Chapter 48
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
MARCELLA
“This doesn’t make sense!” Marcella slams her fist against the wooden table. “Why is Josiah doing this?”
Kiran stares at the roaring hearth, his expression distant.
He has been distant, smiling less and less over the passing month.
There are dark smudges beneath his dulled eyes, no longer glittering like a sapphire stone but instead cloudy like some knock-off gem.
Marcella thinks he may have even lost some weight, judging by the sharpness of his cheekbones and slenderizing of his shoulders.
She remembers him that day between the hills when they were all together, helping Lyra with her training.
His body was lean and sculpted with toned muscle.
He then used those muscles to make graceful, languid gestures.
He had smiled lazily. Enjoyed himself against the expectations of a demanding world.
There is no enjoyment in his features now.
“Kiran?” she presses.
He snaps into focus, tearing his eyes from the hearth. “Sorry?”
Marcella fights against her urge to pinch her nose and sigh. “Why is Josiah mobilizing the Jurafen against the uprising? It’s political.”
“It’s destructive.”
“And we’re supposed to be neutral!” She squares herself to him. “Let the people of Erandor overthrow their king. He deserves it. As does the King of Rivara. Let their people rebel. Let them fight back. We are not the king’s force; we are here to protect magical order.”
“They do not simply wish to overthrow their kings. They wish to unite Solaya under one king—one banner—once more.”
Marcella snorts. “Maybe that’s for the best. Let King Yarum rule it all. Have you not noticed how the Anatolé Kingdom has remained unaffected by all this chaos? How his people do not rebel against him? It is because he is a good king. A wise king. Let him have it all.”
Kiran rubs at the space between his eyes.
“Anatolé has forged its entirely own political system and climate. One that is vastly different from Rivara and Erandor—whose differences in their own laws are marginal, with their rule based on similar structures. To have Anatolé suddenly take over and ask so many people to assimilate to a government entirely different from the one they are used to is asking for more chaos and more civil war.”
“So who are the people backing, then? Whose banner do they wish to see at the head of rule?”
Kiran’s lips thin. He remains silent.
Marcella’s eyes narrow. “You actually know, don’t you?”
He bites down on his lip, chin jutting out in the opposite direction. He is saved from having to provide an answer when there is a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he says gruffly, so at odds with the usual carelessness filling his words.
A man walks in, boasting Skyborne’s colors. Marcella doesn’t remember his name, but she does recognize his face. Has seen him around during her classes. He offers Kiran a curt dip of his chin. “Captain Sulien.”
“What is it?”
“A missive has arrived for you.” The man’s eyes shift to Marcella. “And you as well.”
“Me?” she asks, surprised.
He nods. “Yes. Both are sealed by House Fjolla’s crest and are under strict instruction to be delivered directly to you both. I believe the word ‘discreetly’ was also used.”
Kiran stiffens, looking terrified for the span of a heartbeat. Though just as quickly as it is there, it passes. “Bring it here,” he instructs, holding out a stiff hand.
The man struts forward, passing off the envelope to him. He hands Marcella her own sealed envelope next.
Kiran stares at the item. “That is all,” he murmurs, seeming distracted. “You can go now.”
The man again dips his chin and turns for the door. Marcella stops him.
“Please keep this between us.” She does her best to manage a tone that is not demanding but is also not a request. “It is important you do.”
The man offers her an affirming look. “It arrived through a trusted network used only by Captain Fjolla. I assure you, your discretion will be maintained.”
Marcella allows the words to settle inside her, deciding it will have to be enough. “Thank you.”
The man goes, leaving behind a hanging silence.
“Should we open them?” Marcella asks eventually, her voice suddenly seeming two times louder than it was before.
Kiran, still staring at the unopened envelope in his hand, merely nods.
Marcella decides that is answer enough and turns the thing over in her hand, inspecting the wax seal only momentarily before breaking it apart and tearing the envelope open.
She pulls out three sheets of parchment, recognizing the handwriting on the first page immediately.
Gray.
She reads, clapping a hand over her mouth as she does.
A choked sound somewhere between a laugh of disbelief and a cry pours from her lips.
“Goddess’s tears,” she murmurs, awe and excitement and so much more bloating her voice.
“They found her. They actually found her.” A quick glance in Kiran’s direction shows he is reading his own missive, his features drawn taut like a bowstring.
She continues reading. Once she reaches the end of the first parchment, she pauses, again looking up at Kiran.
“They’re hiding in the Anatolé Kingdom, safe for now.
They are forming their next move, deciding what to do about the Tani and Draven’s father. ”
Kiran remains entirely inscrutable as he only again nods to acknowledge he’s heard what she’s said. He doesn’t even look up from his own reading.
Marcella watches him for a beat longer before she sighs, forcing herself to move on. She tucks the now-read parchment behind the other two and moves onto the next sheet.
Another strangled noise exits her throat within an instant.
The handwriting on this page is different, but she recognizes it as well. It is more bubbly. Features more spacing between the curves of her letters.
This is Lyra’s handwriting.
Marcella drops into the chair beside her, her heart fluttering like hummingbird wings.
Then she reads.
She reads about Lyra’s desire for Marcella not to follow them to the Anatolé Kingdom, not wanting her to jeopardize herself or her position at Bathara.
She reads her request to not use Ever-Know Quills right now, not knowing what the Tani is capable of intercepting.
She reads what Lyra learned of Abdites. Of what her time away from home has taught her.
She reads of her best friend’s heartbreak.
Of the new turmoil and conflict in her heart.
By the time Marcella finishes reading, she is surprised to realize a small stream of tears now slicks her cheeks.
She presses the tips of her fingers against her salt-filled pores, looking across the room to Kiran, wondering what his missive must contain, given all that filled hers.
He is standing at the hearth now, his features even more withdrawn than before.
When she glances down at the flames, she’s surprised to glimpse remnants of parchment caught aflame, sizzling apart into nothing more than ashen bits.
Kiran watches, leaning with his arm draped over the stone mantle.
He stares into the glowing space with dull eyes.
He says nothing. Offers her nothing.
So she says nothing more in return.