Chapter Ten Gabriel The Sun Palace
Istare down at Tyr, who lies in his bed, blinking at nothing, his gaze as distant as the stars. The arcturite cuffs around his wrists and neck pulse with an eerie blue glow that haunts me every time I close my eyes.
“I’ve been doing some reading,” I say, looking up at Atlas, where he stands leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and one leg over the other. “They say prolonged exposure to arcturite can cause irreparable mental decay, making the wearer listless in some cases and manic in others.”
I don’t add what else I’m thinking. Tyr hasn’t just experienced prolonged exposure, he’s been wearing these fucking things for decades. I’ve always wondered what black market Atlas procured these from so many years ago. It’s forbidden to mine or sell arcturite due to its unique capabilities against High Fae, and these must have cost a small ransom in some backdoor arrangement.
Atlas doesn’t immediately reply to my comment as he stares at his brother, his mouth pressed into a line of obvious annoyance.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“He’s getting worse,” I say. “Take them off. Surely he can’t pose any threat in this state?”
I watch while Atlas weighs my words as if testing them for poison before he shakes his head.
“No, I can’t take that risk.”
“But he can’t give orders like this,” I try.
For Atlas to control me and my brothers, he needs Tyr to say the words, but he can’t do anything like this. It’s partly why I can maneuver around the rules as much as I do. Tyr commanded that we obey his brother, but Atlas’s own orders are thus delivered by proxy, giving them less weight. It’s also part of why I wasn’t forced to run to Atlas the moment I saw Lor.
What I told Nadir was also true—that Lor found me, not the other way around, and it’s by existing inside these small deceptions that I’m able to find a pocket of air within the stranglehold of my chains. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
“Instead of worrying about the cuffs, you need to get him to talk. He’s no use to me when he’s like this,” Atlas says, his expression aloof. I tamp down my disgust. I don’t know how Atlas can look at what’s become of his brother and feel nothing about his role in causing this. “Without taking them off,” he adds when he sees I’m about to speak, predicting my next words with more insight than I’d like.
“What if we let him out for a bit? Took him for a walk in the garden for some fresh air?”
It would be risky, and I’d have to find some way to conceal his identity, but Atlas cleared out every staff member employed during Tyr’s rule, and he’s hardly recognizable as the golden king he once was.
“Maybe,” Atlas says. “I’ll think about it.”
I already know what that means—he has no intention of ever thinking about it. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. He’ll tell me he’ll “look into it” or “speak with his advisors” like a coward instead of just admitting he doesn’t care.
Atlas looks outside and then pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Are we done? I need to go and meet with General Heulfryn. I’ve canceled it too many times and can’t avoid it anymore.”
“Sure,” I say, glancing at Tyr one more time before I touch his brow, running my finger along the ridge of bone. He blinks, and I hope it’s because he knows that I’m here and that I care. My thumb sweeps over his cheek, and he blinks again, my heart twisting in my chest.
I follow Atlas out of the room, locking the door and depositing the key into my pocket before we wind down the stairs. We make our way towards Atlas’s study, where I know Apricia’s father will be waiting, likely with his blades or fists prepared for a confrontation.
He’s furious about the continued delays with the bonding ceremony, and I’m not sure how much longer Atlas can continue sidestepping the general’s questions. Earlier, Atlas demanded to know if I had more news about Lor, and he seemed to swallow my carefully constructed lies.
I don’t know why I want to give her time to accomplish whatever brought her back here, but something in my gut tells me I need to. Everything she revealed about her lineage was shocking but not completely a surprise. Obviously, there’s more than what she revealed on the surface, given everything that happened and the fact Atlas wants to find her so much. I would never have guessed at the truth, though.
I find myself sympathizing with her. It seems like she’s been thrust into something against her will, and I understand all too much how that feels.
“Stay with me,” Atlas says. “I might need backup.”
I nod and resist the urge to roll my eyes.
If Lor is the Primary of Heart, then she must have powerful magic, and given Atlas’s obsession, the only logical conclusion is he wants to bond with her to access her strength. Though both Atlas and Tyr are able to channel the magic of Aphelion, their gifts aren’t quite the same. Atlas has an unparalleled gift of illusion, but Tyr’s most noticeable talent is the ability to use light as a weapon. Atlas has always been jealous of that, feeling what I can describe only as self-conscious that he has almost no offensive magic.
Lor’s Heart magic—that legendary crimson lightning—would certainly give Atlas a different edge.
It could all work, and I suppose, when viewed at a distance, it’s not a terrible plan, but I can’t help but feel like this is all a house of cards about to topple at the slightest breeze. I don’t know how he’s managed to go so long without anyone uncovering his secret to begin with. Surely his clock is ticking towards ruin. All I can hope is he doesn’t take me down with him.
I’m not well-versed enough in the relationship between rulers and their Artefacts, so I have no sense of how the Mirror figures into all of this. It chose Apricia, but for whom? Atlas or Tyr? Does it understand what Atlas has done?
What I do know is that Atlas avoids going anywhere near the Mirror, ordering the palace staff to keep it covered whenever it’s not in use. Does anyone else see the way Atlas carefully keeps himself away from its line of sight? Or is it noticeable only to me? I have my theories about what’s happening, but I have no evidence to support my suspicions.
Additionally, I can’t comprehend how he thinks he’ll ever convince Lor to bond with him after everything he did to her, but I already understand that he doesn’t plan to ask. The Mirror rejected her, though, so unless he’s convinced it to cooperate, I’m not sure how he’s going to accomplish any of this.
What vital fact am I missing? I wish I could get into his head.
We enter Atlas’s study to find General Cornelius Heulfryn pacing back and forth with his hands behind his back. He has Apricia’s black hair and piercing blue eyes, his chin covered with a thick beard. He helped lead Aphelion’s armies during both Sercen Wars, earning him his title and power. His position is mostly ceremonial after his retirement several years ago—an honor afforded to him for his service in the king’s name. Apricia was always a natural choice for queen, given his legacy.
He stops at our entrance, straightening up.
“Finally,” he says, in a way that suggests this conversation doesn’t bode well for Atlas.
“General,” Atlas says, smooth as silk. “It’s such a pleasure to see you.”
“Don’t,” Cornelius says, raising a finger. He’s already shaking, he’s so mad. “You have been avoiding me, and I am here to demand you set a date for the bonding ceremony. My daughter is beside herself with this constant dithering. What are you waiting for?”
Atlas tries to affect a calm demeanor, but I can tell he’s holding back his frustration from the rigid set of his shoulders. I’ve known him long enough to read every cue others might miss.
“I’m waiting for the right time.”
“Bullshit,” says Cornelius. “You’re hiding something. Why do all this?”
Cornelius stalks forward, coming to stand in front of Atlas. He nearly matches the king in size and is clearly not intimidated. It makes me admire him a little. “The council and I didn’t make a fuss when you ‘canceled’ the previous Trials, but I will no longer stand for this. Those were the daughters of some of your most trusted friends and advisors, and even more were sacrificed in the name of a second Trial. How can you treat those lives so lightly? You’re making a mockery of everything this kingdom and the Trials stand for.”
“I do care,” Atlas says, using his most velvet-smooth voice. “Of course I care. It wasn’t my decision to end the last Trials. The Mirror made me do it. You know that.”
Cornelius gives him a look that suggests Atlas is full of shit. If only he knew how right he was.
“Set a date. I’ve spoken with the district heads, and they’re with me on this. They no longer care that their own daughters lost, but the longer you keep this up, the less support you’ll have going forward. There’s talk of selling property to the low fae.”
Atlas’s eyes narrow at that. “That is forbidden.”
“And yet the tides are turning. There is less and less favor for these policies of yours, and the others have agreed that if you do not set a date, we will have to take more drastic measures.”
The general stands straighter, clearly bracing himself for the impact of Atlas’s anger.
My gaze volleys between them, mentally betting on who will win this. The heads of districts have the right to question the king’s wishes when it seems he is acting against the interest of the kingdom, though I’ve never heard of it actually happening before. Cornelius is right, and Atlas’s refusal to set the date is going to cause problems soon. It destabilizes us. Makes our traditions look pointless and like something to mock. No other realm holds such Trials, and most of them think it questionable to do so at all.
The Trials were the invention of Aphelion’s first king after the Beginning of Days. The stories say that Zerra herself had bestowed upon each ruler both the Imperial magic of their realm and the Artefact that would help them rule. With that came the stipulation that each ruler must bond to another person of their choosing to tap into the full strength of their magic.
King Cyrus set out immediately to find a suitable companion but was overwhelmed with choice. Every noble in Aphelion wanted to put their daughter up for the role. Unable to make a decision, he came up with the idea of the Trials, and thus, a tradition was born that’s carried on to this day.
Cyrus apparently also had a bit of an idealistic streak, leading him to include one Tribute from The Umbra to compete. While the official line is that the Final Tribute is meant as a message of hope, the true reason has become much less altruistic than that.
Atlas stares at Cornelius with his eyes flashing as his jaw clenches, but he has to see his hands are tied.
“Very well,” Atlas finally says, his voice decidedly less smooth than before. “I’ll set the date.”
“When? I’m not leaving here until you pick one and it’s announced.”
Atlas rolls his shoulders, his gaze flicking to me briefly. But there’s nothing I can do to help him, even if I wanted to. He’s made this bed of schemes and deceptions, and now he can fucking lie in it. Die in it for all I care. I’m tired of saving his ungrateful ass from all his bad decisions.
“Two weeks,” Atlas says, the words clipped. “Two weeks from today.”
“That is too long,” Cornelius counters. “You’re just delaying again.”
“We need time to make arrangements. We wouldn’t want a ceremony that is anything less than the height of extravagance for our precious jewel of a queen, would we?”
Cornelius narrows his eyes, clearly trying to decide if Atlas has just insulted his shrew of a daughter. I’m pretty sure Atlas did, but I place no blame on him for that one.
Nevertheless, General Cornelius Heulfryn is a better man than I am because he simply dips his chin, his hands again clasping behind his back. “Excellent, Your Majesty. Shall I alert the royal notetakers so they can let everyone know?”
“That would be so helpful,” Atlas says, the words barely containing their condescension. If Cornelius notices it, he pretends otherwise before bowing succinctly at Atlas and then at me.
“Excellent. It will be a wonderful event.”
He says nothing else, his gaze flicking in my direction before he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
As soon as he’s gone, Atlas strides over to the bar in the corner and pours himself a generous glass of whisky. He tosses half of it back and runs his hands through his hair, tugging on it in frustration.
“Atlas,” I say, wishing I understood anything.
Atlas whirls on me, his eyes bright with fury. “Gabriel, whose side are you on?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
He strides over with the glass in his hand and points it at me. “Your loyalty feels questionable lately. I sense something isn’t right with you.”
I shake my head. “I am always loyal to you, Atlas. You know that.”
“But are you?”
“What is this about?”
Atlas snorts and takes another drink as if the answer should be obvious.
“You have two weeks to find her, Gabriel. Send out every spy you can get your hands on.”
“Atlas, I—”
“Two weeks,” he repeats. “If you don’t find her, then I might have to make some replacements within my warders.”
I bite the inside of my mouth, quelling the breathtaking desire to punch him in the face. After everything I’ve done for him, this is how he repays me? Losing warder status isn’t like losing a job—it’s the end of your entire existence. I am nothing without my king. Literally.
“Understood,” I reply, and then before I say something I can’t undo, I spin on my heel and leave the room.
I’m so angry right now that I can’t think straight. I’ve gone through hell for Atlas, and he speaks to me like I’m no more significant than a worm curling over the toe of his golden boot. I’ve spent my entire life protecting him, even when I wasn’t obligated to do so, and he’s never once shown an ounce of gratitude. I stalk through the palace as servants and courtiers leap out of my way. Gods, I need a drink and a good fuck. I need to punch something. Hard.
It’s too late to turn back when I realize I’ve walked right into the heart of the main hall, where dozens of people mill about.
“You there!” comes a sharp voice that drags me out of my internal spiral. “Come here!”
Apricia points at some poor young High Fae female, who shuffles forward with her eyes on her feet.
“Look at me,” Apricia demands, and the girl looks up. Her blonde hair is clipped around her pointed ears, and her slight frame is clothed in a simple tunic. Fuck. The future Sun Queen fired half her attendants for being “a little too pretty” and is now on the hunt for a new set of victims. Why anyone would volunteer for this role is beyond me.
Before I’m dragged into another mess that is none of my business, I step back, slowly and cautiously, wary of making any sudden movements, lest I be noticed.
But my effort is wasted.
Both Apricia and the woman look over as Apricia’s face darkens with a frown. From the pinch of her features, I can only surmise that no one has told her about the bonding yet. I debate being the one to do so but decide to let her stew in her irritation for a bit longer. I have so little to entertain me. Someone else can be the bearer of good news.
The woman she’s speaking with is staring at me openly, her eyes dragging over my wings and down my frame. I frown at her, noting something familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“You,” Apricia says, snapping her fingers under the woman’s nose. “Pay attention. The first rule is don’t gawk at the warders. Well, that’s not the first rule. The first one is to pay attention to me at all times, but it is one of them.”
She turns her gaze back to Apricia and nods before the future Sun Queen starts rattling off an endless list of frivolous duties her new attendant will be responsible for. Zerra, I’d rather die.
I turn my attention back to the woman one more time, wondering why she seems familiar, but it doesn’t really matter. After that conversation with Atlas, I need something to take the edge off. Something warm and wet and eager to distract me from this throbbing pain behind my eye.
Maybe I’ll go find a guard or a courtier who doesn’t mind some teeth.