Chapter 58
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
LYRA
It is a while longer before anyone speaks again.
Eventually, Nuri breaks the pressing silence. “I am sorry I lied to you all. But I hope you can understand now why I had to.”
“I always knew you were lying about your identity,” Gray replies with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. “I just never suspected you were lying about being the hidden princess of Anatolé.”
Marcella and I both open our mouths to scold Gray—to tell him to deflate his ego—but both of us are forced to snap our lips closed because he isn’t wrong.
That day when we were given our team for the second test, he had quizzed Nuri about her heritage.
A fact which I had always thought odd, but now makes perfect sense.
Nuri chuckles. “What gave me away?”
Gray smirks at her. “I think you know what gave you away, because the next time I saw you, you removed what exposed you from around your neck.”
She nods. “The sun pendant.”
“The sun pendant,” Gray confirms. “Too lavish and expensive, even for a merchant from Lydith. That paired with your essence flower left me certain there was more to your identity than you were sharing with us.”
“You do your Nightenjoy name justice,” she says, inclining her head to him.
He tips his head at her in return.
The conversation carries on for a while longer after that.
Until servants arrive to escort us all to our rooms for the night, and Nuri excuses herself to prepare for the viewing party being held on the palace’s rooftop terrace.
Apparently to everyone else in the palace, she is still known as Nuri Calhart, but instead of being the daughter of a Lydith merchant, her alias is as a distant relative of the Queen—who is presently away, attending to her sick mother.
Draven, Gray, Marcella, and I follow the servant showing us to our rooms, walking down the arched corridors with wide eyes.
The architecture of the palace is unlike anything I have ever seen, the tilework and stuccowork an artistic masterpiece.
My chin is fully lifted into the air, marveling at the designs carved into the wooden ceilings, when I glimpse the sight of a beautiful garden resting beyond a large window.
“What’s that?” I ask the servant, pointing in its direction when he turns back to see what I’m inquiring about.
“Ah,” the man says. “That is King Yarum’s private gardens. It is off-limits to all but him.”
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, a deep-seated desire to go explore all the flowers and plants tugging at me.
“It is,” the man confirms with a smile and eyes which silently tell me to keep moving.
I make it only five more steps before I halt in my tracks.
Draven gazes back at me from over his shoulder, his knowing smirk telling me he fully anticipated my decision.
I shrug at him, a half-formed smile tilting my own lips.
He winks at me just before elbowing Gray in the side and whispering something.
Gray turns back, chuckling the moment he sees me standing at a halt in front of the garden’s window.
They both face forward and continue to follow the servant.
Next thing I know, a perfect replica of me appears, walking beside them in the exact position I was before.
A tendril of darkness snakes over the ground next, caressing my cheek in an achingly familiar way right before shooting off down a branching corridor, where a nondescript door rests at the end.
Ah, there’s the entrance.
My chest swells when I glance back at Draven and Gray, two distinct pieces of my heart.
Then I follow the thin trail of darkness straight to the hidden door, and I enter the gardens.
The smell is intoxicating.
Vibrant lily and musky moss. Fresh sage and fruity citrus paired with aromatic spices. Roses and the distinct metallic scent of soil. It all tangles into the air, mingling to form one wonderful perfume.
My fingertips glide over lively green leaves, and I rub the velvety petals between them.
As I take everything in, all I can think about is how much my mother would have loved this garden.
How it mirrors the design of the greenhouse she maintained at King Alastair’s estate.
Even the plants are similarly located, seeming to be clustered together in the same organizational system she used.
The “Three Ms,” as she called it. Meal, medicine, and materials.
“Are you a fan of gardens?”
I spin on my heels to find King Yarum standing behind me. “Your Majesty.” I immediately incline my head, bowing. “I am so sorry for intruding on your private space.”
He chuckles. “It is alright. Something about these gardens always seems to bring wanderers. So” —a pause— “do you like gardens?”
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back. “I do, very much. My mother was a Gardner, so I was raised around them. Taught to understand all the power each tiny leaf and pretty petal possesses.”
“Ah, spoken like a true admirer.” He folds his hands behind his back. “I do remember you, in case you were wondering. From my time I last spent in King Alastair’s hall. You served me my drink during the party, yes?”
Despite myself, my cheeks flood with heat. “Yes. That was me.”
His smile feels as warm as the rays of a pleasant sun. “I remember you being very brave that night, against all your obstacles.”
My lungs stutter.
Brave.
I almost want to laugh at the word choice. When I reflect back on my days as an attendant, I always feel like I was anything but. So cowardly, in fact, I couldn’t even face the other night attendants—tell them I was the one supplying them with their sleeping tonics.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” I murmur instead. My eyes linger on the spread of greens, whites, and reds before me. “May I ask you something?”
“You may.”
“That night… Why did you help me? I’ve spent more than one sleepless night wondering about it.”
He studies me, expression inscrutable. “To be truthful, you reminded me of someone I once knew. Someone I once cared for very much.” His laugh is soft and quiet as it blows past his lips. “In complete honesty, when I first laid my eyes on you that night, I thought I was seeing her ghost.”
I laugh. “Were you?”
“No,” he says through a grin. “I do not believe so. Though I suppose she could be a ghost now. I lost track of her whereabouts many years ago.” There is a somber quality to his words.
“I’m sorry,” I offer.
“Do not be.” He jerks his chin. “Come, walk with me. I will show you this garden’s prized possession.”
I do as he asks and fall into stride beside him. He guides me down a mosaic trail of colored stones, past a trimmed line of bushes and trees.
“Have you given any more thought to what I have asked of you and your friends?”
“The meeting wasn’t that long ago,” I point out, a small laugh bloating my words.
“This is true,” he agrees. “Yet the mind forms thoughts quickly.”
“Also true,” I say through more soft laughter. We share a few silent heartbeats before I ask, “I’m assuming you know about what happened at Bathara? My actions, I mean.”
“Yes, Nuri has told me. Though you would be surprised by how quiet the academy attempts to keep such information.”
“They want to contain the truth of my magic,” I say. “Or at least control the narrative surrounding it.”
He nods. “I am glad you are aware.”
The heaviness of my next words puts unbearable pressure against my sternum. “So then it’s safe to presume you are aware that the Tani searches for me? Wishes to hold a trial for my crimes?”
“I am aware.”
My face scrunches with my growing thoughts. “Then why ask me to fight in your war, knowing I am a dead woman walking? Or if not dead, a liability at the least. Tani law is greater than man’s law. Even in the eyes of war, it must be upheld or the Shadows will come.”
“I do not fear the Shadows.”
I snort a laugh before I can think better of it, temporarily forgetting I am in the presence of a king. I tighten up my casual behavior. “Sorry,” I murmur.
“Do not apologize. I understand why you laugh. But it does not change things. I do not fear the Shadows, but I do fear what war will mean for my people. And your power could change their fates, should you choose to use it for our cause.”
A heaviness fills my body, and my lips become too weighted to open, my tongue too burdened to speak.
I really wish people would stop telling me that.
Seeming to sense the sharp shift, King Yarum says no more, instead pointing to our left, where a beautiful wooden trough planter rests, adorned with intricate carvings. A quiet pulse zips down my arms, wrapping along my spine, and I stiffen before trudging forward to the petals.
Energy radiates from them. I can feel it. Sense it.
My eyes widen. “Are these essence flowers?”
“They are.”
Awe washes through me. “How? How are you managing to grow them?”
“We have our ways,” he says through a proud smile. “A trademark secret of the Calliva bloodline, I am afraid.”
I laugh, staring down at the seemingly half-bloomed flowers. Yet I know the truth of them. Know that if their owner were ever to appear and claim them, they would assume their full glory, blossoming into something remarkable.
It brings a fond memory to my mind’s surface, and I grin at the warmth of it. “My mother was given an essence flower once. She said it bloomed the moment it touched her palms.”
From the corner of my eye, I swear I glimpse King Yarum go rigid. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. And then—
“Did she tell you what her flower was or how she came to possess one?”
I shake my head. “No. She always said those details were irrelevant.”
“I see,” he murmurs, his now-scrunched eyes falling to the ground. He grips the edge of the trough, swaying a bit.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine,” he says, waving a stiff hand at me. “I am fine. I have not been sleeping as I should with all my council meetings. An impending declaration of war is not kind to the tired, I am afraid.”
I study him with a sharp gnawing in my gut. Yet I don’t press him for more—he is a king, after all, and I am merely a lowborn.
“Anything I can do?”
He shakes his head, offering me a smile.
The curves twitch at the corners of his mouth, framed by a distinct pensive quality.
“No. I will be alright. Please, do not worry.” King Yarum brings his eyes to meet mine, then.
They hold onto me in that peculiar way—something there beneath the surface of his gaze, even more saturated than it was before.
His sharp gaze now carries a glassy quality, and he blows out a deep sigh, pinching his bottom lip between his teeth.
“I am afraid I must be going now,” he says, bracketing his hands on his hips.
“I…you…” He sighs again. “Please, enjoy the garden for as long as you like. I will see to it you are not bothered.”
“Thank you.” I offer him a curtsy.
He lifts his hand. “Please. That is not necessary while you are here.”
I reorient myself upright, dipping my chin to acknowledge what he’s said. King Yarum lingers for a moment longer. His feet take a tiny step in my direction, hands twitching in front of him. And as he studies me, for a moment, I’m convinced he intends to hug me.
Though, he doesn’t.
Instead, he rolls his shoulders back and clasps his fingers together, striding off without another word.
I watch him leave with the same feeling I had during The Founding celebration. An intuition of sorts. An unnamable knowingness—made all the more confusing considering I actually know nothing about this feeling at all.
And just like the last time, it does not part from my bones for a long, long time.