A Deal with the Elf King (Married to Magic, #1)(19)

The heels of my shoes clop loudly on the floor as I trudge over.

“Queens should float, not walk like a horse.” So he’s allowed to make remarks but I’m not? I tilt my head to the side, pressing my lips shut in a firm line. He smirks, understanding my silent game. “Good, I’ll take the horse. At least they’re silent.”

I whinny to spite him and I think I see his eye twitch.

I twirl, my skirts billowing around me as I stand before the redwood throne—my throne—and sit.

The second I am seated on the throne, I burn with invisible flames. Magic overcomes me for the second time in one day, scraping me raw. My vision tunnels, blurs, and then expands wider than I’d ever thought possible.

I see the roots of this throne—this tree—snaking down through eons of stone and mortar. They sink deep into the earth, penetrate the bedrock, and stretch into the very foundations of the land itself.

My head spins. I want to throw up. I try to scream. But I don’t think I move. At least, my body doesn’t move.

My mind continues to spread through the soil and rock. One root touches another. I’m in the trees of the city, then the barren forests far down below the castle. I feel the grasses in the fields, brittle and dry.

Dying. The world is dying.

Nurture. Life! every plant and animal cries out to me with a singular voice. Give it to us.

Give.

Give, give!

Their roots are in me, their wooden points pushing under my nails, into my abdomen, snaking up my throat. The world itself is groping for me and I am helpless to stop it.

The land is thirsty, and I am the rain. The beasts are hungry, and my flesh is their food.

Take. Take.

They will consume me, all of me, far too quickly.

I’m fading.

There’s not enough for me and for them. There’s not enough in this world. Everything is dying and screaming to me for help—a help I don’t know if I can give. I don’t know how to give.

Two hands wrench me free. The clutches of the earth curl away and shrivel, silently screaming in protest. Light returns to me. Eyes—my eyes—I can see again. But the world is hazy. Things are too bright and moving too quickly.

The world tilts and I tilt with it. Bile rises up my throat and splatters on the floor. It’s the first sound my ears can hear. Now I hear talking, cursing, feet moving.

“…get… Poppy will… No…stay…”

Stay.

Two strong arms are around me. They tighten as I shudder violently. I’m against something stable—more solid than the land itself.

“Saraphina.” The word is whispered to me by a familiar voice. No, it’s not a word. It’s a name. It’s my name. I don’t know how I know that, but nothing has ever resounded with more truth. “Saraphina,” the voice repeats, sinking deep into my soul. “Calm. Calm.”

Calm.

The word settles on my bones with an icy chill. It spreads across my body, not unfamiliar, but also not unwelcome this time.

Freeze me, I want to beg. Encase me in ice, in cold, in something that will make this horrible fire that burns underneath my skin vanish. Freeze me, or I may die.

“Saraphina, stay with me.”

I can’t oblige. The world fades to a cold blackness and I slip away.

But this time, there is no pain.





Chapter 8





I crack my eyes open and face the dawn bitterly. I’m back in my chambers on the massive bed. Feathers poke out at my cheek and eye through the pillowcase.

When I go to sit up, I find that I can’t. My arms refuse to support my body. I can’t even straighten my elbows.

With enough wriggling, I manage to flip onto my back and let out a monumental whine. I feel as though I’ve swum the wide, choppy strait between Capton and Lanton. I’m a beached whale, heaving, and begging for life.

Begging for life.

The violent echoes of the needy earth come back to me. I groan and bring my hands up to my ears. It’s futile to try and block out the whispering demands; the sound is coming from within me. The hungry cries reverberate in my marrow.

“You’re awake,” a man says from my bedside.

I crack my eyes open and my hands fall limply on my pillow. At first glance, my mind deceives me and I’m back in my bed. My father sits beside me, wringing a washcloth out to put back on my forehead. I blink and the illusion is gone. Nothing more than a memory of comfort I will never know again.

“Who are you?” I rasp.

“Willow.”

“The name suits you.” He’s all arms and legs, waif-like and as spindly as a willow tree. The man’s eyes are a sad shade of blue and he looks at me with a heavy gaze. “I don’t want your pity,” I mutter.

“Like it or not, you have it.” He wrings out a cloth in the basin at my side and returns it to my forehead.

“Am I fevered?” I ask.

“Mildly. It’s breaking. The king won’t tell us your true name, so we’re limited in what we can do for you,” he says in a way that tells me the fact is a point of contention. Anyone who stands up to King Eldas is a friend of mine, I decide. “So we have to use more traditional medicines.”

“That means?”

“Potions, salves, whatever herbal remedies we can concoct.”