The Forgotten Crown (2019) Book 1 of The Broken Crown Series

12. Mondragon

Rain slid down the mullioned glass in great swollen drops to collect on the window pane under Sirena's vacant stare. The young woman sat quietly on the richly brocaded window seat, tracing the threads absentmindedly with her fingertips. The day was dark and gloomy lending to her melancholy air, the rain unceasing and the stone walls of the manor seemed to soak up the unseasonably cool weather like a sponge. A haunting melody dogged her steps as of late, the notes writhing about her like the coils of a serpent.

Her dreams were so vivid that she could not discern them from the few recollections of childhood she had. They were persistent, vibrant and rich and yet when she woke, it was as if a veil was drawn over all of her memories, real and dreamed. Was the green-eyed man real? Had he really held her? Called her princess? Or was it Donovan she had seen? His green eyes were so bright, she remembered how they'd found her in the dark, in the dirt, in the forest, gleaming like steel. Pounding, aching, drenched in fire...no blood, it had been blood.

Her mother's smile seemed frozen between one place and the next; one moment radiant and pure, all sunshine, the next drenched in sorrow, fluttering like a bird's broken wing. Which was true? Which was real? Or was it all a lie? Her past was becoming hazier with each passing day. The harder she struggled to hold on to them, the more they slipped from her, like water through her fingers. Sirena felt as if she were fading from existence, slowly and painfully. She felt like a ghost.

Every night she was plagued by these wretched nightmares. Always the little boy and the iron king, would she ever save him? Her own death replayed constantly. Each time there were more details, more feelings. Continuously she woke trembling and slicked with sweat; her body and mind exhausted. It surprised her every time, to find there was no dagger in her stomach, no blood staining the sheets. Death was haunting her, wearing down the edges of her sanity.

Not a soul in this house could be called a friend. Sirena's strange eyes, sudden appearance and nightly fits kept her isolated. No one approached her if they didn't have to. In this sanctuary, in this haven she remained a pariah.

A gust of wind splattered the drops into sprays on the window, trickling down the hazy glass in tiny rivulets. Palms itching, head pounding, she forced her brooding thoughts into the deep, dark recesses they came from. Sirena rose to her feet, once again taking the dusting cloth in hand, resigned to cleaning the Lord's solar.

After a lifetime of cleaning others property she could most assuredly say she did not care for the chore. However, this room fascinated her with its baubles and trinkets. As mysterious as her new master was, it was one of the few rooms that supplied a more personal look at the lord himself. One she very much wanted.

The solar boasted an enormous fireplace that filled the stone room with intoxicating heat, the floor concealed beneath plush rugs and skins. One wall was dedicated to precious books, scrolls and charts, crammed onto shelves from floor to ceiling. Thick curtains adorned the windows, lamps and sconces littering every available surface.

Curious knicknacks of brass and iron were found sitting on the sturdy oak table in the corner, on the mantle and shelf edges. The large stuffed chaise and high backed chair before the roaring fire completed the cluttered and cozy ensemble. Sirena ran the cloth industriously over various items, removing the fine layer of dust. She hummed to herself, becoming lost in the melody.

Her cleaning moved to the mantelpiece where she rubbed the dark wood gently with the cloth. Working to the middle of the beam until she felt the familiar shape of a rearing dragon beneath the cloth. The tattoo on her shoulder seemed to itch as she rubbed its likeness upon the mantle. For a man who boasted hatred of the King she found it shocking the Lord allowed the emblem in his personal study.

♛♛♛

A sad melody floated through the air, a familiar tune that pricked at Donovan's memory as he walked down the hall toward his den. He stopped just outside the cracked doorway and cautiously peered inside, searching for the source of the sound.

Si stood before the mantelpiece, fingers dancing upon the wood, fixated upon a mark. Her humming seemed to swell into an intricate design that froliced in his head, teasing tendrils of light winging through his mind as he stood mesmerized by the sound of her.

Slowly her hand moved along the mantle as if caressing the wood. Violet sparks tumbled from her long fingers, just as suddenly disappearing in cadence with a sharp gasp from the creator. Si's back became rigid as she quickly backed away from the hearth. The humming faded away as if she were walking down the hall and not standing before him. He watched as she stared at her shaking hands.

Donovan backed away from the door and walked down the hall a few paces, whistling a lively tune as he approached the door once again. Spying her back at the mantle, dusting and shaking like a leaf, he froze at the stifled sound of weeping.

"Lass?" Other than the night of her attack and Blanche's shocking arrival she had been a wall of impenetrable silence, adopting instead a cool air of indifference. Her weeping shocked him greatly. He never imagined he would see her so vulnerable.

"Look at me, Si." Still she ignored him. He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder only to have her shrug off his touch.

"I thought you hated the King." Her arms were wrapped tightly about chest, her gaze unflinching, angry even. Donovan was once more confronted by the startling change in her eyes. The two colors battled over the orbs, producing a bizarre mottled appearance; Streaks of violet shot through the iris, liberally overlaying the green as tiny flecks of gold dusted the rim of her pupil. Tears fell unchecked as she traced the tattoo upon her shoulder.

"I do," he whispered.

"Then why," she thrust an accusatory finger at the mantle, "does this house, yet bear HIS mark?"

That was rage in her shaking voice. Donovan was too late in schooling his features for her not to see his surprise. He could see an inner battle taking place behind those big eyes; did she dare trust him? "That is not the crest of the King."

"It is!" Sirena yanked at the neck of her dress, exposing the faded blue tattoo. "I yet bear his mark upon my very flesh!" Her chest heaved with that pent up rage. Ducking her head, she scrubbed furiously at her tears. "Apologies, my lord."

He tried once more to comfort her, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder. This time she did not shy from his touch. "He took it from another, as he has so many things."

Using her sleeves to dry her face, she mumbled between swipes. "And who might that be my lord?"

"You."

She gave an irreverent snort and turned from him at once, dismissing the comment entirely. "I shan't be much longer my lord." She took up her cloth once more.

"Look at me." She gazed steadfastly at her cloth, unappreciative of his jokes. "Sirena, look at me." She did look at him then. Her head whipped around so fast she put a kink in her neck. Never before had she spoken that name aloud. Not even Letty or Bea knew the truth of it, yet another strange practice her mother had insisted upon.

"W-what did you call me?"

"Sirena." Her name was spoken softly, with reverence and care. A great sigh escaped her, as if she had been waiting all these long years to hear it spoken aloud. Her name, finally uttered in completion. With much trembling, she brought her hands up to his eye level and snapped. Violet sparks blossomed and fell to the floor. Donovan gazed in wonder at her hands and tentatively touched her palms, running a calloused thumb over her fingers, expecting them to be hot or blistered, they remained smooth and unblemished. A great burden seemed to lift from her chest. Finally, all her secrets laid bare.

"What is happening to me?"

Donovan looked into her frightened eyes and felt the gall of bitter shame sweep through him. He had been so busy keeping an eye on her manifestations that he didn't pause to think how she would feel about them. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her like he would a child, letting her cry into his shoulder. When the storm of tears abated Donovan led her to the overstuffed chair near the fire, proffering a square of cloth from his pocket. He waited while she mopped her swollen face.

"I believe there are some things you should know about me and more importantly about yourself, Sirena Mondragon."