Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
NOW
T he first day of spring decides to be defiantly cold and rainy, as early spring days often are along the coast. So Ayc, defiantly, decides to get drunk.
“Xylie, we’re getting drunk!” he proclaims when she walks into the pastry kitchen, dressed in her usual multi-colored cardigan over a plain tunic and breeches. He lifts his goblet toward her, sloshing red fae wine down the side, and almost dripping on the edible flower he has been carefully constructing. He saves it by swinging wildly to the left just in time.
She folds her arms over her chest and squints at him. “You’re already drunk.”
“Am not. This is only my fir—” He holds up one finger and then adds another. “My second glass of wine.”
“And that’s all it takes.”
“Why are you so mean to me?” he says, but she’s right. His skin is already flushed with heat from the fae wine, but at least it drowns out the sting of pain almost as well as Xylie’s tonics.
Xylie studies him. She takes in the single-tier cake before him, piped with a delicate design and half covered in gold and silver edible blooms. She stares longest at the flour-dusted letter sitting beside it.
Xylie shrugs. “Very well, but I pick the music this time.” She heads to a small table, where a series of statues sit beneath a window. It’s the same window Ayc slipped out of eight years ago, when he attempted to escape. Instead, he only succeeded in locking himself in more chains.
Fuck, there’s a depressing thought. I’m not nearly drunk enough.
Ayc tips up his goblet, sucking it down as Xylie hovers her fingers over the hand-sized statues. She picks up one shaped like a gryphon with its beak open in a roar. She taps its side three times, and a steady-but-rapid beat pours from the mouth. Xylie always craves the ones with this particular tempo; Ayc prefers them, too. These songs don’t only sound good to his ears, but they feel good to his head, like a balm for his ever-chaotic mind.
Ayc cheers and gets up to grab another goblet from a cupboard. He fills it half full for Xylie—it’s all she’ll drink anyway—and fills his own all the way to the brim. She takes her glass and hops onto the counter, swinging her heels to the rhythm of the music. Ayc slides barefoot across the flour-dusted floor.
The magic that can only be cast by alcohol, good music, and a great friend descends on Ayc. Every note soothes across his skin, easing the sting there. His heart soars through his chest. Laughter teases his lips. Xylie and Ayc drink their goblets of wine. She cheers and provides backup vocals as he belts the lyrics—loudly and off-key—into a wooden spoon. Sometimes, he simply dances, occasionally coaxing Xylie off her counter to spin under his arm. Only once does he try to sit down to make another edible flower.
“It’s lopsided,” Xylie critiques.
“ You’re lopsided,” Ayc fires back. Then he squints at the flower with one eye. “Oh, fuck, you’re right.”
He decides that he’s done decorating for tonight, and since he is far too drunk to try to safely move the cake to the icebox, he jumps up for another dance. He’s in the middle of a tight spin when the door opens. He tips to the side and puts a hand out to catch himself on the wall.
“We’re dancing!” he says, once he’s recovered enough to slide across the floor toward the newcomers. “If you come in here, you have to dance.”
It takes a moment to focus his eyes, to see the two who have entered. He comes to an abrupt halt. “Oh fuck, Xylie. Don’t let me drink anymore. I think I’m hallucinating.”
Xylie says nothing. When he glances back at her, she’s staring down at the floor. If Lora was alone, Xylie wouldn't have gotten suddenly silent, but Bronwen is by her side. Ayc supposes they aren’t a hallucination, then.
Today, the two women are not dressed like warriors. Bronwen is adorned in her emerald sorcerer’s cloak, a long-sleeved dress that matches, and a gracious smile. Lora wears a knee-length white tunic, dark breeches, her gray loose sweater, and her normal devoid-of-emotion expression. They both look fuzzy around the edges, but Ayc thinks that’s probably just the fae wine.
“Ladies, I didn’t know you were back at Wyntra. Welcome! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ayc props his arm on the closest wall, trying to make it look cool and casual and not like the wall is the only thing holding him upright.
“Oh,” Lora says, looking him up and down. “You’re drunk.”
“Pfft.” Ayc waves a hand through the air. “No.”
Bronwen arches an eyebrow, and Lora snorts. Clearly, he’s not fooling anyone. With his apron untied and hanging loose, the ribbon in his hair barely clinging to a few strands, and enough flour dusted on his skin to make him look like a ghost, he’s sure he looks like quite a sight.
“Very well.” Ayc shrugs. “A little. Yeah.”
Bronwen’s smile falters, and she glances at Lora. “Maybe, we should come back in the morning.”
Lora cocks her head slightly, a strand of dark curls tumbling over her nose. Her eyes are a hazy green that reminds him distinctly of the summer light playing on forest leaves. Beautiful.
He nearly gags at the thought. He needs to tell Xylie to remind him to never drink this much again.
“I need to get this over with,” Lora says at last.
Behind him, soft feet plop on the floor. Xylie slides past Ayc and pauses long enough to sign something to Lora. Somewhere in his muddled, sloppy brain, Ayc knows he understands the common sign language Xylie uses. But right now, he’s seeing too many hands and fingers and Xylies to make sense of it. Then Xylie is gone, and Ayc is alone with Lora and Bronwen, two graduated Adamant warriors. And Ayc isn’t so drunk that he thinks that this is going to be anything short of disastrous.
Bronwen searches around the room, locates the recorder on the table, and makes a gesture. One murmured word and a pulse of power causes silence to fall over the room. Ayc’s head is still loud, filled with a mix of music and the start of a slow hammer at his temples.
“Oh, my divine.” Bronwen gasps. “That cake is beautiful.” She sweeps toward it, but halts before she reaches the table like it’s a precious artifact she doesn’t dare breathe on. Bronwen’s eyes are bright as she takes in the details of the cake, the flowers, the layers of white frosting, the delicate pearls he’s beaded across the side. “Ayc, you did this?”
Ayc nods. He takes a step toward her. The room is an asshole and tips sideways. He sits down hard on the stool at Bronwen’s elbow. “I’ve got a bit of a side business. I’m a baker, didyaknow?”
“Yes,” she says, giggling beneath her breath, though he’s not sure what he said that was so funny.
“I make cakes for special events and festivals and… and… Well, I mean I do but only when it doesn’t interfere with my other duties, of course.” He loses his train of thought for a second and has to seek it out again. “What was I saying? Ah yes, my other duties. And don’t worry, Lora. I pay for the ingredients out of my own wages. Don’t tell your mother I’m stealing from the castle. I like my balls exactly where they are.”
Lora releases a tight breath. Her feet pad on the floor away from him. A cabinet opens and shuts. Water runs and shuts off at Ayc’s sink. He glances over his shoulder to see her pausing in front of his and Xylie’s shelves of ingredients. Lora selects a jar from its row. Ayc squints but can’t make out what it is.
Bronwen’s voice draws his attention back. “It almost makes me want to get married one day, just to have a gorgeous cake. ”
“Not the type marrying?” Ayc coughs and sets his full goblet down on the counter next to the nearly empty bottle. He’s had quite enough. “I mean, marrying type?”
In Aluina, the culture of picking one person to swear forever to was nearly universally accepted. But in Everadyn, the ideas and beliefs vary from clan to clan. Like Aluina, some marriages are political and strategic. Some are a show of love, but life partners are just as commonly united only on their own words and desires, and not a formal ceremony.
“I'm not sure I’m even the relationship type,” Bronwen says.
“Ah, well, who says you need a wedding to have cake? You can throw a ‘I’m an amazing, powerful sorcerer’ party, and I’ll bake you the cake of your dreams.” He perches his chin in his hand. “Tell me do you like passion fruit or do you prefer chocolate?”
Bronwen is still laughing when Lora returns to Bronwen’s side. She sets a cup on the table before Ayc, one of his own cups, filled with water and speckles of purple, green, and yellow—some crushed, dried herbs and powder. “Drink,” she commands.
He frowns up at her. “Is it poisoned?”
“Poison is a coward's way,” Lora says, ice crackling beneath the words. Her eyes seem distant as she runs the pad of her thumb over the tips of her other fingers. Each nail has a fresh paint of taupe. “It’s ginger, milk thistle, and some plant Xylie marked ‘For when Ayc is too drunk to remember his own name’.”’
Fuck, Ayc knows that mixture. “You’re trying to sober me up?” he accuses with a gasp, giving Lora his best scandalized expression .
“I’d rather you be a little more clear-headed for this conversation.”
“But I’m feeling quite fabulous ,” Ayc whines. “Any chance I can get you to come back tomorrow?”
She fixes him with a deadly glare. “Just drink it.”
Ayc could argue, but then he knows how useless it would be. There’s a remedy for his drunkenness, but there’s absolutely no cure for Lora’s stubbornness. Ayc shrugs and drinks the water down.
“Who's getting married?” Bronwen asks, bringing his attention back to the cake once more.
“A Lux Aester girl,” Ayc replies, setting down the cup. He can already feel the effects of the concoction working, the haziness in his head fading, his words coming more smoothly, the warmth disappearing. Fucking wretched. “And I do mean girl . She’s seventeen. Marrying a man who’s probably nine thousand years older than her.” Ayc picks up the letter on the table and waves it, shaking off a cloud of flour. “Her name is Avabeth. I met her briefly at your mother’s fiftieth anniversary celebration. She wrote me a letter afterward and asked if I would make her a cake.”
Two pairs of eyes turn to look at him—Bronwen’s wide, Lora’s unreadable. Ayc swallows against the bitter taste in his mouth. Like Aluina, marriage is common with the Lux Aester, but it’s more than tradition. They see it as a sacred duty to fulfill. And for the females unlucky enough to be born to the clan, it happens young and with little choice.
“Her parents agreed to pay for it?” Bronwen asks, surprised. “Generally, a random relative or woman in the village makes a cake. The fae of Lux Aester don’t waste money on such things. The cost to ship this, alone, will be pricy. ”
Ayc tosses the letter back down. “No one is paying anything. She deserves to have a beautiful wedding cake, so she’s getting a fucking beautiful wedding cake.”
It comes out harsher than he meant. Bronwen blinks rapidly, her eyes briefly glistening with a different kind of silver. Lora taps two fingers to Bronwen’s elbow in a tender gesture of comfort. Ayc feels like he’s forgetting an important detail, something that Bronwen told him before. It takes him a moment to find it in his still slightly befuddled brain, but ah, yes, Bronwen was born in Lux Aester. He wonders how she got here, an Adamant warrior and sorcerer, but he’s never been one to pry into someone’s past. He hates it when people sniff too closely to his own.
“So…” Ayc drums his fingers on the countertop, the rings on his fingers thunk ing against the wood. “Why’re you here, Lora? I’m sure it’s not for the pleasure of my company.”
Lora’s face draws tight, her eyes momentarily falling closed as though she’s in pain. “Can I sit?” she asks, pointing to the stool on the other side of the counter. She doesn’t wait for his response but settles upon it and positions herself to face him. Bronwen remains at his side, almost as though one of them wants to be close in case he decides to run.
Oh, shit.
The happy warmth beneath his skin fully dissipates, and ice takes its place. A crackle of pain weaves through his spine.
“I’ve come to ask you something,” Lora begins.
“No, I will not fill the fountain in the courtyard with chocolate pudding. I’ve done the mathematics, and it’s simply not feasible. Besides, can you imagine the flies?”
The attempt at humor wins a half-smile from Bronwen and a glare from Lora.
“This is serious, Ayc,” Lora says. “I know it’s difficult for you, but can you please try to be serious for five minutes?”
“Fine, fine, fine. Sorry. Continue.”
Lora takes another deep breath and looks to Bronwen. There’s something in her expression that strikes Ayc as pleading. Bronwen gives a firm nod.
“I’ve been working to assemble my Five,” Lora says, looking back in Ayc’s direction, but not meeting his eyes. “Bronwen is my First. Xylie is my Second.”
“Really? You asked Xylie?” Ayc assumed Lora would fill her Five with elite warriors and the strongest of magic wielders, like Yris did. Xylie’s knowledge and intellect will make her invaluable. She’s a brilliant choice. He’s simply surprised that Lora saw that, too, even if the cousins have always been close. “That’s a… a really good choice.”
“I know,” Lora says. “Peregrin is also in my Five.”
Ayc raises both eyebrows. Another surprising… but strong choice. Yris underestimates Peregrin. She gave the order to pull them from commander of the aerial armies and put them in the school the moment they had a lasting injury. It was a mistake. Anyone who knows Peregrin knows they’re a good teacher, but a great warrior, whatever challenges they’re forced to overcome.
“I think that’s great,” Ayc says, rocking his weight side to side on the stool. “But why are you telling me any of this? I told you before, I wish you luck, but I thought there’s supposed to be some rule that you didn’t discuss matters of your team outside your Five before the Trials actually begin. Or…”
Ayc trails off. A shadow flickers over Lora’s face, her eyes darkening into a deep forest green. A suspicion forms in Ayc’s stomach, like a knife wound.
Oh no… oh no… ohnononono…
“I want you to be one of my Five,” Lora says. “My Fifth.”
A shrill sound screams in Ayc’s head. His heart slams against his sternum as though begging for escape.
And then he laughs. So loudly he presses a fist over his lips to quiet himself. “That’s a good one,” he says when he can breathe through the laughter. “You had me for a second. I thought you were serious.”
He stands up, but Bronwen’s hand claps down on his shoulder and shoves him back. It’s the first sign that behind all her polite smiles and soft femininity is a fierce warrior.
“She is serious, Ayc.”
Ayc snaps his head between Bronwen and Lora. They have to be joking. But their expressions are nothing but earnest.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice goes so high it cracks. He’s feeling suddenly far too sober. The concoction has never worked quite this fast before. “I’m human; not Everadyn. I can’t be one of your Five.”
“You’ve lived in Everadyn for more than five years,” Lora explains, like she’s Xylie quoting directly from a book. “You can be, if I choose you to be.”
“But why in every fucking star in this divine-forsaken universe would you ever want me to be one of your Five? You hate me.”
Lora doesn’t try to deny it. The muscle near her jaw spasms as she grinds her teeth. “I have my… reasons.”
“They’re bad ones,” he states desperately. “According to some people, I’m an utter fool, less trust-worthy with a sword than a toddler, and only slightly more useful than barnyard shit.”
“Divine.” Bronwen’s eyes widen. “Who told you that?”
Ayc looks pointedly at Lora, who uses that moment to stare at a flower on his cake like she, too, thinks it’s lopsided. Bronwen follows the path of Ayc’s vision and sighs.
Lora snaps her gaze back to her friend. “In my defense, barnyard shit can fertilize crops. It’s actually highly useful.”
Ayc might have thought she was joking, but he’s quite sober now and knows better.
“The point remains,” Ayc says, “that by your own admission, I have nothing to offer you as one of your Five.”
“Invisibility is not nothing,” Bronwen says.
“Lora could buy an enchanted cloak. It would talk far less than me.”
“A trait I would greatly admire,” Lora says beneath her breath.
“Lora,” Bronwen warns, pressing fingers to her temple like a hammer is pounding there. Ayc knows the feeling.
“See!” Ayc throws up his hand to emphasize the word. “Problem solved. I’m sure your mother would front the bill for the cloak. And speaking of your mother!” There it is. He should have thought of it sooner. Yris is his best hope. She will hate the idea of Ayc being one of Lora’s Five. She won’t stand for him having even an ounce of power. And Lora has always tried to please her mother. “Does your mother know about this? Surely, she won’t want me to–”
Lora holds up a hand to cut him off. “She knows.”
The two words are heavy and say so much that Lora doesn’t. Yris knows. Maybe, she even wanted this.
His stomach plummets all the way to his feet. He feels a door slam, a key lock, quite like the one to this very kitchen used to on the outside of the door.
Fuck… oh, fuck…
What game is Yris playing here? Because it is always a game with her. What hand of cards is she holding? It doesn’t matter, because if she wants this, saying no is futile. Yris will simply march in here and give an order he can’t escape from.
“You’re allowed to say no, Ayc,” Lora says, her voice a touch softer. “You have a choice.”
Ayc glares at her for a long time, because surely she knows that’s a lie. Surely, she knows what Yris has done, and that he doesn’t have choices. He hasn’t had choices in eight fucking years.
Then he grabs his goblet and drinks it all down. Every last drop. When he lowers his wine, he gives Lora his best smile. It’s one of the biggest lies he’s ever told.
“Then, in that case, it’ll be my pleasure.”