Page 105 of Heart Cradle
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Fenric placed a hand on Nolenne’s back. “He knew you were there.”
They stood together, the quiet pulsing around them like a second heartbeat. Davmon’s face had smoothed in death, he looked younger and lighter. The war had finally let him go and he was free from the jaws of Vargen, Petra and the entire Pale Court.
Calen turned gently to Nolenne. “Nol… how are your people laid to rest?”
“Cremation,” she said, voice raw. “I’ll ask Hervour.”
“Of course,” Fenric murmured, his hand still resting gently on her. “Let him return to flame.”
Chapter Forty-Six - The Price of Mercy
Maeve stepped into the war room, hollow-eyed and silent. She thought the council chamber was brighter than it had any right to be, sunlight slanting through the high windows, gilding the maps and charts spread across the long table. But none of that light touched her, her skin was pale, her plait was frayed. The Chain at her wrist flamed faintly, as though still recovering from what it had done. Eiran’s head snapped towards her the moment she entered. His posture instantly tense, alert and he was already moving, crossing the room in seconds, voice urgent. “Maeve. What happened?”
She barely looked at him, startled to see them all returned. “I need to speak with everyone.”
The gathered council, Orilan, Hayvalaine, Taelin, and the newly arrived Elenwe and Laren, fell into a hush. Calen and Fenric flanked Maeve like solemn shadows. There was something different now, the weight of something irreversible. Maeve stepped to the centre of the room, her voice clear despite the wear in it. “Davmon is dead.”
Taelin surged from his seat. “What?”
Eiran turned to her fully now. “Dead?”
“I was going to interrogate him,” she said carefully. “But the Chain…it whispered to me. It told me to draw his memories. I thought I could handle it… I thought he could fucking handle it.”
“And?” Taelin snapped, voice edged with fury.
“The Chain acted before I could stop it. When I touched him, it flared. Took everything. Too fast and too much I think. When I let go, he was gone. I killed him…”
“You killed our best lead,” Taelin growled, fists clenched. “That was reckless. That was…”
“Enough,” Calen cut in, voice sharper than usual. “You weren’t there, he called her a filthy human cunt.”
“Don’t speak for her,” Taelin barked.
“And don’t use that disgusting slur in this Keep, Calen.” Orilan added, eyes hard.
“No,” Maeve said, raising her voice now, steadying herself. “Calen’s right. He was combative from the start, but I tried. I fed him, gave him wine and let him speak.”
“And in doing that,” Fenric added, “she got more from him than we did with blades, pain, and magic combined.”
Elenwe arched a brow at her older brother, Orilan. “You tortured him?”
“We did,” Fenric said simply. “He was a war criminal, and he still gave us half-truths. Maeve touched him once and got the full picture.”
The room stilled, even Taelin’s anger seemed to collapse inward, watching her now like she might fracture or explode.
Orilan’s voice was calm but deliberate. “What did you see?”
Maeve exhaled, her gaze flicking to the Chain at her wrist as it pulsed, once.
“Everything. They’re planning to assassinate you,” she said, looking directly at Orilan. “And launch coordinated attacks on Velthamar’s halls and the barracks in Duskreach. This is real, I saw everything. It is funded, planned and timed. I saw it all. I saw meetings with the Pale Court, every detail. I saw…”
Maeve looked at her hands, they were trembling, revealing her terror, the utter devastation of what she had done. “I don’t know what any of it means, I just know what is organised.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “They want to fracture Melrathen and claim it under Avelan. Tear the heart out from the inside. They’re using illusion and cloaking magic, recruiting from within. They’ve infiltrated supply lines and bribed at least two minor Melrathian lords near the northern border. Davmon’s memories showed everything. They use blood and death magic, so much of it. I can write everything I know…”
Hayvalaine reached for her tea. “Thank you Maeve, we shall want to know the entirety. Don’t fret, you are here with family, not an inquisition,” she said pointedly at Taelin.
Elenwe, younger sister of the king, stood tall and austere in her high-collared robes, the silver in her plaited hair catching sunlight like threadbare frost. Her eyes, pale as glass and twice as sharp, fixed on Maeve with unflinching clarity. “And you’re sure?”
“I saw it in his mind, I felt it… they are my memories now,” Maeve said. “Dates, faces and armies. It was all there, his last thoughts weren’t of loyalty. They were guilt and shame.”
