Chapter 57
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
LYRA
“You’re the missing princess?” Marcella gapes.
“I was never missing—only hiding.” Nuri sits back down, and it’s as if I’m looking at an entirely different person.
Because now knowing the truth of her heritage, it seems so obvious.
How the sparkling green of her eyes perfectly matches the shade filling King Yarum’s.
How their noses slope with the same curve and their skin boasts the same warm color of tree bark under gilded sunlight. She is his spitting image, really.
Though isn’t that always the way of things? The truth becomes so unbearably transparent only once it’s offered.
“Why?” Draven questions, his attention sharp and palpable in the weighted air.
“Because when Nuriella was only a small child,” King Yarum begins, weight shifting forward and sharp eyes discerning everyone’s expressions, “I was visited by a very talented Veilreader who sought me out to provide a warning: protect the identity of my daughter, or else both my family and my kingdom shall be stolen from me. She also warned me of a terrible, bloody war. She couldn’t be sure when it would arrive, only that it was coming.
One of those things could be prevented by hiding Nuriella’s identity.
One could not. Regardless, I made my choice. ”
Draven’s focus is razor-edged. “Why would a Veilreader do that for you? What did they want from you in return?”
King Yarum’s expression softens alongside his voice. “She wanted nothing in return. Her only desire was to warn an old friend. She…” His eyes dim with a melancholic longing. “She was someone I knew well in a past life. Someone I cared for deeply.”
“And you trusted her enough to hide this kingdom’s princess from your own people without question?” Marcella asks, a dull pointedness to her words.
“I did,” he answers without a moment’s hesitation. “She was never wrong when she spoke of what the Veil showed her. And she always did so sparingly. When she sought me out to tell me what she saw, I knew it was true. Would come to pass.”
“Is Veilreading truly so powerful?” I ask, my words far quieter than I would have liked.
There is that peculiar look in his gaze again when he meets my eyes.
“The art of Veilreading is so rare these days, it feels like an extinct practice. But let’s suffice it to say that if a war is truly on the horizon, commanders and kings would slaughter towns and villages alike to secure a talented Veilreader for their campaign. ”
Draven’s grip tightens on my knee beneath the table. “Veilreaders don’t win wars.”
“According to written accounts in our grand library they do,” King Yarum counters.
“We have an entire shelf filled with old war strategies from past generals and strategists alike located in the Library of Ismene. Our scholars report them all saying the same thing: Veilreaders win wars. More than Diviners. More than Seers. And even more than great strategists. Apparently, the fluid, primordial nature of the Veil is what makes it so powerful. The ability to dip into past, present, or future, should the Veil be willing.”
Gray clasps his fingers together, resting them gently on the table. “If this is the case, why aren’t Veilreaders at the top of the magical hierarchy? Why aren’t they as common as Diviners or Seers?”
“Seers nor Diviners are common,” Draven interjects, shooting Gray a stiff look.
Gray waves a hand. “I’m only meaning in reference to the ratio of those with the ability. Not the general magic population.”
King Yarum sighs. “So much has been lost to time and neglect about the art of Veilreading. From the texts which do remain—if they are to be trusted—I would call it a safe wager to say current Veilreaders are only able to access about a fraction of what Veilreaders used to be capable of centuries ago.”
There is a stretch of silence as this information settles to the knowing parties at the table.
“And if one powerful enough to bend the Veil to their whims came along?” Draven’s question is carefully neutral.
“Then may their gift forever remain a secret,” King Yarum answers.
“And if they were found out?” Gray asks next, again maintaining a carefully half-interested disposition.
The king’s eyes linger on Gray before shifting to Draven, then to me, where they remain. “Then may the gods help them against the greed and ambitions of power-hungry men.”
Finding myself—like waking up from a distant dream, realizing I am no longer the helpless night attendant King Yarum once saved—I straighten in my chair and bear the weight of his stare.
“Then we must hope if such a person exists, they are never found out. Now, should we turn our attention back to the real pressing matters at hand? You say Bathara is compromised, and you believe the Erandor and Rivara Kingdoms are preparing to move against you. Can you lay out the proof for us?”
I catch the sidelong glance from Draven, his mouth tipping sideways at the found confidence ringing in my voice.
His fingers rove higher up my thigh, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to slap him for the near unbearable distraction.
But it’s too late. As his fingers crawl over my skin, the space between my legs already starts to pulse, desperate for him and horrifyingly turned on by the blatant lack of propriety.
Damn my body, reacting to him just the way he wants it to.
Draven’s touch becomes firmer as he drags his fingers closer and closer to the ache threatening to swallow me whole. Until the pressure he is placing against the sensitive space on the inside of my thigh nearly splits me, and he hooks two fingers, touching—
I jump, reaching a hand beneath the table to subtly jerk his fingers away from somewhere they most certainly should not be right now, given the serious nature of this conversation.
Now is not the time for foreplay, I want to say to him.
But gods…why did that make it feel so much more thrilling? Make each subtle sweep of his skin hum against me like tiny lightning bolts. For a moment, I’m tempted to let his fingers go and see just how crazy he is—how far he would take this, despite our audience.
At the thought—or perhaps it’s better to say the mental visual—heat burns through my cheeks and the core of my stomach alike.
Still, somehow I find the strength to keep a hold on his hand, not daring to let it go and wander back to where it simply cannot be.
If it did, I fear I wouldn’t have the strength to stop him a second time.
So subtle I barely catch it, Draven turns his chin to look at me and winks, that tiny tilted smirk of his wedged firmly at the corner of his mouth. He has a smug gleam in his eyes, telling me he is enjoying teasing me way too much right now, given the circumstances.
I tighten my hold on his hand, digging my nails into his skin. A mistake, apparently, because that results in him slyly lifting two fingers, a tendril of his dark magic caressing my thigh in place of his fingertips.
A shudder runs down my spine, but I contain it, instead doing something I know he won’t expect.
I pull for Marcella’s magic, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat at this point.
Then I conjure a tiny vine with one large thorn, and I press it against the inside of his thigh.
The release of his magic paired with the amused, approving lift of his brows is the only reaction he gives.
Truthfully, I want to laugh. I can feel it bubbling in my throat. But I shove it all down, far, far away, instead masking my own expression and offering my full attention to King Yarum.
“Atop of a myriad of other infractions against us, which would swallow too much time explaining, I will instead only inform you of the most pressing one: the most recent attack at Sagamon Castle from the Restorationist rebellion group has been pinned on my kingdom. Somehow, King Erasmus and King Alastair have already come together in a show of solidarity, proclaiming to the masses I am the shadowed backer of the movement. They claim to have evidence strong as iron proving my involvement. Evidence which supposedly shows my hand as the puppetmaster, orchestrating the movements of both their last attack and their most recent.”
“There was another attack?” I ask, not having heard a peep of such news. Though I suppose it isn’t like we have easy access to information currently.
He dips his chin. “There was. It was specifically targeted on the homes of upper nobility and the towns Great Houses preside over. From what we gather, they are protecting their slums and lower nobility, but are seeking to set fire to their kingdoms from the top down.”
The news sits heavy in the air. For me, it is a splash of ice water against my burning senses.
Marcella leans back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Well, are you the one orchestrating their movements?”
“I find your question very offensive,” Nuri—Nuriella? Princess Nuri?—says, bracing her elbows on the table and leaning forward to shoot Marcella a sharp look.
King Yarum lifts a calming hand. “It is alright,” he soothes. “They do not know us as we know ourselves. They have every right to ask their questions, especially considering what we must ask of them.”
“And what is that request, exactly?” Draven replies, removing his hand from my leg for the first time to clasp his fingers just below his chin.
Nuri sighs, the sound quiet and tired. “I did not seek out entry into Bathara just to spy. I also went to uncover potential allies. To find wielders we could trust and rally them to our cause.”
“Allies?” Gray repeats, a solemn heaviness caressing that one simple word. “You speak as though a war is inevitable despite being in an era of peace for centuries.”