Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
My heart beats in my throat as we walk through the long halls. Can’t I just have one day where I’m not someone’s pawn?
Zev’s grip is steady on my lower back.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, molten gaze raking over me.
My handmaids dressed me in an ice-blue gown, embroidered with gray lace over the bodice and hem.
Zev’s eyes keep wandering—to the dark spill of loose curls over my shoulders, the curve in my waist where my dress flares, the dip in my collarbones where my mother’s necklace rests—as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
His heated gaze warms my blood, but there are more pressing concerns.
“What if they ask me about the Rebellion? Or insult Tundrayn? Or my father. Should I be nice? Or be myself?” I crane my neck to look at him as we walk, a flurry of nerves tangling beneath my ribs.
He chuckles. “Always be yourself. But they won’t ask.
I drilled it into them last night that I’ll be extremely …
displeased if either of them is rude to you.
” My heart softens at his admission. I can defend myself just fine, but there’s a quiet comfort in knowing he has my back.
I shoot him a bright smile, one he returns in kind before it dims. “My brother will still find a way to be an ass, though. I’m sorry in advance. ”
We arrive at the dining hall where Varad and Faramir are already seated at a large rectangular table, Varad at the head and Faramir to his immediate right. Zev takes the seat directly across from Faramir, pulling out a chair for me to sit beside him.
“Morning, brother. Sister,” Faramir greets. He wears a perpetual secretive grin, as if he’s the only one privy to a hilarious joke. “What an interesting evening! I hope your wedding night still lived up to expectations.”
A distant rumble of thunder.
I don’t even flinch—I was expecting it.
“Stop needling your brother, Faramir,” Varad says tiredly. Dark bags shadow his green eyes as he takes a deep swig of steaming black coffee.
“It was an interesting evening,” I say, lacing my hand with Zev’s. “One spent in the best of company.”
One corner of his mouth tips up as his gaze snaps to our joined hands.
Faramir scowls, stabbing a piece of sausage on his plate.
There is a brief, peaceful moment of silence before he shatters it. “Brother, I’ve been thinking … would you be disappointed if Mayah gives birth to a healer? Healers are so”—he wrinkles his nose—“weak. Boring.”
The room darkens as clouds gather outside, smothering the natural light filtering through the large windows.
I squeeze Zev’s hand, still intertwined with my own, shooting him a glance that I hope conveys, I can handle myself.
The clouds remain, though Zev dips his chin slightly, lips mashed together to cage the sharp retort that I know is poised on his tongue.
“Weak, compared to waterwielders?” I ask casually, taking a sip of a tart juice Zev pours for me.
“Brother-in-law, correct me if I’m mistaken, but my understanding is that a waterwielding bride would have never been permitted inside Arbinj.
Isn’t that why my father wasn’t granted leave to attend his own daughter’s wedding?
Because he’s a waterwielder?” I lift a brow, letting the question linger.
“Honestly, I’m surprised he’s being welcomed to the Equinox Festival. ”
Faramir eyes me curiously, like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. My chair scrapes against the floor as Zev throws his arm over the back and tugs until my side is pressed against his.
“His invitation,” Faramir purrs, “depends on your good behavior, Mayah. Right, Father? If you’re naughty, then—”
“Faramir.” Varad’s voice is rife with warning.
“For a healer, Mayah,” the crown prince continues, undeterred, “you’re actually quite fascinating. And who knows? Maybe you’ll surprise us all and birth an earthwielder like me—”
Faramir ducks as Zev snatches a fork from the table and flings it at him. Silver arcs through the air, the tines of the fork raking through Faramir’s blond hair before clanging to the floor.
“Do not speak to my wife,” Zev growls, leaning across the table, veins bulging in his forearms.
“Guards!” Faramir bellows, his face turning a blotchy red. There’s a strange madness in his wild gaze. “Seize him!” The armored men manning the doorways don’t move. Faramir’s eye twitches uncontrollably. “I said, seize him!”
“ENOUGH!” Varad shouts, slamming a fist on the table. “Faramir, not another word. Zevayr, just—” He rakes a violent hand through his hair—another Zevayr-like mannerism that turns my stomach. “Just stop,” my mother’s murderer growls.
The crown prince levels a scathing glare at his father. His eye twitches again, chest heaving. Faramir beats his head three times—thwack, thwack, thwack—before smoothing his disheveled hair.
An awkward silence persists through the rest of the meal.
“King Varad,” I say eventually, clearing my throat. I force myself not to flinch beneath the king’s gaze—Tides, why must he look so much like Zev?
My husband casts me an inquisitive glance, his hand tightening where it rests on my shoulder. “Speaking of the Equinox Festival … one of the noblewomen last night mentioned that I might assist with planning.”
Varad stares at me for a long moment, eyes drifting toward Zev’s arm thrown possessively over the back of my chair, his body angled toward mine.
“That would be a great help,” he finally says.
“I’ll have the servants consult you about preparations.
” He licks his lips, measuring his next words.
“And Mayah … it’s best if you pen a letter to your father about your decision to marry Zevayr.
I will write to him as well, of course, but he should hear from you. It will help smooth things over.”
“Of course, King Varad.”
“And … you may call me Father. If you wish.”
I nearly gag. That will never happen. It takes all my political training, years of biting my tongue in council meetings, to smile demurely.
“You’re quite the diplomat, Mayah,” Faramir drawls, trailing a long finger around the rim of his glass.
His coloring has returned to normal, but his straight blond hair remains unkempt.
“You could be a strong queen … if you wanted.” Before Zev can react, he adds, “Maybe you can get my little brother to stop scowling so much.”
Zev bares his teeth in a snarl.
I run my fingers over my husband’s stubbled jaw, angling his face towards me. Zev. He’s Zev—not Varad.
A spark of surprise alights in Zev’s eyes when I say, “I rather like his broody scowl.” My husband studies me carefully for a moment before his face breaks out in the most delighted, boyish grin.
My heart stutters.
Zev rises from his seat, helping me up. “Excuse us. I have plans today with my wife.”
We’re nearly to the door when Faramir calls, “What about the council meeting?”
Zev waves a dismissive hand. “Fill me in later.”
“…and this is the library.” My husband swings the door open and ushers me inside the latest stop in an hours-long tour. He’s in an incredibly good mood, and I bask in the glow of his attention.
Because I have to.
Not because I want to.
I tear my gaze from his bright eyes and study the library. My breath escapes me. It’s massive.
No. Massive doesn’t come close. The ceiling stretches high above us, sunlight filtering in through large skylights. Towering bookshelves line the walls, rolling ladders stacked against the wooden frames.
Zev’s eyes are fixed on my face, and I realize my lips have parted.
“Like it?” he asks, his voice treacherously deep. I’ll sink beneath its rumbling surface if I’m not careful.
“It’s just—I mean, we have books in Tundrayn, but nothing like this. Can I bring some back to our room?”
Our room.
Something dangerously warm flashes behind his eyes, and he nods slowly, as if caught in a trance.
He leads me through the aisles, my hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
I select a book of poetry, a romance novel that he teases me about with waggling brows until my cheeks flush, and a book about the history of Arbinj.
Zev casts me a questioning glance as I grab the last one, but I just shrug. “I like to learn.”
We’re ready to leave, when Zev’s footsteps falter. I follow his gaze down a dusty aisle. “What?” I ask.
He swallows. “Nothing. I, uh, just remembered a book. My mother used to read it to me.”
“Show me,” I say softly, pulling him down the aisle.
Tension lines his shoulders as he pulls a thick tome from a shelf above my head.
Faerahzar the Great and Other Children’s Tales is embossed on the cover in worn letters.
Zev runs a reverent finger over the title, as if hoping to brush against some fragment of his mother that time couldn’t erase.
His finger comes back coated with dust. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.
My chest squeezes tight.
“Faerahzar? We call him Faerataak the Mighty,” I say lightly, nudging him with my elbow. “He was Tundrayni.”
Zev’s lips quirk. “Don’t say that to anyone else. You’ll get sucked into a two-hour-long debate about why he was definitely Arbinji. Or you’ll get stabbed.”
He goes to replace the book, but I snatch it from his hands. “I’d like to read it.”
Zev stills. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
My husband studies me, something like awe flickering in his gaze. The look sends a sharp ache through my chest—that he’d feel so deeply about me wanting to read a book from his childhood.
I clutch the heavy tome to my chest. “Can we see the Healing Chambers next?”
“Yeah.” Zev clears his throat. “Yeah, we call it an infirmary here.”
The infirmary is nothing like the Healing Chambers in Tundrayn. Cabinets line the walls, overflowing with salves and ointments and oils. A sharp scent lingers in the air, foreign and unpleasant. Zev tells me it’s antiseptic, an alcohol mixture used to prevent infection.
In Tundrayn, healers prevent infection.