Page 134 of Crown of the Courtesan

The narrator starts speaking again: “Angered over the theft of their beloved home, the water nymphs vowed to hate the land-dwellers and their creator forevermore.” The goddess collapses to the ground while the nymphs fall into the fake water. Lanterns pointing at the stage go dark.

What I assume are the land-dwellers—the humans—hold small flickering lights. They each have a candle as they come and help the Spirit Goddess to her feet. A giant sun moves across the stage, and in its wake, the bare landscape disappears, replaced by a castle cutout with villages and cottages sprinkled in the background.

The narrator’s voice booms: “And over time, the Human Realm grew and grew until no free land remained. War reigned supreme, fighting over the resources of the kingdoms. The Spirit Goddess urged them to put their weapons down as they recklessly destroyed her creation, but they did not.”

A group of soldiers shoves the goddess until she stumbles offstage. She sits on a rock and watches forlornly as they battle each other, their swords coming down in resounding crashes. Bodies crumple into a heap, and the goddess begins to stroll through the fake carnage, openly weeping. The survivors turn on her, pointing their fingers at her.

She runs away.

The humans clutch at her clothing, ripping and shredding the fabric until the goddess is almost naked. She throws her arms out. They run at her but hurl themselves backward as if by an invisible power.

“Spiraling into madness at the rejection of her love and wisdom, the Spirit Goddess turned violent, killing on sight to clear the land of the pestilence she helped spread across it.”

The lantern lights flash slowly at first, then faster and faster until they blink in disarray. Stagehands use reflective mirrors to bounce the light toward the audience. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

My eyelids grow heavy, and my eyes sting with needle-sharp acuteness before they roll back into my head.

An anchor pulls me down. My stomach aches and then roils with nausea before my vision goes dark. Rett’s hand wraps around my elbow, but I disappear into the roaring whispers.

Somehow, in the blink of an eye, I come to exist in a familiar yet strange land. The scene unfolding is hazy, making me realize what I’m seeing is in my mind—it appears as if the play is coming to life.

The Spirit Goddess stands as a radiant fae female with pointed ears and an iridescent circlet resting over elegant white-lavender hair. She wears an ivory velvet gown. Fabric puffs at her elbows, while the sleeves are long and wide at the wrists, revealing matching iridescent cuffs fastened above her delicate hands. Intricate stitching stretches over the broad hemline of her skirts, which swishes at her booted ankles. And around her neck, a white fox fur collar and delicate chains drape at different lengths.

Striding through a small village, she shoots fire from her palm onto the thatched roofs of the brown cottages, setting them ablaze.

“It’s Brigid! Run!” yell the silver-eyed children as they race to the white-treed forest behind their homes. Their fathers and mothers approach her imposing figure, wielding pitchforks, axes—anything they can get their hands on.

Eyes black as pitch, Brigid instantly vaporizes them with her magic. Their skin evaporates, leaving only their bones to fall where they once stood.

My body jerks violently.

Lurching.

I can feel Rett’s hands shaking me as he calls my name.

“Tabitha.”

“Tabitha.”

“Tabitha.”

Fifty-Eight

I wake up tangled in sweaty bedsheets in my darkened chambers. Either it’s hotter than usual or I’m burning up. Unnatural shivers run up my spine. There’s no sign of how much time has passed, but it’s still night outside. I’m only able to remember flashes from when I fainted—the memories fading before I can make sense of them.

With great effort, I roll over, but before I can move upright, I vomit on the floor next to my bed. It’s bright red from the wine I drank, reminding me of when King Xander died, his blood all over the turret chamber. I sit back down after standing too quickly. My head throbs, and the room smells foul. I clutch my pillow as the walls press in with the stifled air.

I try to rise again, my toes sinking into the plush carpet as I reach for my dressing gown at the foot of the bed. Wrapping myself in its muslin fabric, I button and tie it off at the waist.

Once I’m inside the bathing chambers, I fumble in the dark, needing to get this horrible taste out of my mouth. I brush my teeth and swish the mint and herb tonic before spitting it out. Breathing hard, I grip the edge of the washbasin with white knuckles. Pushing off it, I shuffle back to my main chamber, my stomach still burning. The putrid scent of sickness worsens as I pace the room until I can’t stand it any longer.

I strike a flint and light a candle taper, grabbing it as I leave. The guard outside my door turns to me and inquires, “My lady, is anything the matter?” The corridor is dark, with flickering sconces hanging between the tapestries.

“Sorry to bother you, Jebbe, but I’m afraid I’ve become ill. I’ve made an awful mess in there. Must have been too much wine.” I clutch my stomach.

His eyes move toward the darkened room as his nose scrunches. “Would you like me to fetch a maid for you?” he asks, leaning his body away from the stench.

“No, no, I’ll head there myself. I need some air,” I tell him, taking a deep breath as if proving my point. “You may direct me where to go, though.”