Page 148 of Throne of Dreams
Aeralie thrust it into Maeve’s arms and then she did the unthinkable.
She winked.
“Try not to fret too much, dear sister.” Garvan exited the room, followed by Aeralie and the two other guards. “I know Parisa can’t wait to get her hands on you.”
Maeve allowed him to have the last words, and she feigned panic, ensuring he caught sight of her horrified expression as he pulled the door shut and locked it.
She waited, counting to twenty slowly, then she searched for a way out. But there was nothing. The lock on the door was solid and unless she had a way to destroy the toilet or wash basin and crawl through drainage pipes and waste, escape was impossible. She dropped onto the bed and tried not to give into the rising sensation of despair.
There had to be a way.
Maeve glanced down at the blanket in her lap.
The wink.
Keeping a steady eye on the door, Maeve unfurled the blanket. There, tucked into the folds of the rough-hewn fabric, was a gold key.
Just big enough for a lock.
* * *
Maeve’s breathhitched and her gaze snapped up to the door once again, terrified Garvan would return and discover someone had aided her. But no one opened the door. No one came barging in, threatening her life. It was the same eerie silence as before.
Aeralie had given her a key, she’d given her a way out. But the dark halls were long and winding. Maeve had a general idea of how to get back to the balcony, but there’d been so many corners and turns, she wasn’t even sure if she could find her way back. She’d wished Merrick had given her a map.
A map.
Aran. Aran had a plethora of maps. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember every detail of his map-making room aboard the Amshir. He had hundreds of maps, certainly one of them would’ve been of his palace, of his home. Perhaps she’d seen it once or twice. But even if she had, she’d been far too distracted by all the other far-off places he’d been. Her memory came up empty.
Damn it.
She knew she was deep into the mountain and that the palace was built into the face. When she arrived, the sun’s dying rays were at her back, which meant the palace itself faced west. If she wanted to reach the balcony, then west was the direction to go, which seemed easy enough except for the ridiculous amount of turns it took to bring her here. She would have to be stealthy and silent, listening only for the sound of rushing water to guide her.
Maeve stood. She had a key, so she had a way out. She could do this. Every minute she spent debating on what to do next was a minute of darkness lost. Carefully, unwilling to even breathe, Maeve slid the key into the lock and slowly twisted it.
All she could do was pray to the heavens that no one was standing on the other side.
ChapterForty-Four
Tiernan spoke to no one. He saw no one.
He sat upon his throne in silence, waiting for something, for anything, for any news at all. Moonlight washed the outdoor ballroom in a haze of silver, but the grounds were oddly quiet. The breeze did not whisper through the palms. Even the call of the sea was too soft to hear. It was as though the Summer Court knew Maeve was gone, and it too, held its very breath. Watching. Waiting.
In the stillness, alone with his thoughts, he knew what needed to be done. It was something he should’ve done moons ago and he wouldn’t allow another second to go to waste.
The moment Maeve returned from the Autumn Court, he would make her his queen. He would place her upon her throne of dreams, right where she belonged. Beside him. With him. Forever.
Gods and vows be damned.
ChapterForty-Five
The lock opened soundlessly, but Maeve didn’t dare move. She didn’t even breathe. She just stood there, frozen, waiting in the quiet for sounds and voices.
She’d counted eight guards in this hall alone. Gods save her if she had to take so many lives.
She slipped into the corridor, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the faint light. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough. Garvan must have thought her painfully weak to not even consider charming the door or warding it to prevent her from escaping. Holding her breath, she called to her magic again; it was nothing more than a dull thrum. A faint beat of existence.
Frustrated that her visibility was so poor, she began trekking forward to the western side of the palace. One foot after the other, every step featherlight, every breath measured. Slow. Steady. Straining, she desperately tried to listen for the sound of rushing water to guide her. She clung to the shadows, melting into them, using them to her advantage. She was only a few paces away from her room when she heard the distinctive thud of boots heading her way.
