Chapter 35
Breakfast is waiting in the foyer of my quarters.
It’s set on a silver tray, atop intricately painted porcelain plates.
The pastries are still warm, stinging my fingers as I pull them apart, steam curling.
Butter melts across my lips and I groan as the sugar-crusted top scrapes gently against my tongue.
I recognize cinnamon—a rare spice my mother let me try once, from her coveted collection.
It’s folded in between the layers of this bread.
There’s another similar pastry with orange-blossom icing that sticks to the top of my mouth.
I eat every single one, accompanied by a cup of steaming lavender-colored tea.
What must it be like to wake up every morning like this? My thoughts drift to Raker, hungry in the stables, but then I remember the fury in his gaze and force myself to forget him.
He took the medicine. His fever was already improving. He’ll be fine.
When I’m done with every single crumb and every drop of tea, I sit back in the chair, slumping against the pillows. That’s where I am minutes later, when there’s a knock on my door.
Vander is standing there, looking as though he’s already been awake for hours. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He just says, “If you don’t have a creature—you need alliances.”
A knife twists within me as I remember my dragon. I frown. “Alliances? How will that help me?”
He turns to stride down the hall, and I slip on those shoes I found downstairs, then follow. “How much do you know about swords?”
“I know how to make them,” I say. He nods, an understanding between us that Stellan taught me what he knew. He was a blacksmith even before the quest. “I know how to summon mine now.”
“You knew how to summon me.”
I nod, remembering how the forest had stilled. Remembering that, no matter how much Stellan trusted him, I cannot. Not fully, at least.
We turn a corner. The halls are empty. We only pass that same woman attendant—Ethel—who glares at me and bows to Vander before hurrying away, in a rush. I remember her mentioning being too busy with something else to host a guest.
“Not every sword can summon,” he says. “Not every immortal can hear a summoner’s call.” He turns another corner. “All swords can make oaths.”
I think about the king, asking for oaths on the blades he provided his challengers. I wonder how many of those challengers are still alive.
At my silence, Vander continues. “Oaths bind to the blade itself. If the oath is broken … so is the sword. And depending on the connection … so is the wielder. You see, after much time, a wielder and their blade become almost one. The bond is just like riders and their creatures. Especially for great swords like ours.”
“Okay. How will oaths help me?” I ask, as he finally leads me into a room.
I go still, taking in the rows and rows of books. We’ve entered a sprawling library. In the middle sits a long table made of ancient wood. I can almost feel its history, its power.
Without a word, Vander plunges his sword into the center of the table, and a map spills from its metal.
A living, silver map. It has all the places I know now from memory.
The Prism Path. The Beast Tree. Some places we haven’t reached yet, like the City on Fire.
I reach out and can feel the heat of the burning city.
I swallow. If Raker ever saw this, he would leave me.
I know that. He’s told me. It’s a good thing he’s locked in the stables.
I look over at Vander in question.
“On foot, it’s a long journey still,” he says, trailing a finger through the metal, all the way from his home to the Land of the Gods. Vander’s estate is in the center of Starside, to the south. We’ve gone backward more than two weeks’ worth of travel in just portaling here.
Fuck. Even if I expected to return to Stormside before the fifty days are up … now, it seems impossible. It might even be impossible to reach the gods in time.
Vander seems to have a plan, though. He points out various homes that sit between his and the archway where we’re heading.
“The Great Estates,” he says. “From the Great Houses of Starside.” There are far more than there are left on Stormside.
They had the magic necessary to keep and hold their power.
“They are all enchanted and connected. If you’re able to get an invitation to a Great House, your sword can take you to its gates. ”
Portaling across this much land … it would make a huge difference in our journey. It would almost make it easy.
“My sword … could portal me?”
He nods. “But invitations are forms of oaths and are rare, of course. They aren’t given up lightly.
An heir of a Great House swearing on your blade would be at great risk.
” He turns to face me. “But there are those among us who would like to see the gods dead.” He frowns.
“To what lengths will you go to get your revenge?”
“Any length. I’ll do … anything.”
He looks pensive. His expression grows serious. “Think about what you might promise these heirs. It’s your choice.”
Dread settles, knowing his meaning. What would I offer? Would I truly do anything?
“How would I even meet them in the first place?”
“You’re in luck.” His eyes glimmer, but I don’t miss the shadow of a frown. “There’s a ball happening in four days. Here, at my estate. It’s been planned for a while now.” The attendant’s preparations—that’s what she must be working on. “Heirs of most Great Houses will be in attendance.”
A ball. The way he says it, with irritation, makes me think it might be more than just a grand party. Still, if what he says is true … it offers an incredible opportunity.
He tightens his fist on the hilt of the sword, and the map retreats into its metal in a glimmering wave.
He pulls the blade out of the table and makes to turn, but I whirl to face him.
“Am I losing my mind?” I ask, remembering the bath, and the clothes that weren’t there at first, and the shoes by the door.
“Or is your estate … is your house …. alive?”
I know Great Houses have magic. But this is something more. It’s like a consciousness. It’s like eyes are buried in the walls.
His lips pull up with near-amusement. “Something like that,” he says. “Don’t antagonize it.” Then he frowns, scowling. “It can get an attitude.” He looks at me. “I’ll leave you to your plotting,” he says, before he strides out of the room.
Each Great House has a crest, just like the gods.
According to Vander’s endless texts, they were formed by sons and daughters of the gods were strong enough to claim the first skylarks. Some also bonded with creatures who wielded magic.
Over millennia, some of the swords were lost, won, or—most interesting—combined with other swords to create even greater weapons.
Each have names. They are famous. I trace their illustrations, marveling at their designs, techniques and carvings that seem impossible to create, with human hands, at least.
Family trees are helpful.
So is Vander. He comes to visit me the next afternoon, his sword dripping blood.
He cleans it off and says, “Every time a head of House dies, there is a duel, which decides which heir will claim the blade. The heir is thought to be the strongest of the line, and they become the head. It’s often a bloody affair.
” He points to the family trees. “Age doesn’t matter.
The one with the star is each generation’s heir. ”
“Which are expected to attend the ball?”
He sits. “I suppose I should tell you it isn’t simply a ball,” Vander says, finally cleaning his blade with an equally bloody rag. “It’s the beginning of a long and tedious courting ceremony.” I remember the hunter mentioning the start of courting season.
I blink. “Are you—are you auditioning wives?”
Vander flashes his sparkling teeth. “Why, human? Are you interested?”
I give him a look, and he chuckles. “Not just me. Every eligible heir and heiress will be here for months, to make matches. All staying in this castle.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Sounds tedious,” he says, clearly not looking forward to it all. It almost makes me smile, seeing an immortal so annoyed.
Until I realize what he’s saying. What I can promise. “You think I should …”
“I think you should dance with them. Talk to them. See what they want … and if you can give it to them.”
I open my mouth. Close it. There are a million things I have to say to that, but the one that comes out is, “I don’t know how to dance.”
At that, he rises. He offers his hand.
It’s covered in blood. I raise a brow at him, and he takes off his gloves. Tosses them onto the ancient table will little care.
“Come on, mortal, I don’t have all day. And I don’t particularly enjoy dancing with anyone, let alone a clumsy human.”
“How charming,” I say, taking his hand. He only grins.
“Here are the steps.”
It’s been two days since I’ve visited Raker. I mean to forget him, the way he so clearly wants me to, but at the last moment, I make a plate at dinner and sneak it out to the stables.
Raker is there, of course, still chained. I don’t even bother with insults as I stride over and touch my palm to his forehead. He hisses at my touch. “I told you not to visit me,” he snarls.
“And I told you to stop ordering me around,” I say, happy with his progress. His fever is gone. “Better. Here.”
I pick up one of the pieces of meat on the plate, then pause, frowning. I should have brought a fork or something, I think, as juices drip down my hand. Too late now.
Raker’s eyes are still narrowed and locked on mine as I press the food to his lips. He takes it with his teeth, and I swallow. I don’t know why I swallow.
He chews. I watch him. In silence, I feed him, and we’re both glaring at each other, as if to communicate how much we hate this.
Then the food is gone. I lift the cup to his lips. When it’s empty, I leave without another word.