a relationship with Jasalyn only left me morose.

I hate that yesterday's fleeting moment together—whatever it was—scared him away. I've been telling myself it's because my research on portals isn't getting me anywhere and I may truly need him in order to locate the Hall of Doors. But the truth may be less devious than that. I enjoy being around the Wild Fae king, and even though it's only been a day, I miss his company.

I'm ashamed to contemplate how much of the day I wasted stewing and pining when I needed to be researching. I skimmed through a book that discussed the merits of placing portals in the mountains, where their power would echo along the nearby cliffs and circle back rather than dissipate along an open horizon. That, however, does me little good when the Wild Fae territory has more mountains than plains.

"That's what I thought," Nigel says.

I make a face. "I am not falling for anyone, so stop it."

His big eyes bulge. "She lies! I swore my allegiance to the child during her days in swaddling clothes, and now she lies to me about her heart."

I look out the window and toward the valley in the distance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're finally in love, and you plan to hide it from me ?"

"Don't be ridiculous. This is not love."

He chuckles again and waddles toward me. "Silly girl. You forget how long I've lived. I know the smell of early love. It's too stinky to miss—earthy and ripe, and laced with hope."

I chew on the inside of my cheek. "He thinks I'm Jasalyn."

He bops the tip of my nose with his knobby finger. "Ah, but he wishes you were not."

I give him a quick smile. "Thanks, I guess?" Nigel always delivers words of comfort that don't feel very comforting at all. "Is my mother okay?"

"Your mother was killed by your father the day he found out she hid you from him."

I cringe. So literal. "No, I'm asking about Hale's mom—the woman who raised me ."

"Oh. Her. She's not dead."

Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers. "Emotionally speaking, Nigel. How is she getting along?"

"Fine. Strong-willed, that one." He shrugs. "She rarely calls for her goblin."

I nod. She's always been more interested in doing for others than in letting them do for her.

"What else is troubling you tonight, my child?"

"I keep thinking about the resurrection of the wicked king." I can't stop thinking about last night's dream. The pain. Mordeus and his insistence that Jas has a magical gift shown to him by the oracle. Why would the oracle show Mordeus Jasalyn's magic? And what kind of powers might she have for him to believe he needed them? Is she the necromancer he would need to make his resurrection complete? Is it possible that she would be more powerful than any necromancer Mordeus ever met? Even if she is, how would he convince her to use such powerful magic to bring him back when she would do anything to destroy him for good?

As much as I want answers, I have to be careful what and how I ask Nigel. I trust him with my life, but I can't trust all goblins. Anything I tell Nigel becomes part of the greater goblin consciousness, whether Nigel wishes it to or not. Sometimes the wrong people make payment to the right goblin and ask the right question, and information you shared when trying to help your cause suddenly works against you. "How would something like that even work if the gods weren't behind it?"

"Sacrifice, my child." His head snaps to the closed door on the opposite side of my chambers. "You have a visitor," he says. Then he disappears.

After two brief knocks, the door swings open and Misha strolls in wearing riding leathers, a bandolier of knives strapped to his waist, and his sword on his back. "Good afternoon, Princess. I see you've returned to your old habits of wasting away the day."

I barely refrain from springing out of my chair. Instead, I calmly unfold myself and settle my hands on my knees as I lean toward him. "Are you serious?"

He frowns at the strap of my chemise that's fallen off my shoulder. "Are you denying you've been reading in your room since breakfast?" He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Hurry and dress. We should leave."

"You blow me off last night, then for training and breakfast this morning, and now you show up in my chambers and have the nerve to criticize me for how I spend my time?"

His lips twitch. "You missed me."

"Look who's full of himself."

"No." He leans against my armoire and folds his arms, studying me. "Simply observant."

"I was led to believe we'd be training together," I say. His gaze is too knowing, so I study my book, tracing the letters on the cover. "I was worried."

"I needed to run an errand." He strolls toward me and pulls a silver necklace from his pocket. The chain is thick and holds an ebony crescent moon charm. The moon is upended, like a cup set to catch rainwater. "To retrieve this from the Midnight Palace."

My breath catches. "That belonged to Mordeus?"

"Yes." He tucks it back into his pocket. "Now, get ready. We're going to see Gaelynn's witch and confirm what we already know to be true."

I lift my gaze to his. "Why didn't you tell me where you were going?"

With a grimace, he narrows his eyes at the view outside my window. "In truth, I was afraid you'd want to go with me, and I thought that if you did, you might want to stay." He clears his throat. "Since your sister seems incapable of telling you no, I didn't want to put her in that position."

I bite back a smile. "Oh. You did it for Brie."

"She is my friend, Jasalyn."

"You didn't do it for any other reason?" I ask, setting my blanket to the side. "Like maybe you'd miss me if I were gone?"

"Look who's full of herself now."

"No," I say, pushing out of my chair and standing toe to toe with him. "Just observant."

This witch's cottage is worse than Gaelynn's sanctuary. While the sanctuary itself left me unsettled, it's this witch whose presence my instincts tell me to escape as soon as possible.

After I dressed, Misha's goblin took us to the coast, where a mountain bluff holds a tiny hut that looks like it should've been blown away ages ago.

"And this necklace belonged to him?" the witch asks when Misha explains why we're there. She walks around with a cane and looks every bit as rickety as the old house. Her appearance says she could break if you breathe wrong. Her energy says she could break you if you breathe wrong.

"Indeed. His nephew said it was one of Mordeus's favorites."

"Do you need it back?"

"Do whatever you need to do. I just need to know if he lives."

She spins and drops the necklace into a steaming pot, where it hisses and moans. "He lives," she says, watching the steam rise. "He lives, but he dies."

"What does that mean?" I ask. It takes all my courage to stand beside Misha instead of cowering behind him.

"He's fighting for his life—floating between life and death. He has a body, but it stinks of death and rot. It cannot hold. He's conscious but is not fully of this world. His magic is weak." The steam dissolves in the air, and she shrugs. "That's all I can tell you."

"That's all we need to know," Misha says. "He's been—is being —resurrected."

"No. Resurrection is a gift given by the gods alone." She touches her fingers to her forehead and bows her head, murmuring something, as if saying a prayer of apology to those gods for Misha's very suggestion.

When she looks up, she braces her hands on the counter. "Is that all?"

Misha glances at me, then back to the witch. "I have one more question."

"Then ask it. I do not grow younger."

"The princess has these scars. They have been appearing out of nowhere, a new one every week or so for the last few months. Do you have any idea why?"

I spin on him. "What? What are you doing?"

"Show me," the witch snaps.

"Please," he whispers.

There's a vise around my chest. I don't want this female examining me. I don't want her anywhere near me even in my true form, but in this form, I'm practically shaking as I pull up my sleeve and reveal my forearm.

The witch pulls out a magnifying glass and holds it over the circular knot of scars above my wrist. "Out of nowhere, you say?"

"Yes. She goes to bed without them, and sometimes a new one will be there when she wakes."

I wish he'd told me he'd planned to do this. I would've found a way to get out of it. For one, Jas has lied to her sister and friends if they think these scars are coming from nowhere. Never mind that if the scars have been appearing weekly for the last three months, it's going to seem terribly suspicious that no new scars appear while I'm at Castle Craige. And no new scars will—even if Jasalyn's getting new scars daily, I won't. I'll only match the scars she had when she cut the hair I'm using to take her form.

"Every week?" the witch asks.

Misha looks to me, and I shake my head. I have no idea, but the more inconsistent this can seem, the better off I am. "At random intervals."

"Scars tell a story," the witch says, running her fingers over the mark again and again. "An adventure, a betrayal, an injury, a trauma." She presses her palm against the scar and closes her eyes. Her brow wrinkles and she presses harder.

"That hurts ," I say through gritted teeth.

She opens her eyes to slits. "Oh. I'm sorry. Did the girl want me to solve this mystery without any discomfort?"

"The girl isn't worried about this mystery," I mutter. It's true. I've dreamed one of Jas's memories of waking up with a new scar, and she was oddly ambivalent about it. She knew where it came from but didn't know why it was showing so belatedly. She was unconcerned about the effect on her appearance, and any memories the marks triggered, she pushed down deep.

"Sit," the witch snaps. "You're blocked. We need to open you up."

I look to Misha, wide-eyed. "I don't want to do this."

He pulls out the green velvet chair at the witch's small table. "You can trust her. We need answers."

I lower myself into it while quietly fortifying every single one of my mental shields.

The witch opens a cabinet and retrieves vials and bottles filled with liquids and powders of various colors. "There are parts of Elora," she says as she begins mixing them, "that dabble in blood magic. Ever heard of it?"

I have, though I'm sure Jas hasn't. It's one of those pieces of Eloran history that was lost—or, rather, buried —when the Elora Seven came into power. Now the magic is something that only they know and only they use. Magic is more powerful when fewer people have access to it, and the Elora Seven care about nothing more than power.

Misha folds his arms across his chest. "Blood magic? This is something Eloran mages practice?"

"Mages? Those spell-muttering humans?" she scoffs. "No, no. Blood magic is ancient. It's from a time before the gates between our realms were ever opened, and it was outlawed across their lands, but that didn't stop some from using it anyway."

"If mages aren't using it, then who?"

She stills with a vial ready to pour into another and turns narrowed eyes on the king. "Have you never been told the true history of the Eloran realm? From the days before the portals were open?"

He rocks back on his heels. "I haven't spent much time worrying myself over the history of other realms."

"Perhaps you should. Especially when you see evidence of blood magic used on a Faerie princess."

"What does it do?" Misha asks.

She taps some powder into her glass of various liquids, and it fizzes. "Blood magic has many purposes—from borrowing someone's magic to connecting your life force to theirs for extra strength in battle—but it's these scars that make me suspicious." She takes the seat across from me and meets Misha's gaze. "I've never seen blood magic scars myself, but my mother told me of them when she trained me. When the flesh is cut for a blood magic ritual, no mark is left behind. The magic heals it. It is only when that magic is called upon later that the scar appears."

Misha sinks into the chair next to mine and studies me. "Could these scars be tied to something that happened to you in Mordeus's dungeons?" He fists his hands on his thighs, as if bracing himself. Assuming I won't answer? Or preparing himself for the anger he might feel when faced with the truth?

Jas probably wouldn't answer, and I hate that responding differently feels like a betrayal to Jas, but I don't have a choice. Continued stubborn silence will only make him push harder. That's something I can't risk.

"I don't know if he was doing blood magic," I say, "but these scars?" I swallow and nod. "It's as if they are scars from what happened in his dungeon."

"And how many are there?" the witch asks. "More than this one?"

I watch Misha as I nod. "Quite a few more."

Misha pales, then squeezes his eyes shut. I know what he's thinking because I have thought the same. No wonder she hates the fae. No wonder she's so broken.

"What did he want with a human girl?" the witch whispers, swirling the potion in the glass. "And why are the markings coming to bear only now?" She takes my wrist again and lifts the glass, her hand shaking. "This will only sting for a minute."

With a turn of her wrist, she dumps the steaming liquid directly onto the gnarled scar, and I scream. It's as if the flesh is being ripped from my bones. As if she has inserted hundreds of tiny red-hot knives directly into the scar. As if she's twisting them and digging them deeper.

When the pain subsides enough for me to open my eyes, the room is filled with steam, and I can't see Misha or the witch.

A chair squeaks, and the steam clears enough for me to see her stand. A glass slips from her fingers and smashes on the floor.

"Get out."

"What's wrong?" Misha asks.

"Get out of my house!" The witch points at me. "She is not a human girl, and those scars are not right."

I back toward the door, hands shaking as my gaze bounces between the witch and Misha. I'm caught. This is over.

"Tell me what you saw," Misha says. He's so calm. So unbothered by what she said.

"Nothing," she screeches. "I saw nothing, and that is not possible." She backs into the counter behind her, knocking a vial over. It rolls to the ground and shatters, sending a puff of red vapor into the air. "Leave this house and do not come back with your lies. You are fae hiding in human skin."

"She has fae blood," Misha says, standing and offering his hand to calm the witch. "She is a child of Mab."

She dodges his hand. "Perhaps, but those scars have no story, no pain, no feeling in them. There are lies and trickery behind what we see there. You be careful, my king."

Misha's quiet for a long time as we walk away from the old witch's house. I try not to stare, but I'm desperate to know what's going on in his mind. The witch told him my scars are a lie. She told him this is trickery.

But he stays at my side as if we're old friends and not as if he's about to throw me in his dungeons. And I think that might be worse. The guilt I feel over this trust might be worse.

"How many more scars?" he asks. "I've seen the ones on your arms, but how many..." His feet scuff in the gravel as he stops and turns to me, eyes haunted.

"I haven't counted." I place my hand on my stomach. "Many here. More on my back. Some on my ankles."

"He did this to you." It's not a question. He's saying it for himself, as if he's trying to wrap his mind around it. "You were trying to protect Brie. That's why you wouldn't tell her—you knew where they were from, but you didn't want her to know what he did to you."

Swallowing, I bow my head. "What good would it do?" How many times has Jas thought the same thing?

He pulls me into his arms, one hand behind my back and another in my hair, and tucks my head under his chin.

I stiffen, at first because I'm so surprised at the gesture and then because I remember that I'm supposed to—that Jas doesn't like to be touched.

Misha releases me and steps back. "I'm so sorry," he says, retreating another step and shoving his hands into his pockets. "I wish you'd never had to endure that, and if I could go back—"

"You can't. We can't."

He nods, but his gaze is on my stomach, as if he can see the patchwork of scars through my clothes. "He was a special kind of evil. I knew it even then."

I glance over my shoulder toward the howling sea wind and the cottage, now hidden behind the thatch of trees. "What do you make of what she said? About my scars being lies?" I swallow hard. "Do you think that could be part of the blood magic? The absence of the scar's memory?"

Misha looks toward the cottage as well. "That's what I'm guessing. She said herself that she's never encountered this type of scarring before. I don't think we should make too much of her panic. Remember she also told us resurrection isn't possible without the gods right after telling us Mordeus lives."

"And what about what she said about me not being human?"

Some of the thoughtful calculation falls off his expression. "I'm sorry, Jasalyn. I think that's just a fact. You are fae. You just haven't fully transformed yet."

I hang my head to hide my relief. He's not concerned at all. Not even a little suspicious—though he should be.

If he ever figures this out, this will be one of those moments he hates himself for. Hates me for. I've done my job too well, and his affection for me has clouded his judgment.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Maybe the more time you spend around us, the sooner you'll see that we're not like him. Some are, and I make it my business to give them what they have coming to them, but the majority of us are mostly good and want to make this whole realm a better place."

"I know," I whisper. But I don't think Jas knows that at all. I draw in a ragged breath. "Is it possible that this blood magic the witch talked about is responsible for Mordeus's resurrection?"

"Even if your power comes to rival the Great Queen Mab's, that wouldn't be enough to bring a king back from the dead. But if you weren't the only one he used this blood magic on. If he was calling upon the magic from others as well..." He shrugs. "It's all so unprecedented. I'm not sure I can say what is or isn't possible."

"She spoke of him being alive but dying. His body is dying. I wonder if that means he hasn't found his necromancer yet." I'm thinking out loud again. I really need to stop that.

"I should hope not," Misha says. "I shudder to think of anyone with that kind of power. Even if we're right about the faceless plague making him stronger, true resurrection should be a power only the gods can wield."

"The Jewel spoke of foresight—of everything that would have to be put in place, and Mordeus..." I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. What would Jas do if she knew Mordeus was drawing strength from her? If she knew she was even a small part of the reason he was able to return? Nothing good. "When I tried to stop eating and drinking in the dungeons, Mordeus forced me to. He said he needed me to live, and in the next breath, he'd torture me. He said the pain would make me stronger. I think he knew he would need to draw on my power before anyone else even knew I had power to draw on."

When I lift my gaze to Misha's, his expression is bleak, and I realize too late what I revealed: that Jas stopped eating and drinking. That her time in the dungeons was so horrible she wanted to let death come. "We all underestimated how bad those weeks were for you," he says, his voice hoarse. "And you let us. You let us think you were being stubborn and narrow-minded rather than let your sister know the truth."

I don't know what to say and won't let myself reveal more, so I don't say anything at all.

"I'm sorry I didn't see it before," he says, swallowing.

I hate the regret I see in his eyes, the way he's blaming himself for not knowing the truth when Jas did everything she could to keep it a secret. "I didn't want you to."

"We need more answers," he says. "But I won't make you be part of finding them."

"No," I blurt. I take a deep breath. "Maybe this is good for me. I think... I think I need to be a part of it."

"If you're sure," he says softly.

I give a jerky nod, but guilt and worry claw at my chest. Misha's right. We don't know enough yet. If we truly want to stop Mordeus, we need Jas to tell us everything she knows: about what happened in the dungeons and what's changed in the last three months since the scars began to emerge. She could help us figure out how Mordeus is calling on the blood magic. I'm beginning to think she's the only one who has the answers we need.

Hale should be sending someone to check in with me sometime this week. I know he has spies in the castle, but he won't trust just anyone to take a full report from me. For that, he'll send one of his most trusted.

I just hope it's sooner than later. They need to know what we've learned before Mordeus finds his necromancer.