Chapter 10 #2
His words slide past me like I'm not even here. I reach toward his mind, curious what lies beneath his twitchy exterior. The last time I tried reading Craven, his thoughts were an incomprehensible jumble. Has that changed?
I slip my consciousness toward his, just a gentle probe.
The moment I touch his thoughts, chaos erupts.
Images flash, whispers overlap, shouts join in.
Just like before, it's like a thousand voices shouting at once, each one fighting to be heard.
A spike of pain shoots through my temple. I jerk back, severing the connection.
—What's wrong with his mind? Is he crazy? I ask Tahr, but he doesn't reply, intent on the King.
Craven continues rambling, oblivious to my discomfort.
"When your presence in the outer edges of the city was first reported, I ordered the finest feast prepared.
Roasted boar, honey-glazed pheasant, wine from my personal cellars.
Your rooms are being prepared with silk sheets and scented oils. Only the best for the Goddess's rider."
Tahr interrupts him with a gentle gesture. "Your hospitality honors us, Your Majesty. But perhaps you'd like to see the Goddess herself? She waits in your courtyard."
Craven's eyes widen slightly, his hands fluttering like nervous birds. "Of course, of course! I shall see her once the royal groomers have made her comfortable. It would be unseemly for a king to greet the Goddess while she's travel-worn."
"Travel-worn?" I can't help the incredulous laugh that escapes me. "She's a dragon, not some pampered noble's horse."
Craven finally acknowledges my existence with a dismissive glance. "The Goddess deserves proper care after her long absence. As does her rider." His emphasis on the singular tells me exactly how little I matter in his eyes.
"Indeed," Tahr agrees smoothly. "Her comfort is paramount. As is our discussion about Embernia's future."
"Yes, yes," Craven nods eagerly. "We have much to discuss once you're settled."
I bite my tongue, watching this pathetic display of obsequiousness. Craven cares nothing for Embernia's future, only how Heratrix's return might secure his own position. His mind may be buried too deep for me to reach, but his intentions are transparent enough.
Craven snaps his fingers, and servants materialize seemingly out of nowhere.
They move with practice, bowing deeply to Tahr before ushering us into an adjoining chamber.
As we enter, a dining hall stretches before us, nearly as long as a dragon's tail.
Golden candelabras tower over a feast that could feed half of Cinderhold for a month.
I stare at the obscene display of wealth.
Roasted meats glistening with fat, exotic fruits piled in pyramids, pastries sculpted into dragon shapes.
My mouth sours as I recall the simple meals shared in the caverns beneath the Flametop Mountains.
Plain bread and hearty stews passed around communal tables where everyone ate the same portion, from the eldest to the youngest.
Fern. The thought of her suddenly hits me.
The skinny, suspicious little girl with dirt perpetually under her fingernails who followed me everywhere once she decided I wasn't a threat.
How she'd stuff her pockets with roots and herbs, always prepared to make a remedy or poison depending on who needed what.
"Tahr," I whisper as servants pull out our chairs. "How is Fern?"
"She's safe," he murmurs, his eyes softening momentarily. "Missing you terribly, but thriving."
Relief floods through me, but brings with it a wave of guilt.
I should have asked about her earlier. She'd taken so long to warm up to me, those suspicious black eyes watching my every move.
And when she finally trusted me, crawling into my lap during storytelling nights, her small hands expertly braiding my hair.
I swallow hard, picturing the life I might have had if Cindergrasp hadn't ruined everything. My mother alive, perhaps a sister with my eyes and father's smile. No blood on my hands, no nightmares haunting my sleep, just a normal life with a family who loved me.
Instead, I sit in a tyrant's palace, toying with forces I can scarcely comprehend, while an innocent little girl waits for me to return under a mountain.
The far doors of the dining hall suddenly swing open, admitting a flutter of colorful courtiers.
They file in like preening birds, their nervous chatter filling the previously quiet space.
Nobles draped in jewels and silks, military officers with gleaming medals and calculating eyes.
The kingdom's elite, all eager for a glimpse of the Goddess's chosen one.
So much for Craven needing no one. At their sight, Craven's face transforms from simpering host to imperious ruler.
He takes the head of the table, arms spread wide in welcome.
"My distinguished guests! Tonight, we're blessed by divine presence! The Goddess Heratrix has returned to us after a millennium of absence, and with her, this man who rides upon her sacred head!"
All eyes turn to Tahr, who inclines his head with humility that fits as badly as too-small shoes. Not a single glance is spared for me, the inconvenient Skysinger who arrived alongside them. Good. It's better this way.
"I know you ache to see the Goddess, but she's being tended to like she deserves. You will get a chance afterward."
He makes it sound as if he'll charge a fee to let them set eyes on her, and I'm not even surprised to realize that he might.
I scan the faces of the newcomers, recognizing several from the night of my Rite of Flight. Lord Highrock with his perpetual sneer. Lady Rivercrest and her twin sons. The Royal Treasurer, wearing more jewels than his wife.
Then my heart stops.
Lord Basil Pyrewing enters at the far end, his aristocratic features as haughty as ever. Beside him rolls Merrill—Zephyros's previous rider—in his wheeled chair, bitter eyes finding me when no one else's will. But it's the figure behind them that makes my blood freeze.
Silas Pyrewing.
My mind spins wildly, unable to make sense of what I'm seeing. Silas is here—the real Silas—after Tahranis impersonated him in Fort Ashmire. How is this possible? I'd assumed he was dead.
I smooth my jacket's sleeves, fighting for composure as Craven continues his flowery introduction. Something about destiny and Embernia's glorious future.
Silas's gray eyes sweep the room with practiced disdain, until they land on me. His expression shifts, confusion replacing arrogance before hardening into something dangerous. Does he even know he was impersonated? Or has he been part of this deception all along?
I mentally check the dagger hidden in my boot as everyone takes their seats, Craven at the head of the table—Tahr to his right—beaming like a child given a new toy, all while I crave answers.
—What is Silas doing here? I demand of Tahr as I sit next to him.
Tahr's gaze cuts to me, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Not now," he hisses through gritted teeth.
Before I can protest, Silas slides into the vacant seat beside me, his movements practiced and smooth as if we're old friends reuniting at a tavern instead of enemies at a royal table.
The black Skyrider uniform fits him perfectly, but like me, he's not part of the Sky Order anymore.
I want to laugh at the absurdity, but fury consumes me instead.
My hand drops beneath the table, fingers itching for my dagger, though the gleaming knife beside my plate would work just as well. One swift movement, and I could have it against his throat before anyone reacts.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I whisper, venom dripping from every word. "Shouldn't you be dead?"
My mind flashes back to that nightmare day on a routine mission to scout Screechclaw movements, the same day Vaylen and I fought the Matron.
The ambush came without warning, two dozen harpies materializing from nowhere.
Silas tumbled backward off his dragon's head as a Screechclaw slammed into him.
His Tethers broke, and he plummeted out of sight down a mountainside strewn with trees.
No one went after him. How could we? We were too busy fighting for our lives.
When the battle finally ended, Silas mysteriously reappeared with only minor scratches. Suspicious in retrospect since a fall from that height meant death for a Skyblaze, but we were too relieved to be alive and too exhausted to question it.
Recalling the details now, everything clicks into place.
Tahr seized that perfect opportunity, taking Silas's identity while the youngest Pyrewing should have lain broken on the ground.
Tahr played the role flawlessly, adopting Silas's swagger and disdain.
Yet, Silas didn't break. If anything, he looks better than ever, every blond hair perfectly in place.
"You wish," Silas responds, "but I've been on a wonderful retreat."
"A retreat?" I seethe, my fingers inching toward the knife. "While you've been on your retreat, did you know a doppelganger was wearing your face at the Sky Order, pretending to be you?"
"Of course, I know all about it, Rhea," he says with infuriating calm. "Must be quite the scandal, I imagine. Terribly confusing for everyone."
Enough games. I reach toward his mind, probing for the truth… and slam into what feels like a stone wall. The mental barrier is so unexpected I physically jerk back.
Silas tsks softly, tapping his temple. "Didn't your mother teach you it's rude to pry into other people's thoughts?"
My hand finds the knife beside my plate. "One more word about my mother and I'll gut you like a fish."