Chapter 59 #2
Aruveth snorts. “Unlikely. We all know Faraengard cares only for its own—its own people, its own safety, its own power. And we all know the lengths to which the Faraengardian monarchy will go to maintain its hegemony.”
Ryot—who has been remarkably tense this entire time—somehow stiffens even more, his shoulders drawing back.
I don’t disagree with Aruveth. I can’t. I’ve been the sacrificial lamb at the altar of Faraengard’s greed and self-interest. But I make a mental note to ask someone, maybe Thalric, what hegemony means.
It’s not one my mother ever wrote in the sands of the riverbanks.
“We heed your warning, Elder, and we thank you for it. But we do not trust a Faraengardian offer to share anything,” Aruveth continues, and he starts to turn, angling his beast back toward Amarune.
Vaeloria shifts restlessly underneath me, and she whinnies softly.
“Wait!” I call out. Aruveth turns, so that he’s spun slightly around on his beast, facing me.
“Wait,” I say again, and Vaeloria walks forward.
We pass Thalric and his beast, Oryndel; Nyrica and his beast, Caelthar; Faelon and Theryn; Caius and Ascarion; Leif and his beast, although we don’t know his name.
Their bond isn’t strong enough for that kind of communication yet.
I pass Ryot, Rissa and Einarr. Ryot looks furious.
Rissa won’t quite look me in the eyes—she hasn’t since they returned from Selencia.
Vaeloria and I stop next to the Elder and Sigurd. My beast is tiny in comparison to the Elder’s massive faravar, and I think Aruveth is noting the ridiculousness of it, his eyes flicking between me and the Elder, between Vaeloria and Sigurd, before he turns his own beast to face me directly.
The scarf covering the lower half of his face shifts slightly with his breath, and it adds to the mystery, framing his eyes that seem to cut perfectly through the desert heat.
Each tuck and fold of the long, layered robes he wears seems perfectly deliberate—practical yet elegant.
He has a natural grace with his beast that speaks of years of experience, and his presence is commanding.
He unhooks the scarf from around his face.
He’s beautiful, but not in a pretty way.
Like so many of the Altor, he’s scarred, a shredwhip having slashed across his mouth, disfiguring his lips and chin.
His dark skin is deep, rich. There are wrinkles that line his face, but nothing as deep and dramatic as the Elder’s.
“Veilstrider,” he greets me. He’s impressed, but hesitant. He’s surprised to see me—a female—but he’s not stunned. “Thank you for your warning. We will post additional men at further outposts and be on alert.”
I don’t think he believes me. Really, I’m not sure my own cast believes me. It seems too impossible for them.
But I don’t push Aruveth. I nod, searching for words. I know we need to be here. There are answers here that I need.
“You don’t trust the Faraengardian crown.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t treat it like one. He doesn’t reply.
“I don’t either,” I tell him. “Faraengard has wronged me deeply.”
His prominent eyebrows fly up, cresting halfway up his forehead before he narrows his eyes on me, raking them down from my hair to my toes. When he makes eye contact again, he’s almost in awe. “Selencian?”
Wordlessly, my mouth dry as if the entire desert has taken root there, I nod.
His eyes fly back to the Elder. “You’ve taken in a Selencian Altor?”
The Elder inclines his head.
“Why? You never have before.”
Before ? A giddy zing of excitement travels up my spine, intertwined deeply, interchangeably, with dread.
There are answers here, but I don’t think I will like what they are.
Vaeloria prances restlessly, her hooves pawing at the moving sand beneath her feet.
Her wings rustle out and then she tucks them back. She wants answers, too.
“Are we sharing knowledge, Aruveth? Or are we flying back the way we came?” The Elder counters.
Aruveth seals his lips, considering.
“Have you had more Altor come of age in recent seasons, Aruveth? More than ever before? Many more?”
Aruveth looks agitated, but he gives a quick nod. “Many.”
“Something is coming, Aruveth. The Kher’zenn are coming,” the Elder continues, his voice conveying an urgency that I’ve never heard before.
Not once. Not when I was doomed to fight for my life in the arena; not when I left to climb Elandors Veil; not when I was pleading for the Archons to go after a near-dead Ryot; not when I was attacked or lost in the Veil during trainings.
Not. Once.
A shiver wracks my body, despite the heat. It comes on in a fully-body wave, and I don’t think it started from within me. I think it started from Vaeloria.
“The last time we had a veilstrider among us was during the last great invasion. The gods are trying to prepare us, sending us more warriors. More gifted. But I fear …” The Elder trails off, and his cloudy eyes fall to the distance, looking out at the clear, calm Ebonmere Sea.
Across that peaceful stretch of blue, the Kher’zenn lurk.
Aruveth’s dark brown eyes search the Elder’s pale ones.
I don’t know what he’s looking for there, but he turns and uses his hands to sign to a man behind him that has a larkling perched on his shoulder.
Aruveth’s fingers move in a beautiful, practiced way, but I don’t know what he’s saying.
Judging by the puzzled looks from the other Stormriven men, they don’t know what he’s saying, either.
The other man places a tiny scroll in the larkling’s talons and raises his arm to the sky.
The bird lifts with a perfect grace that’s no less mesmerizing, no less magical, for having now flown myself.
Aruveth turns back to me as the larkling flies with jarring speed for Amarune.
“Tell me, veilstrider, what did you see of the Kher’zenn?”
“They fly for Aish. Soon. Within weeks.”
Aruveth’s skin pales, and that looks strange with his dark complexion. “Impossible,” he murmurs.
So everyone keeps saying. Is it ridiculous to trust a vision from a little girl given to you in another realm altogether? Maybe, but I don’t waver.
“I don’t want everyone to die,” I tell him, repeating Bri’s pleading.
But before he can speak, the larkling returns with a quiet hum, landing on the other man’s outstretched arm. The man uncurls the note clasped in its talons and passes it to Aruveth.
When he looks at us again, it’s with grim resolve.
“Welcome to Aish, Faraengardians.” He turns to me with a little bow. “And Selencian.” His eyes turn to Rissa and his expression is borderline hateful. Ryot wraps an arm around her, protectively.
“We extend our hospitality with open arms,” Aruveth says, ostensibly speaking to all of us. But he’s looking directly at Rissa. “But do not mistake our hospitality for naiveté. A betrayal will be met with deadly force.”
He turns again, and his beast lifts into the air with seamless grace, expecting us to follow.
I expel the breath I’ve been holding. The Elder and Sigurd also lift into the hot desert sky, followed one-by-one by the others. Until there’s only Ryot, Rissa, and myself on the shifting sands with two impatient beasts.
“Leina,” Ryot says, but I ignore him. Vaeloria launches into the air, following the others to Amarune.
To answers.