Chapter 15
Fifteen
Lory
When Lory stepped back into the ballroom, dread of what to expect had eradicated the lightness in her limbs and the warmth in her core, leaving behind the familiar tension coming with anticipating the need to bolt at any moment, while beside her, Khayrivven was the image of the amused nobleman there to be entertained, not a single crack in his armor.
“Look at the dais, but not directly at the king. You don’t want to draw his attention,” he murmured, lowering his head to her ear as if he were whispering sweet little nothings to her, his smile perfectly in place.
Lory did as he asked, taking in the gold and white of the figure occupying the throne in passing, her curious eyes flicking up to the king’s face only briefly, before marking the chairs left and right once more.
Ulder was perhaps in his sixties, wavy gold-gray hair framing his bearded face. A bored expression defined his broad features, and on his head, a crown of gold caught the light of the candlelight replacing the fading sun.
“The men and women to his sides are his advisors,” Khayrivven explained as Lory took in the now-filled spots at the king’s sides. On the female side, two more women had joined the ladies from before, one of them surprisingly young, while the other three had to be at least in their fifties.
On the other side, four men sat straight-backed, their eyes on the crowd as if expecting trouble.
Closest to the king, clad in white and lapis-lazuli blue, sat Airmal Ycken, the man whom she’d stolen from.
His tall, slim form stuck out like a sore thumb between the other men, who were all of broader, sturdier build, and his black curls were tied into a top knot like the last time she’d seen him.
His deep brown, oblong face was tense, his crooked nose throwing shadows on his mouth and cheeks as he turned his head from side to side, obviously looking for something or someone.
Lory didn’t know the second man, or the third, but when she spotted the fourth, she was catapulted back in time, her heart hammering in her chest as those golden features pulled into a grimace of fury and a heavy door was slammed in her face.
In both their faces. Evven had been there that day.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Evven prompted for the fifth time since they’d crawled into the narrow space behind the barrels at the corner, where their view on the formidable limestone building wouldn’t be disturbed by the occasional carriage driving by.
In this part of Dunai, people didn’t go out on the streets on foot during that time of the day; they didn’t go out at all during the noon heat if they didn’t need to.
For weeks, Lory had been scouting the area, making sure to know the routines of the household, how many people lived there, and who came and went, and she’d cried only once when she’d spotted the woman and the young child on her arm through a window.
“Don’t you think if we had a rich father, we wouldn’t be living on the street?”
How naive Evven was. Too sweet, too trusting. And way too good for this world.
Lory sighed, swallowing the harshness threatening to accompany her words. “Not if he doesn’t know we exist.”
“Then why did mother never tell him?” Evven reasoned. “Maybe she’d still be alive if she had.” His light brown eyes tightened as he tried to convince himself this wasn’t going to be an utter disaster.
Mother hadn’t told them their father’s name until her last breath, but she’d mentioned he was a nobleman in Dunai. She’d also mentioned that she had no intention of ever going back to him.
That had been the week before she’d gotten injured and her wound became infected.
She’d been dead for three months now, and Lory and Evven were starving. They were children, barely nine years old. Without someone to care for them, they might not survive this city.
“Maybe she didn’t want him to know for a reason,” Lory suggested.
“Maybe she was right to.” But in her young mind, she hoped that her mother had been wrong and a knock on that heavy, wooden door would be enough to make all their worries go away.
That they’d have a bed to sleep in and food on the table, clothes to wear—
As if in emphasis of her thoughts, Evven’s stomach rumbled with hunger, and she couldn’t watch her twin brother suffer any longer.
With a nod, Lory climbed out of their hiding place, waiting for Evven to follow before making for the limestone stairs leading up to that door.
Evven scrambled along, his thin arm brushing hers as they came to a halt on the lowest step.
“Everything will be all right,” she said to Evven, but it was more a beseeching of the Guardians, whom their mother had prayed to during long nights of hunger, when she’d given her share of a meager dinner to Lory and Evven.
One steadying breath wasn’t enough to get her up the final stairs, but she couldn’t stay behind when Evven was already climbing his way up.
So Lory followed, taking up a protective stance half a foot in front of his shoulder, as she lifted her hand and knocked.
“Are you all right?” Khayrivven’s voice penetrated her memories like in a haze, bringing her back to the ballroom and the music and the colors and fragrances.
A quick nod was all Lory managed, just like that one day she and Evven had set out to reunite with the only family they had left.
But she was far from all right when all she could see was the man who’d shut the door in her face all those years ago, and he sat enthroned next to the ruler of the realm like he hadn’t condemned Evven and her to an orphan life on the streets.
Swallowing tears of fury, Lory blew out a steadying breath.
“Who’s that man?” She didn’t dare look at the familiar face again, so much like Evven’s, only so much older than her twin would ever be.
Khayrivven took a moment to figure out who she was referring to, his eyes first tracking Lord Ycken’s movements, then that of Lory’s father. “That’s Lord Bohem Cann, advisor to the king.”
Bohem Cann.
She hadn’t heard that name in so many years, sworn to herself to never think it again, yet here she was, a part of her realizing that it was truly him, while the other part was ready to turn on her heels and march from the ballroom.
“Lor—” Khayrivven’s voice got stuck in his throat as, from behind the dais, a group of young women entered the room.
Their dresses floated around their bodies like clouds of pastel silk, their elegant strides declaring them as a part of this court and of noble blood.
Out of nowhere, Khayrivven’s hand shot for Lory’s, gripping tightly as if anxious he wouldn’t be able to remain in place if he didn’t hold on to something.
“Elina—” It was a choked whisper, too low to truly penetrate the soft music, but Lory heard him all the same, the wave of both guilt and relief rolling through him palpable as she squeezed his fingers.
Lory looked for a girl with black hair, like his, wondering which of them was his sister, but none of them bore any resemblance to him.
It was only when she glanced at his face, determining the direction of his gaze, that she spotted the young woman in dusty pink, half of her bronze hair swept up in an ornate bun while the other half fell to her waist in elegant waves.
Her soft, slender frame reminded Lory of the noble children she’d often observed during her time as a thief.
Nothing about her spoke of hard training, of the fight to survive Khayrivven had been facing from the day their parents had been killed.
Quite the contrary.
Elina was radiant: bright blue eyes peering into the ballroom from a delicate, oval face.
Her skin was a shade paler than Khayrivven’s, probably rarely exposed to the biting sun the way her brother’s was, freckles dusting her cheeks and nose with patterns of gold.
Strapless, pink satin flowed around her form, shimmering like a river bathed in sunset light.
Around her neck and wrists, bejeweled chains of pure gold gave away her status in this court.
Among the highest of the highest, outranked only by the brown-skinned woman with the white hair who took a seat next to the king, while Elina scrambled to a halt behind the throne with the other young women.
“She looks … healthy,” Lory whispered at Khayrivven, who hadn’t let go of her hand since the moment Elina had entered the room, his grip near-painful, but Lory didn’t try to free herself, neither did she point it out to him.
She didn’t speak the word that had initially sprang to her mind at the sight of his sister.
Happy. When she looked at Elina Falcrest, Lory saw a happy, young woman, at ease in her place behind the king’s left shoulder, and nothing could have cracked her heart more than the way Khayrivven’s face slackened as he took in the sight of his sister smiling at the crowd of spectators like she enjoyed their attention.
“At least he’s not hurting her.” Khayrivven spoke more to himself, but Lory picked up every word he mumbled. He wiped his mouth with his other hand, his body tight as a coil ready to spring into action and come to Elina’s rescue.
When she turned to read from his eyes how much time she had before he’d do something reckless, she could read the words there that he hadn’t spoken: at least not where we can see it.
Lory’s gaze flicked back to Bohem Cann, who was whispering with Airmal Ycken, oblivious to his daughter’s presence in the room, and Lory debated whether she was grateful he hadn’t spotted her or disappointed.
Who knew? He might not have even recognized her after he’d slammed the door in her face years ago, probably hadn’t wasted a thought on the son and daughter he’d condemned to a life of hardship, of begging in the alleys of Dunai while nobles like him spat at them and their children kicked them and threw rocks at them.