The flower and the flame.., p.1
The Flower and the Flame (The Lands of Everlasting Change Book 1), page 1
The Flower and the Flame
The Lands of Everlasting Change
Talia Devereaux
Copyright © 2024 Talia Devereaux
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Annalise Jensen
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
To my big brother, Kyle. Without you, I never would’ve made it here. Thanks for always pushing me to be better.
&
To every angry girl who wasn’t allowed to feel angry.
“Let us dive into the lake and never come out again, for this is the world where beauty dwells.”
~Swan Lake by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaichovsky~
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
one.
two.
three.
four.
five.
six.
seven.
eight.
nine.
ten.
eleven.
twelve.
thirteen.
fourteen.
fifteen.
sixteen.
seventeen.
eighteen.
nineteen.
twenty.
twenty-one.
twenty-two.
twenty-three.
twenty-four.
twenty-five.
twenty-six.
twenty-seven.
twenty-eight.
twenty-nine.
thirty.
thirty-one.
thirty-two.
epilogue.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Prologue
The ravens croaked outside Evadne’s window again, perched in the same ash tree on the same twisting branches as before. She sat at her round, wooden table in the centre of her cabin, caught in the flickering glow of candlelight, just as she’d been the last time they’d come. It had been years since that visit, and the memory of it froze her blood. The raven’s all-seeing eyes followed her every move, making her skin crawl as if ants skittered beneath her flesh. Had they come with more news? More instructions? She heaved a sigh, moving to stand and greet them, only to freeze as a distant howl prickled the back of her neck.
There were no wolves in Evadne’s woods. Not for a long time now. That sound could only mean one thing. Grey Beard was coming. Was it finally time, then? Tearing her eyes from the ravens, she looked toward the fireplace, finding her grandson slumbering in his favoured overstuffed chair. Her heart clenched at the sight. Lucan looked so much like her daughter, like her Signy, especially now that he’d reached manhood. He had the fair folk's sharp, otherworldly features and his dru father’s smooth bark-like skin, but those black curls and hooknose were hers.
Evadne watched him sleep, longing to brush the tangled mass of hair from his forehead. But she couldn’t bring herself to touch him, let alone approach him. How could she consider sending him down this path? The very idea sent a shiver of fear down her spine, her insides twisting with regret. This was all her fault. If only she’d never been foolish enough to make a deal with a god. But it was too late for such regrets. She’d offer herself in Lucan’s place, but Grey Beard would only laugh. She’d had her chance, and she’d squandered it. Now, it could only be Lucan. She’d known it for years but knowing couldn’t ease the sting of such a burden. If not for her, none of this would be happening.
Still, Grey Beard’s arrival was what she’d been waiting for. It was her chance to rectify her mistakes. If she wasn’t ready now, would she ever be? Years of planning were coming to fruition. If all went as it should, everything she'd lost would be returned to her…all at the cost of one thing.
Lucan may be a fool, but he was all she had left. What if she lost him, too? How could she bear it?
Outside, the wolves’ howls rose to a cacophony. The sky darkened to a pitch black. The boom of thunder ripped through the wind’s high screams, but still, she heard it: a voice, deep and resonating, somewhere between the shaking cabin walls and the clinking glass jars on her herb table. Evadne straightened, searching the kitchen as if expecting to find the intruder lurking in the shadows.
When she found nothing, she glanced back at Lucan, but he hadn’t stirred. Either that boy could sleep through anything or.… The voice rumbled through her again, beckoning her and her alone. Grey Beard was already here. Shuddering, she clutched her walking stick tighter. A deep unease settled in her stomach at the thought of facing him after all these years. She swallowed her nerves, finally rising from her seat and striding past Lucan.
She tapped a finger to the enchanted valknut around her neck, and an old, familiar tingling spread along her cheeks and temples. The air constricted around her, making her eyes water and nose burn as if she’d inhaled a handful of black pepper. When she stepped outside, her skin paled and wrinkled, her hair whitened, and the hand gripping the twisted cane spotted with age.
The wind calmed at the thud of the closing door, the once blustering gale now no more than a murmur. Evadne stepped off the porch, walked further into the woods, and peered into the shadows with eyes as keen as a hawk’s, searching the trees for the one that summoned her. Dark clouds crawled across the sky, and spindly branches rustled against one another, creating a haunting whisper. The ravens had moved, now perched on another ash tree’s thick, twisted branches just ahead. They spread sleek black wings while lightning cracked above, blinding her as it struck the ground.
Evadne threw a hand in front of her face, blinking until her vision returned. A man had materialised among the trees, standing atop a patch of blackened earth, the wind dying upon his arrival. She could’ve sworn she’d seen two monstrous wolves standing on either side of him, but they were gone between one blink and the next. The moon reemerged as the storm clouds dissipated, lighting the ominous trees back to the woods she knew.
“Hello, Evadne,” Grey Beard chuckled, smiling in a way that raised the hairs on her arms, fox-like teeth glinting. Despite standing several yards away, his lilting voice rang clear in her ears as if he stood directly beside her. “It has been far too long.”
Not long enough.
Thick furs encircled Grey Beard’s shoulders, some dark as onyx, others white as hoarfrost. True to his name, his ash-coloured hair and beard hung to the middle of his chest, divided into dozens of tiny braids. His calf-skinned boots crunched the fallen autumn leaves as he approached, his sharp smile widening the nearer he came.
“Were the histrionics truly necessary?” She asked, eyeing him warily. Why had he come? Her heart raced from the anticipatory dread. Of course, there was only one reason Grey Beard would show his face here, but part of her prayed he’d tell her the whole thing was off. When Grey Beard stopped before her, one of the ravens fluttered over to rest atop his shoulder. The other landed on his raised wrist.
“You know how I like my grand entrances, little Spider, just as you are fond of your disguises.”
“Says the man of many names and faces,” Evadne scoffed, folding her hands over the top knot of her cane to hide their trembling. “Is it still Grey Beard, or do you prefer Deceiver these days?”
“You’re one to talk, Evanora.” The harshness of his tone made her flinch. Yet he spoke true. She, like Grey Beard, had many names and faces. “It really has been far too long.”
The pit of her belly filled with trepidation. She breathed to steady herself, her crooked fingers curling around the gnarled wood.
“They’ve found her, haven’t they? That’s why you’ve come?”
Grey Beard’s expression darkened as he nodded. He came closer, placing a big hand on her shoulder. She fought the urge to cringe away, forcing herself to hold his gaze. This was what they’d been waiting for, after all. So why didn’t she feel any relief? Why was she only filled with dread?
“Yes. Now is the time for you to send the boy.”
“Must it be him?” Evadne choked, looking to the cabin where Lucan slept. “Surely there must be another way…”
“By all means, what is your suggestion? Who else can take your grandson’s place?” Grey Beard quirked an eyebrow, leaning back so the angry red scar bisecting his right eye gleamed in the moon’s glow. Any word she might’ve said crumbled to ash on her tongue. There was no one else. Evadne had had her chance; she’d tried cheating her way out of it, and this was her punishment. Signy was gone now, so it had to be Lucan—someone with Evadne’s blood in their veins. Grey Beard’s expression softened when she said nothing, and he squeezed her shoulder.
“I know what you fear, Evadne. Your boy won’t be alone. Ruaíri is already waiting for him,” he assured her, though she felt no better.
She closed her eyes, steeling herself, biting back the desire to argue with fate, and then looked at Grey Beard with a harde
“How much time do we have?”
He fixed his remaining eye—blue as a pale winter sky—on the raven perched on his wrist. The one atop his shoulder let out a series of unintelligible gurgling croaks, to which he nodded gravely.
“Very little. It seems your boy had best get moving. We will do what we can to delay the others.” Before Evadne could ask what he meant, he turned with finality and walked toward the wood. A dark grey veil suddenly cloaked the sky, the clouds bulging and ready to burst. The wind whipped her hair around her face as she watched Grey Beard disappear in a flash of lightning, the ravens vanishing alongside him.
Huffing with annoyance, she returned to the cabin and looked at Lucan one last time. His dark curls had fallen over his eyes, knotting together like black vines. She brushed them away with shaking fingers. There had to be something she could do to ease her worries, to know how his future would play out. She could see the threads of so many lives, so why couldn’t she see this? Turning to her collection of herbs and roots with fresh determination, she searched for any that might help her see further, but it was fruitless. Nothing in her possession would save Lucan from this path. She could only ensure he took the steps needed and protect him along the way. Only then might he survive.
Only then would she get back all she’d lost.
one.
Odette took a shaky breath, readjusting her stance and holding her hands before her. The stick she’d been using as a makeshift sword pressed into her scarred palms, rubbing against her calluses. Sweat trickled down her back, glueing her gown to her heaving chest like a wet sheet. Her only reprieve was her faerie-blessed hair, floating around her as if she were underwater, not a tendril sticking to her neck.
If Seigneur Marcus were here, he’d scold her for pushing herself so hard. You need to rest, you little fool! When you’re tired, you’re sloppy, and sloppiness gets you killed. After fifteen years of training with the old chevalier, she heard his voice in her head as clearly as her own. When she was five, Marcus had caught her spying from the écurie as her brother, Adrian, learned to wield a dull-edged sword. He’d only grunted, placed a smaller wooden pair in Odette’s tiny hands and pushed her to train alongside Adrian. But Marcus was gone; he and Adrian were off on some diplomatic mission with her stepfather. Le Roi d’Ocovielle never went anywhere without his trusted chevalier d’or, and Adrian needed to learn what it took to rule Ocovielle and who knew when they would return.
Odette missed them both terribly. She’d tried keeping herself busy, but it was hard not to wonder when they’d return. Toiling the daylight away in the écurie with Wyot or the kitchens with Oliga didn’t help, nor did spending the evenings among her flowers or painting with Maman in her chambers. Perhaps exhausting herself with her makeshift sword would do the trick.
A rowan tree stood at the garden's centre, its canopy rustling gently in the breeze. Creamy white flowers hung from the branches clustered in dense corymbs, their chattering voices filling the space like the buzzing of bees. Odette had learned long ago how to block the florae’s constant droning until it became a pleasant white noise. These days, she only had to touch a blossom to bring clarity to its voice. Of course, this also gave the plant life a hint of sentience. So long as her skin was in contact with the earth, her garden came alive.
Adrian wasn’t around to spar with her, and she’d promised Marcus she wouldn’t practise in the training yard with the other chevaliers while he was away, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it alone in her garden. How else would she master this bloody footwork in these skirts? It worked to her advantage, with the tree roots always trying to trip her up. The chevaliers she usually sparred with would undoubtedly laugh if they caught her practising in gowns, dancing around like a fool with a stick. But soon, she’d teach them to keep their mouths shut.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t bested them before; she just had to be better. To win continuously until no one could defeat her. If only she could learn to fight her iron illness. Then, she might stand a chance of escaping this cursed place.
While she was allowed to wear trousers when training in the yard, she was expected to dress like a lady otherwise. But what if she had to fight in skirts? She had to be prepared for anything. She couldn’t let something as silly as a gown be her downfall. Besides, she doubted her eventual opponents would care much if she were tired.
Using the rowan tree as a focal point, she pointed her sword stick at its trunk, envisioning first her stepfather's dour face and then Seigneur Lorence’s smug one. She took another deep breath and began the routine again, imagining enemies surrounded her. Not that that was a challenge for a faerie living in the Château D’Airelle. Despite its beautiful stained glass windows and gleaming turrets, to Odette, the château was a place to be kept, not to live, not truly, not for her anyway. Because of who she was—what she was—the château could never be her home.
Odette lunged and parried with invisible attackers, pivoting around the garden, hopping over slithering roots, imagining a crowd of faerie onlookers cheering her on. Some had opalescent wings or pointed ears; some had skin made of living bark, twisted horns, green skin, or thorns for hair. There was even a fae with reptilian eyes, a mirror image of her own. She would be their champion. Their protector.
She’d save them from le Roi de fer.
No, Odette could never belong in Ocovielle. She belonged to another world entirely, to the Lands of Everlasting Change, where it was said that the earth was as conscious as its fauna, the rivers flowed with milk, trees oozed with honey, and the fair folk celebrated with revels night after night. She wanted to see it more than anything in the world.
One day soon, she’d make her way there, to the realm of Faery. She'd fight tooth and nail through her stepfather’s chevaliers de fer, no matter how harsh the battle. The iron-armoured guards would fall easily beneath her blade, vanquished in her fervour. She’d bear past the cursed iron gates and finally, finally, escape. Doubtless, her stepfather would send a hundred men after her, but what of it? When that day came, Odette would be ready.
Pausing to catch her breath, she leaned her shoulder against the rowan tree. If only it were late enough to slip outside to the beach through her secret exit. Then, she could cool off with a dip in the salty waters and relax in the silence. While she’d never dare run into town where someone might see, she liked to sink her toes in the sand and swim beneath the moonlight when the rest of the château slept, and no one might miss her.
Gazing past the tree’s fluttering canopy toward the distant white-capped mountains, Odette pressed her back to the tree trunk, clutching the silver-wrapped pearl she wore—her good luck charm. Since the day Maman had clasped it around her neck, whispering about its power, she’d never taken it off, always keeping it close to her heart. It felt like carrying a piece of Maman around, helping Odette find her courage. Despite its constant presence, however, luck always seemed just out of reach. More and more, it seemed an empty promise each day she remained within the château.
Or, as she preferred to call it, her prison, her iron cage.
Gripping her stick tighter, she pushed away from the rowan tree and resumed practising, determined to conquer this blasted footwork.
“Alright, what did Marcus say? Left foot first…and then strike as I step with the right…left and strike…” Just as she thought she’d found a comfortable rhythm, one of the rowan’s gnarled roots caught her around the ankles. Her skirts tangled as she plunged towards the earth. Pain lanced through her knees as they ground into rocky soil, the makeshift sword flying from her grasp. Odette cursed as a sharp jolt shot up her forearms, palms burning as they skidded along the grass. With a grunt, she rolled onto her back, flopping her arms to the side.
The garden exploded with the florae’s boastful laughter. Odette glared skyward at the rowan’s shuddering branches.
“Oh, be quiet! I planted you, and I can uproot you just as easily.”
The garden hushed, an obedient calm settling over the florae. The root wrapped around her ankles slowly retracted, sinking back into the earth. The sunlight seared into Odette’s eyes, making her head throb. She closed them, waiting for the pain to abate. Slowly, it ebbed—only for a new sharp agony to burn across her ribcage as iron-booted toes smashed into her side. The force of the blow flipped her onto her belly, her arm twisting awkwardly beneath her. White panic blinded her as she gasped, tears in her eyes as the wind went from her lungs. She clawed at the grass, scrambling for a rock, her sword-stick, anything.
