Chapter 4
Caelan
Caelan took a long swig of purple wine from his crystal goblet.
He scanned the dining hall, stifling a yawn.
The long wooden table stretched across the massive space, seating at least sixty self-important people.
The others ate and laughed, celebrating the first week of the council gathering.
Caelan had no appetite. Not after that training session—and subsequent conversation with his father—several days ago.
His throat still burned, and he would have collapsed into his too-soft bed and slept for a few days if his presence hadn’t been required at more dreaded meetings.
Drowning on dry land will do that to you. He drank again, trying his best not to wince at both the sting and the taste. The wines favored at the Valorian court were cloyingly sweet compared to the crisp, dry vintages native to Veilkeep.
At least the princess had given Caelan a minor distraction from his pain.
So beautiful, he thought, picturing her raven hair and sapphire eyes.
And odd. He smirked to himself at the thought of whatever she had been doing that had left her so filthy.
That, along with her obvious disinterest in him, made her all the more intriguing.
Caelan’s charms seldom proved ineffective, especially with single young noblewomen.
Caelan leaned back and remembered the first time he’d sailed across the narrow sea that separated the Shadowed Isles from the rest of the continent.
He’d been a boy of eleven years, swinging from the ship’s rigging and learning terrible manners and colorful language from the crew.
They taught him well, for beneath his polished exterior was the mouth of a seasoned sailor who could make just about anyone blush.
Now Caelan was here as a future magi—heir to his father’s legacy, a twenty-five-year-old man with a boy’s heart.
He longed to travel the continent, to see the fabled ruins of the Verdant Forest with his own eyes and explore the unknown lands to the south.
So much of the world he hadn’t seen, had barely been able to dream of visiting.
Instead, he pouted in this dining hall, drinking disgusting wine and listening to the richest families in Serendith bicker. Tomorrow night, this suffocating palace would trap him, perpetually drowning him once more.
“Hey there, stranger.”
The soft, slurred voice drew him out of his thoughts. Caelan glanced over as Lady Seraphine Greythorn slid into the chair next to his.
“Where are we going tonight?” she asked, beaming at him, green eyes glistening with mischief.
Caelan waved, summoning a servant to bring her a goblet of her own, although, judging by the twinkling in her eyes and the way she’d slurred her greeting, she didn’t need any further libations.
“Water for my friend,” he ordered when the attendant appeared.
“You’re no fun, friend,” she whined, swatting him affectionately on the arm.
“I’m fine,” she argued, even as she knocked around her silverware with the long sleeves of her violet gown and nearly toppled out of her seat upon turning.
Caelan gripped her wrist and held her steady until she settled, reclining.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, chuckling. “Let’s get a little water in you—and some bread to soak up whatever’s sloshing around in your stomach—before we go.”
With Seraphine’s meal attended to, the pair withdrew from the dining hall before the dessert service. Caelan tugged the hood of her cloak up over her head, concealing her bright hair and obscuring her face.
“I don’t know why you bother,” she muttered.
“We both know I don’t need protecting.” A wicked grin spread across her face, and she held up a hand, conjuring a purple mist that swirled around her delicate fingertips.
“Besides, if I was going to disguise myself, I can do much better than a raggedy old cloak,” she teased.
With a flourish, her purple smoke puffed into her face, transforming her emerald eyes into sapphire ones.
A wisp of blond hair sticking out from under the cloak shifted into a raven curl, and her tanned skin lightened.
“She is beautiful, you know. You could do a lot worse,” Seraphine said.
Caelan stared at Princess Elara’s face. “Not funny, Sera.”
She giggled and dropped the illusion, returning to her normal self.
He slung his arm around her and guided her down the hall.
Sera was right—she didn’t need his protection—but he wanted to at least pretend that he was doing her some good by keeping their relationship hidden.
His disrepute had yet to taint her after all these years, and he intended to keep it that way.
They ambled down a deserted hall lined with alternating panels of ivory and obsidian, in search of a particular drawing room.
Caelan had had enough of the sickly sweet drinks mixed with vapid conversation and craved company more fitting to his particular tastes.
The Valorian court’s pristine facade hid more than intriguing political webs, including his father’s own spies.
At this moment, what mattered most to Caelan was that it concealed a notorious network of illicit gatherings.
One last turn brought Caelan and Sera to their destination.
The sound of Caelan’s knuckles against the door—two quick taps, a beat of silence, and then three drawn-out knocks—cut through the silence.
A guard, opening the door but facing away, grunted, “Drop it!” to someone inside.
“Password?” he asked, sounding annoyed and turning to face them.
When his eyes locked with Caelan’s, panic filled his voice.
“S-sorry, Captain Stormrider! Please, right this way,” he said, bowing his head.
Caelan grinned. “Don’t fret, Geoffrey,” he said, patting the familiar palace guard on the shoulder. “Besides, isn’t it still ‘Ember’s Breeches’?”
The sturdy man sagged in relief. “Indeed, sir. Please enjoy yourselves. Oh, and”—Geoffrey leaned in to whisper into Caelan’s ear—“I’d avoid the red stuff tonight if I were you.”
Caelan nodded and tugged Sera through the threshold.
A thick red haze shrouded the dim room, the air tinged with the smell of turpentine. A puff of the pungent smoke wafted into his nostrils as a nearby woman blew rings from her pipe.
Aether.
Caelan coughed and navigated away from the smokers indulging near the doorway.
The “red stuff,” also known as “aether” or “stardust,” was one of the newest commodities to come out of Emberreach’s mines.
Its public purpose was medicinal, of course, but when inhaled or ingested in more substantial quantities, it offered a blissful escape from reality.
The perfect remedy to ease Caelan’s troubled mind.
Ignoring the guard’s warning, Caelan grabbed a fluted glass of sparkling red liquid as he settled into a plush loveseat at the back of the room.
The emerald-green velvet crunched beneath him as he sank into the cushions.
Sera took her cloak off, tossed it to the nearest servant, and joined the throng on the dance floor.
The crowd swayed to the lilting notes of a lone harp as gilded candelabras cast their flickering shadows onto the indigo wallpaper.
Caelan tilted his head back, downed his drink, and propped one foot up on the low table in front of the couch.
Enjoying a prime view, he observed several couples who had separated from the flock of over two dozen party guests.
He shook his head at a magi lounging in a chair while a woman half his age perched on his lap, caressing his whiskered, weathered face with her smooth fingers.
Typical. Like a coin, everyone at court had two faces—the polished one they showed to the world, and a tarnished backside reserved for more private settings.
The dancing and mingling figures blurred at the edges of Caelan’s vision.
Warmth pressed against his side, and a slender hand traced the inner seam of his trousers.
He brushed it off and crossed his legs, reaching for another drink—whiskey this time—from a servant’s silver platter as it floated by.
Before he could even take a sip, he swallowed hard and placed his glass back onto the tray with a clatter, realizing why the doorman had told him not to drink the red stuff.
She’s here. He’d been to dozens of parties over the years during his court visits but had never seen a royal attend one.
Princess Elara, arms folded and eyes narrowed, stood by a table laden with fluffy pastries and fine meats. A smile brightened her expression as a young royal guard approached, slipping a book and a pile of papers into her waiting hands.
With his hand on her shoulder, the guard grinned, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.
Caelan noted that the touch lingered a little longer than appropriate.
The guard wandered off, maybe to fetch some drinks, and the princess continued to observe the crowd.
Her lovely face twisted, her brow furrowing with worry.
She approached a cowering servant girl cornered by an enraged noblewoman and two gentlemen. Elara’s face was a mask of calm, but her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides.
“Sincerest apologies,” the servant said with a sniffle. The young girl trembled, tears spilling down her face. “It was a simple mistake.”
Caelan shook his head, trying to clear the aether’s haze enough to compose himself and focus on their conversation.
“Simple? Is it?” one of the men sneered. “You ruined my wife’s gown with red wine. That fabric is worth more than you’ll make in a lifetime, you useless girl!”
“I’m so sorry,” the girl squeaked out.
Caelan grimaced. The girl couldn’t have been older than ten and she had no business serving drinks at a party like this. He resisted the urge to help, instead wanting to see what Elara would do.
“There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” said the afflicted woman. “What should we do with her?” she asked her companions. The vicious look on her face suggested the violence she had in mind.
“Hush now,” Elara said to the tearful girl, “you did nothing wrong. It was an accident.” She turned to face the others. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she hissed.
The second man, the one who hadn’t yet said a word, raised his arm and prepared to strike the girl. Elara stepped in front of him just in time to block the blow with her shoulder.
Caelan’s heart pounded and he gripped the edge of the couch.
“Stars! Who do you think you—” the man roared at her, shaking out his hand.
They both straightened, Elara’s gaze sharp and unwavering as she stared him down, her blue eyes like steel.
His hand, already raised to strike her again, trembled with rage as her royal guard’s voice cut through the air, interrupting the impending blow.
“Your Highness,” the guard said, drawing the man’s attention and giving him a panicked look.
The man stared back at Elara, dumbfounded. “I-I am so sorry, Your Highness,” he stammered, bowing deeply as he backed away from her.
“Indeed, you should be,” Elara responded. “Now, tell me, what gives you the right to assault my staff?” She folded her arms across her chest, a frown etching itself onto her face as she waited.
“A misunderstanding, Princess,” the first man said, his voice smooth as silk despite the tension in the air. “We would never presume to punish the servant. It’s just that—”
“It’s just that you planned on beating this poor girl senseless—or worse,” Elara said. “I witnessed it personally.”
Caelan sat up straighter, impressed by her boldness—by her care for the girl. Even in his own household, servants were mistreated, and he hated it. Hated to see innocents suffer. More curious was the fact that a princess—an Evensong nonetheless—would risk her own safety to help.
“Please forgive us, Your Highness,” said the woman, deflating. Their actions were defenseless, and they knew it.
“Jalin, escort our guest here to his lodging for the evening. I’m sure a night in a cell will mend his temper.”
The guard nodded, then shoved the man out of the room.
“Come,” Elara said, offering her hand to the girl. “Do you like cake?”
The servant’s little mouth plopped open, and her eyes were wide as saucers as she put her tiny hand into the princess’s.
Caelan shifted in his seat, eyes following the odd pair as they exited together. The stories he’d been told about Elara’s family warred with what he’d just witnessed. The Evensongs were cruel, cunning. Not kind or protective.
Maybe she’s different, he thought. No. He shook his head and gestured to the woman who had shown an interest in him.
She walked over, hips swaying, and sat on his lap.
He licked the palm of her hand, coating his tongue with powdery red crystals.
He didn’t have time to think—not with his father’s plan already set in motion.
He let the red haze carry him away and into the beautiful stranger’s warm embrace.