“Do you still want to go?” Damien asks gently.
I nod before he even gets the question fully out. “Yes. Yes, we should go. She’ll probably like the company.” The fucking company she should have had all her life. Instead of being shut away far from the castle like a sickness being contained.
The rest of the short trip I spend digging my boots into the dirt with every hard stomp I take toward the beautiful shimmering river. Light reflects off of it in shining white colors. It’s calming. It’s peaceful.
At least she has this piece of perfection to keep her company. It’s a nice little relaxing slice of nature.
It would be good for the elder fae to grow old with.
It’d be nice for a senior to rest near.
It—a blade strikes out and slices just beneath my jaw. “You newcomers dropping by to steal my crown?” A woman barks out at us. The sharp end of her blade never wavers for a single second. Which is impressive when I spot the small old woman holding the hilt of it.
Her big black wings are graying at the ends. They match the silver color of her long waving hair.
Grandmother Hyval.
“Your Highness,” Krave says with a sweeping bow. “Your son, Lord Gravier, sent us for an exclusive meeting regarding the renovation of your castle that you’re still waiting on.” His charm oozes out in layers that make me gag.
Her gray eyes get a long-lost look in them as she stares at the incubus. “Gravier sent you?” she asks absently, as though she hasn’t heard his name possibly ever. As if she’s only heard it in the echoes of her thoughts. “Gravier,” she says once more, her features smoothing with a bit of remembrance slipping across the lines of her face. “Yes. I apologize. He should have sent word of your arrival beforehand.”
“Yes, yes, he should have,” Krave says with a quick nod.
Her frail hand sweeps back to the small wooden cottage seated near the riverside. “Please come in.” Her thin ivory gown drags the dirt as her bare feet pad over to the little house.
We follow quietly behind her.
The boards let out a slow whine when my boots settle just inside the small home. I expected one of two things inside this house: immense luxury or immense poverty.
I didn’t expect...
“Stones,” Damien whispers.
Starting high above the window over the kitchen counter, there’s a pile of stones tossed atop one another. The smooth black exterior of the little rocks looks polished. So flawless, they seem wet with a shine I can’t take my eyes off of.
The black metal mantle holding up the thousands of little stones bows in the middle where more and more and more of the things continue to make trailing line around the entirety of the room. The mantle drifts down, uneven on some walls but still doing its job of containing all the shining rocks. The beam of metal juts out from the corner on the south wall and expands into a larger section that’s big enough to host a breakfast at the castle. Instead of food on the table, it supports the thousands of stones that rest at the center of the room like an odd wishing well. If I toss a new stone onto that pile, will my heart’s desire be granted?
Would I finally find peace in my life?
“They’re remembrance stones,” Hyval says, cutting through my thoughts and catching my attention when I spot her graying wings expand from her small frame. They carry her just a few gentle beats, and her dirty bare feet land on the smooth countertop. I’m surprised how steady her hands are as she lifts a large bowl above her head and pours out its contents onto the trail of piled stones. The trickling sound of water rushes from where she stands, it slides over all the rocks, rushing through the mantle’s path that surrounds us. I listen to the sweet sound of gushing water.
Then it comes to a slow stop at the center of the room just inches away from me, where the largest of the mounds of stones are. In the middle there, with the rocks poised right into a towering heap of décor, it’s like art.
Art I don’t understand the meaning of one bit.
“Pick up that one nearest you,” Hyval instructs as she floats down to the wooden floor after thoroughly watering her rocks.
The rock at the corner of the wooden stand is slick against my palm. It’s light. It’s the kind of thing you’d want to toss across a serene lake and count how many skips it beats across the water before sinking down into the deep nothingness.
I wait with it held in the palm of my hand, but... it’s just a rock.
“It’s a very nice rock, Hyval,” I say with a small forced smile.
“QueenHyval,” she corrects.
“Yes,QueenHyval,” I say respectfully to my grandmother. The one who doesn’t even know who I am.
“And you’re using it wrong.” Her gray hair swishes as she tilts her head at me, really staring at my features for a long moment. “You remind me of someone,” she says with that shake of uncertainty she had in her tone when we first arrived.
