Chapter 18
A everie does not look surprised to see us. Not in the slightest.
The kingdom’s conservatory is much larger than the one in the Vale, but the plants aren’t nearly as vibrant as the ones the elves cared for. This one has an open-air structure that wraps around a small courtyard, allowing for the space to be both indoors and outdoors at once. A large tiered fountain occupies the center of the outdoor space, water trickling over two circular plates and spilling into the basin at its base.
The outdoor section is mostly populated with flowers and a few spiraled shrubs that have been well manicured, while the interior is overrun with green, leafy plants in decorative pots. There is some furniture too—a few wicker chairs, a low table set for tea, and a bedroll that I presume Aeverie uses for sleep. In lieu of a temple, the high priestess was given permission to use this space for her practice. A place for the elves to gather for worship and receive the priestess’s blessing in the form of smashed berries smeared across their lips.
Given the castle’s conservatory is significantly smaller than the House of Worship, their devotion ceremony takes place across several smaller gatherings each day to accommodate all the elves, requiring Aeverie to spend most of her hours out here. Better for all of us that she’s outside the castle most of the time, given the current tensions simmering between her and the Black Art.
“A tad late for visitation by mortal standards,” she says from where she perches on a round floor pillow. She sits cross-legged in a haze of lazy smoke, the scent of burning herbs filling the space.
“You will rise when in the presence of your Black Art.”
Aeverie’s milky eyes flit up to Sin, then to Vox at my side, before settling on me. Her stare spears me, so dark and cold for eyes cut from ivory. I offer her nothing, toughening my features into granite. The slightest of exhales, and she uncrosses her legs and stands, the movement far too fluid for a woman that’s likely been alive for more than a millennium. I’m partly surprised she rose at all. She could have antagonized Sin, knowing his power is no match for hers without the goddess-blessing behind it. Hell, maybe not even with it.
“You come with questions,” she states.
“I come with consequences,” he growls.
Vox walks to take his place at Aeverie’s side, the slow, purposeful steps of his long legs a tad too forced. His turns so he faces us—a purposeful display of where his loyalty lies, and always will. I take a step closer to Sin. I will have words for him later about trying to order me to my room like a misbehaving toddler, but for now, we need to present as a united front.
“Yes, you do,” the priestess agrees, but her tone implies she means it differently than how he intended it. “A mortal man playing the part of a god, that comes with consequences, indeed.”
“My patience is thinning, elf. Explain at once, and I suggest you speak clearly,” Sin bites out through clenched teeth.
“The foreign king fears magic because he does not wield it, nor is he immersed in it. If mortal magic frightens him, wanderer, imagine his fear of god power.”
“And is that why you told a hostile nation that the ruler of their enemy kingdom is without their god power, then? So that he wouldn’t have nightmares in his bed after he unleashes every naval fleet on the godsdamned continent on us?” Sin volleys.
“So that he wouldn’t have cause to!” Aeverie snaps, anger bleeding into her usually leveled voice. She reaches for her staff propped on the table behind her, and Vox’s raven eyes drop to track the movement, his stance giving way a couple of inches. A subtle shift, but not one that I miss. Interesting, that the elven commander is so wary of magic when his weapons are embedded with enchanted gems that draw from Source. She slams the butt of the staff into the stone and props one palm onto the top of it.
“A magic-fearing king who had just learned that his greatest threat not only bears the blessing of a goddess, but is in possession of a blood mage. You could very well hang a guillotine over his head, and he would fear that death less. Mortal men may be wayward, but they are all the same when death looks their way: desperate . A man already chased by a reaper has nothing to lose if he turns around and fights—only a swifter death, and often one less bloody than if he had cornered himself. A wolf that chases too long grows feral for the hunt. You are quite familiar with the concept, wanderer.
“The only way to avoid a full-on war is if that fool believes wholeheartedly that you are without god magic, and that the blood mage does not serve you. So yes, I sent the letter informing him your magic had been siphoned, and that the blood mage was your slave. I dare say that you returning in one piece is a far more suitable outcome than their entire fleet invading our waters.”
“Our meeting wasn’t without blood,” Sin argues through a snarl.
“A slip of one’s temper is hardly able to be blamed on me, wanderer.” Aeverie turns on her heels, plucks a watering can from the corner, and heads into the courtyard. It seems the priestess has been keeping her Sight on us after all, if her comment suggests she witnessed what transpired at the waystone. I swallow down the unease that stirs in my belly at the thought of her watching us without our knowledge.
I glance at Sin and find his eyes closed. I resist the urge to sweep his collective with my own to see what is troubling him so badly. I’ve not needed to flex my ability in a while, given the elves seemingly have no collective for me to latch onto. The aura around them is wispy, nothing concrete for me to latch onto like a venomous spider. Trying to lock onto the elves’ minds is like trying to bottle the wind. And Sin… I feel him always, like a brand permanently inked into my heart. Even when I’m not searching for him, he’s there , as if my magic were a compass and him true north. But Sin doesn’t like when I invade his collective, and so I’ve been making an effort not to.
Sin exhales, and when his eyes open, there is nothing forgiving in them. Vox clears his throat, his dark stare dipping to me and holding my gaze for a moment too long before he turns to follow his priestess into the courtyard. The Black Art doesn’t miss the look, his own eyes narrowing slightly, and his jaw clenching as he watches the elven commander walk away. I reach for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, then follow after the others. His footsteps fall in line behind me immediately.
“While you were with Torin, his generals passed along a message to us,” Vox begins. “The king wants us to recall our ships along the Maeva trade route, and the fact he would go to such lengths to prove a point today tells us two things. Our blockade in the water intimidates them, and also that they will not yield on this demand.” He ticks the points off on his fingers.
Maeva is our neighbor to the south. Unlike Baelliarah, the mundane and magicked coexist there. They’re governed by a mage queen, but unlike our isle, they are a secular nation and do not worship the gods, instead believing that magic is nothing more than a trait that exists in some bloodlines and not others.
Many put aside trace amounts of coin for years so they can afford to put their names on the manifest and sail their families across the southern sea to a nation not ruled by a goddess-blessed mage. Many lords find security in being governed by a leader possessing divine power, but for the mundane whose hands grow blacker every day from smithing and don’t have so much as a spare coin to their name… obeying that kind of power is terrifying.
“The ships stay,” Sin growls from behind me.
“Why do they want them withdrawn?” I ask.
“I sent them to patrol the southern trade route—a warning for Torin should he have ideas to try to choke out our supply chain, and to send a message to Queen Nadine should that bastard try convincing her to embargo trade with us or levy taxes. Of course he wants me to recall our ships. Harder to scheme in shark-infested waters.”
“It is understandable for our naval presence to make him wary, but to be so alarmed as to resort to stealing the Black Art’s… slave, ” Vox mouths the word as if it were coated in poison, “that is a desperate resort. In all my centuries, I have found nothing more desperate than a man with something to hide. There is something more he wants, and if we wish to not lose this war before it begins, we need to find out what it is.”
I swallow the urge to tell him about the king’s offer. If Aeverie was willing to reveal our greatest weakness to the enemy, then we must safeguard our greatest strength.
“Torin was… odd,” I supply instead. “He had a lot of things . His belongings were scattered—ledgers incomplete, scribblings everywhere, like he is collecting information but can’t seem to decide what is useful and what is not.”
“Or maybe he just hasn’t yet found what he looks for,” Aeverie says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t look away from the hedge she’s watering, but my skin prickles as if her gaze were spearing me.
“Did you see that he would take her?” Sin suddenly asks, his tone suggesting he hadn’t considered that possibility before this moment.
The priestess slowly crosses to the other side of the fountain and begins watering the potted flowers there. “I see all sorts of things. Beginnings and ends. Some complete, others not.”
“Answer me in a riddle one more time when I ask you about Wren. I dare you .”
Vox bares his teeth in a silent snarl, but Aeverie merely lowers her watering can and walks to meet us where we stand. “I don’t fault you for your suspicions, wanderer, but it would be in neither of our best interests to lose the blood mage.”
A low growl. “She is not something to be won or lost. She is mine. Do not mistake that again, Aeverie.”
My tongue clicks against the roof of my mouth, and Vox’s head jerks towards me, his eyes dipping to my lips before they meet mine. I stare back, hoping my expression translates to stay the fuck out of it.
I know Sin is trying to protect me, and I cannot blame him for his distrust of the elves after they gambled with both our lives and for their continual deceptions. But I am not a damsel in need of constant shelter.
I am my own fucking fortress.
“A wolf can be domesticated, Singard Kilbreth. Pranced around a castle as a loyal pet, but put it on a leash, and the wolf will return. Ferality runs in its blood. You, too, would be wise to not mistake that again.”
Her milky gaze flits to me before Sin can respond. “What did the king mention about the dagger?”
“Just that he knew it existed,” I lie smoothly. “He was mocking us. Well, mocking Sin that he had lost his power to elves.”
She studies me for a moment too long, and immediately I replay what I just said, worried I gave something away in my lie. “Interesting,” she says, her body as rigid and unmoving as stone. “I suggest we make haste with reconstruction efforts; we need this place fortified. Vox, how has the kingdom army taken to our integration?”
“They are wary. The few that tried ambushing some of ours were quickly made examples of. If they view us as savages, then savagery is what they will be met with; we cannot afford to offer second chances. A few public executions, and the rest have quickly fallen into line.”
Unease stirs in my stomach. It is possible Torin was lying about having a seer, trying to corner me into a confession because he suspected Sin and I were trying to manipulate him. But if he wasn’t…
Is she watching us right now?
How long will it take for her to latch onto Sin’s collective? Can a single strand of my hair truly allow her to tap into Sin’s mind? Is there a distance limit? How long can she maintain the connection? I need answers, but I can’t ask them here. Not if there is the possibility the seer has sights on us right now. She’d note my lack of chains, but that could be explained away with iron injections, or even elven magic. But Sin… If Torin really does have a seer, and she witnesses Sin’s behavior around me, our ruse is up immediately.
“Have any of the elven texts been brought here from the Vale?” I ask.
Aeverie’s head angles at that. “Yes. I had the bulk of the repository brought over with the first vessel. Why do you ask?”
“I have been curious about my origins. Of the time when bloodwitches and elves commingled. Would it be acceptable if I looked through some of the tomes?”
“They’re all in Elvish.”
Shit. I had forgotten that.
“ Ancient Elvish,” she adds. “Our language has evolved over the centuries, but most of our volumes were recorded millenniums ago. It is rare a common elf speaks the ancient tongue anymore.”
Vox clears his throat. “I know the language.”
I don’t miss how Sin’s head jerks towards the commander at that.
“I suppose your days are too busy making sure our armies don’t kill each other to offer your translating services,” I grumble, running through the manifest of elves I have in memory, wondering if any of them are old enough to know the first language. It makes sense Vox would be well studied of the ancient tongue given his station, but I’m not familiar enough with any of the other officers to ask for a favor this large.
“Yes, I’m afraid I am quite busy during the days,” he agrees. “But my nights are free.”
I perk up, just as Sin stiffens at my side. “Would you do it? You do owe me a favor, given you and Sera poured iron into my bloodstream, and oh, there was also the time you nearly let me die so your flowers could grow a little taller and your fruit ripen sweeter.” I give him a smile that’s all teeth.
“ Nearly is the key word there,” the elf responds with a wink of an obsidian eye. “We can convene tomorrow night after the soldiers have been dismissed to the mess. The tomes have been moved into the library. I’ll meet you there.”
I nod, but my mind is swimming. Suddenly too aware of the possibility the seer could be watching us right now. Too aware of how close Sin is standing to me, to his prisoner . So many questions, but there is one I need the answer to first.
Where the fuck is that dagger?