A throbbing ache stole through her heart, crushing her. The fraying thread connecting her to Garvan spasmed, pulling taut. Maeve gasped, rocking back as the Strand unraveled, severing them completely.
Garvan died exactly as she planned.
Staring up into her eyes.
The thud of footfalls echoed too loudly in her ears, and there was a scrape of rough voices. Guards, maybe? She couldn’t be sure. Nor could she tear her gaze away from her Aurastone, still protruding out of Garvan’s chest.
She sat back on her bloodied hands, tucking them beneath her. A masculine hand wrapped around the hilt and she squeezed her eyes shut, wincing at the suctioning sound of her blade being pulled from his heart.
“It’s okay,alanuhv.” Dorian gathered her into his arms as the Autumn guards hefted Garvan’s lifeless body, carrying him away. He pulled her to her feet and handed her the Aurastone. There was no trace left of the life she’d taken.
Maeve sheathed it quickly, unable to look at its shimmering gleam. Her nose tingled, her eyes burned, and she shuddered into her father’s embrace.
“He was broken, Maeve.” Dorian smoothed her hair, cupping the back of her head. “No one could save him.”
“I tried,” Maeve choked out.
“I know.” Dorian held her closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “But you must remember, we all have our limits. Try as we might, we can’t save everyone.”
Her father led her further down the corridor, away from the scene of death that was already being scrubbed away as though it hadn’t existed at all. She walked with him through the gilded hall, where sconces fashioned into crimson glass leaves glowedwith faerie fire. Tapestries of Autumn splendor lined one wall, while arching windows soared along the other, each one coming to a definitive point.
Maeve wondered what it would have been like if her mother were still alive. She could almost hear Fianna’s voice calling to her, could almost picture the stunning beauty of her mother’s smile.
Emotion crashed into her, a tidal wave of shame. It pulled her beneath the surface, drowned her in guilt. So much of this was her fault. So many atrocities, so much despair, and all of it could be traced back to her.
“I’m sorry.” The words fell from her before she could stop them.
Dorian glanced down at her, a line of concern crinkling across his brow. “Whatever for?”
“For taking her from you.”
His expression softened into one of kindness. Of pure love. “You never took her from me. Was I lost without her for a time? Yes. Did I miss her and grieve her? Yes.”
“But,” he continued, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow, “your mother and I were fated. Iknewshe carried you, blood of my blood. Just as I knew whatever reason she had for leaving must have been far greater than anything I could have imagined.”
Maeve shook her head, trying to make sense of it. “Garvan said you?—”
“We all deal with grief in our own ways, Maeve.” He patted her hand. “Do not ever feel like this is your fault. I may have lost your mother, but she gave me you.”
She threw her arms around his waist, hugging him fiercely. “Will you tell me about her?”
Dorian laughed. “Where shall I start?”
“From the beginning.” Maeve looked up into his face, where she could now see remnants of herself. “I want to know everything about her. And you.”
“Come with me.” They turned a corner, where the palace walls were lined with fluid paintings of shifting images depicting the history of Autumn. High Kings and High Queens from before, a visual representation of Maeve’s lineage. “Fianna Ruhdneah was fire and smoke. Her beauty was unrivaled, her laughter enough to make even the strongest of males drop to their knees.”
He nudged open a door, revealing a study filled with shelves of books. There was a sleek wooden desk that faced a window where the moonlight dusted the tops of jeweled trees. A fire roared to life in the hearth, warming the cozy space.
“If there is one thing you should know about your mother,” Dorian said, walking over to the desk. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick leather-bound book embossed with gold lettering. “It was that she was a reader.”
He sent her a knowing look.
“A reader who also loved to write.” He handed her the book.
The leather was soft against Maeve’s hands and she trailed the tip of her finger over the golden letters. “She was a writer…”
“Your mother wrote this story during the Evernight War and in the months following Carman’s rule.” Dorian tucked his hands behind her back. “I image she wrote it for you.”
