Chapter 11
Elara
The day of the tournament arrived. Elara had seen little of Caelan since their conversation in the library.
The palace staff still seemed blissfully unaware of the truth as they continued on with the preparations for the tournament, and she’d had no word of her family in weeks.
Where are they? Are they being treated well?
She imagined Thalia behind iron bars, shivering and terrified.
Her mind warred with the helplessness that clawed at the back of her mind, clinging instead to her plan to manipulate Caelan.
If I could actually spend any time with him.
After Iris helped her dress and coiled her hair into an elaborate pattern atop her head, Elara was shuffled into a waiting carriage.
Felix followed, taking a seat across from her.
He glanced over at his gloomy companion, who filled the bench next to Elara.
Before she could get a good look outside, Silas pulled the curtains shut.
She frowned at him. Silas was the one who’d restrained her during the invasion, and he’d been aloof with Elara ever since.
Recalling the way she kicked at his shins, she could hardly blame him.
One jostling ride later, Silas’s tall frame and broad shoulders blocked her view as her guards deposited her into a tent—private, shaded, and silent.
Sweat beaded on the nape of her neck and clung to the velvet of her gown.
Based on the birds chirping and the equally chaotic chattering of nearby courtiers, she assumed she’d arrived at the outdoor arena that typically hosted tournaments.
A small table hosted a tray with an array of fruits and cheeses, along with a bottle of wine.
Two comfortable chairs invited her to lounge, but nothing else furnished her fabric cave.
Elara paced from one canvas wall to another, with her guards posted outside as her only company.
She was alone again with her thoughts, a situation that was growing tiresome—her isolation felt strategic, a calculated move designed to wear her down.
At a loud trumpet that marked the top of the hour, Elara poked her head through the slit in the fabric that constituted a door. “Felix,” she said.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Can we walk amongst the tents?” she asked.
Felix’s gaze cut to Silas. The older guard shook his gray head from side to side.
Before Felix could answer for them, Elara tried again. “It is critical for those in attendance to see that I am present to support Caelan today.”
At that, Felix nodded, eyes brightening. “Of course, Your Highness.”
“Please, Felix,” she said, “just call me Elara.” She beamed at him and batted her lashes. Any way she could endear them to her might help. At least Felix tried to be cordial with her.
He shifted on his feet and cast his gaze to the dirt, saying nothing further, but a small smile played on his lips.
Elara emerged from the tent and began her promenade through the temporary city.
Most of the other tents had their door flaps open and tied to the sides, creating rows of lovely canopies.
She passed by several familiar faces, pausing occasionally to greet them and exchange pleasantries.
If nothing else, she enjoyed the sun’s warmth on her skin and the warmth her people offered her.
With the equinox just around the corner, gone were the long days of summer.
Soon the moon and sun would share the sky in equal measure.
Bidding farewell to a Molten City family, denoted by their amber cloaks and exquisite jewelry, Elara turned back to Felix.
“Where is Caelan’s tent? I should wish him luck before the opening ceremony.”
Felix nodded, then guided her to a tent with its door flaps tied shut, but she could see two shadowy figures deep in conversation within.
Curiosity prickled at the back of her mind, guiding her steps closer.
The silhouettes—oblivious to her presence—embraced, pressing their lips together.
Elara blushed and turned away, but an invisible hand seemed to root her to the spot, drawing her close enough that she could spy through a narrow opening between the canvas flaps.
She recognized those figures—the deep violet gown and the cobalt-blue tunic.
One was the sorceress that had blinded her family—Lady Seraphine. And the other was Caelan.
The Nimireth’s delicate fingers lingered over the buttons of Caelan’s shirt, and he traced his hands across her lower back before pulling her hips against his.
Elara held her breath, unable to tear her eyes away.
Instead, she inched closer, her fingers gently brushing against the rough canvas to widen the gap and improve her view.
Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs as their breaths hitched in ragged gasps between kisses.
Caelan’s hands cupped Seraphine’s face before his fingers tangled in her silvery-blond hair.
Felix cleared his throat behind Elara. Caelan whipped his head toward her.
Stars above, she thought, face heating. She backed away several paces, pretending to be enraptured by the pink petals falling to the ground from a nearby crape myrtle tree.
Caelan flung the tent doors open and stomped over to her. “Spying does not become you, Princess,” he said harshly. He took in her flushed face and rapid breathing, and a smirk played across his lips.
If only you knew, she thought.
“That’s only because I need more practice,” she countered with a grin.
Elara wasn’t the only one who’d been caught—he was her betrothed, and he was the one acting shamefully, not her.
She would not be embarrassed by him. “It seems you, however, have had plenty of practice seducing women. It’s a shame that your charms don’t work on me. ”
Whatever tentative truce they’d built shattered. Despite her words, Elara’s chest ached. This man had called her his responsibility and had sworn to protect her. I guess he doesn’t think protecting my heart, or my honor, counts. A steaming rage, like a pot about to boil over, bubbled inside her.
“Don’t they though?” he asked. “Why else would you be watching?” He raised an eyebrow at her, one side of his mouth quirking up.
Now Elara was sweating—she didn’t have a clever response to that. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the duel?” she snapped.
“Archery first,” he replied.
He hadn’t flinched at the bite in her flirting back in the library—if anything, he’d looked intrigued—so she pressed her advantage. “I hope you get shot,” she mumbled.
His eyes darkened, and he laughed huskily. He jerked his chin at Felix, who nodded and walked out of earshot. “Who knows? Maybe you will get to showcase your . . . talents in the next tournament.” He had the audacity to wink at her.
The blood drained from Elara’s face. “Have you told anyone?”
“No,” Caelan said. “That’s our little secret, for now. I was thinking—you could actually use some combat training. Healers don’t really have much to showcase in the magical events, after all. I could teach you. Think about it,” he said with a shrug before he sauntered back to his tent.
Lady Seraphine poked her head out and winked at Elara. “I hope you enjoy the show,” she said, her smile sharp as a blade. She clutched Caelan’s arm and dragged him back inside, out of Elara’s sight.
After Elara’s encounter with Caelan, Felix escorted her back to her tent.
That was fine, considering her fiancé had given her more than enough to occupy her thoughts.
She paced once more within the beige walls, trying to understand what she’d just witnessed.
Of all the women at court, he had to fall into the arms of the sorceress who’d captured and tortured her family.
The rumors, swirling like tea leaves in her mother’s porcelain cups, had reached her ears before, but now they held a different weight.
When she saw Caelan with Seraphine, a flicker of betrayal, sharp and cold, had pierced her heart.
It doesn’t matter. It’s not real. She just had to focus on surviving the next few months leading up to the wedding.
And maybe that sorceress of his means that he doesn’t really want to marry me, anyway.
Caelan seemed eager enough to help her learn how to control her power; he’d even offered to train her in combat.
The idea left her tingling with excitement.
He made for a powerful enemy, and she hoped to turn him into a powerful puppet.
Hopefully training together would bring them closer, at least enough for him to care to truly help her.
The sound of trumpeting mercifully interrupted Elara’s thoughts.
The tournament was beginning. One side of her tent rose like a curtain, allowing her to view the arena.
Rings of tents surrounded the central grounds.
The grassy hills had been molded by the Tharven stonesmiths, creating a large bowl-like shape that allowed even the fourth and fifth rows of spectators a view of the action below.
A gentle fog flowed through the aisles between tents, forming swirling tendrils that crept into the arena.
A reverent hush fell over the crowd as a smoky blanket settled over them.
Flashing orbs of light danced through the smoke in a glistening waltz.
The purple, pink, and scarlet lights morphed into distinct figures.
First deer, then foxes, then naked human women.
With joyous abandon, they pranced and swirled, their movements a blur in the thick swirling mist. The crowd cheered.
Elara swallowed hard, tensing as fear skittered down her spine.
Illusion magic. The rest of the audience may have been enjoying the opening ceremony, but the surrounding energy made the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand up.
She balled her hands into fists at her sides.
Even before Lady Seraphine had ensnared her parents and sister, Elara’s parents had taught her to be cautious of the Nimireth.
The fog was a prime example of how they manipulated the mind—it left her feeling damp even though she knew it wasn’t real.
More figures shimmered into existence from within the fog, their forms solidifying into a circle of dancers.
They grasped hands and danced together, flowing in and out, making their circle pulse like a heartbeat.
A light flickered at its core, growing brighter with each beat.
Music played in her mind, at once haunting and sensual, its notes weaving a spell.
The flicker grew into a full-on blaze, the flames swirling around a womanly figure—Lady Seraphine.
She danced in the fire, her hair and dress tangling with the flames.
They changed color, turning from orange to purple to green to gold.
The fire’s crackle morphed into a deep roar; the music swelled to a thrilling crescendo; and the dancers, spinning and leaping, moved faster and faster.
Elara felt dizzy when Lady Seraphine exploded, transforming into a firebird with red-and-gold wings—a phoenix.
A moment of stunned silence hung in the air before the audience erupted in a tumultuous wave of applause.
Numb, Elara forced her palms together, clapping in case anyone was watching her reaction and questioning the king’s decision to allow this display. Illusionists were considered taboo, and to see their magic boldly displayed here, at a royal event . . .
Lord Stormrider sure knows how to stir the pot. Elara would play her part. Smile and nod. Keep herself and her family safe. Reputations be damned.
Besides, what would my subjects think if they found out I’m a Serathi?
Would they praise me? Some arcanists—perhaps the Children of the Sky—might rejoice, but healing essence was unknown and therefore a threat.
Elara thought about how Caelan had reacted.
Would they fear me? Despise me? He’d slammed her into a wall, sneered at her, hurt her.
But, she reasoned, he was more upset about the lie than her power itself.
At least, that was what she could discern from her limited observation of him.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter right now.
The smoke evaporated, the performers bowed to conclude the opening ceremony, and the first round of competitions began.
Caelan was in the section nearest her tent—archery, as he’d mentioned earlier—and Elara allowed herself to be distracted by his prowess with a bow.
His loose shirt revealed glimpses of tanned skin at his chest and forearms, pulled taut as a bowstring over corded muscle.
She held her breath as he took each shot, his stance wide and confident as he breathed through his movements.
He nocked his arrow, pulled back his bowstring until his knuckles met his jaw, and released.
Thwack. Arrow after arrow found its target, obliterating the competition.
When he finished, he handed Elara a rose, eliciting a flurry of eager cheers from the crowd.
Show-off. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d known about his skill as a swordsman and as a Moiren, but she’d yet to find anything he wasn’t irritatingly good at. Her mouth went dry. What else can you teach me?