Chapter 68
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
LYRA
Who are you?
I hear the words in my mind again and again as I stare at Draven, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest.
Yet I can’t believe it. Not yet. I have to check. I need to be sure of what is truly happening. I refuse to feel anything until I do.
I reach for his hand, sweeping my thumb over his rough, calloused palm. “You don’t recognize me?”
“Is there a reason I should?” He looks at me with the same stoic detachment he wore when we first met at Bathara.
“Yes,” I murmur. “You should because you love me.”
“I love you?” His lip curls, and he recedes a step. “Not possible. I do not wish to love. Ever. Not to mention, I am engaged to another woman.”
I take a closer step to him. “No. You did not choose her or that life; you chose me.”
He blinks at me, eyes narrowing. “And so you chose a monster in turn?”
My chin quivers. Emotion floods my chest. I inch forward another step, lifting my hands to cup his face. “You are not a monster.”
His narrowed eyes linger on me, and he wraps his fingers around my wrists. For a moment, I think he may lean forward and do something as foolish as kiss me.
Until he throws my hands away from his face and steps back. “Do not touch me.”
Laughter echoes through the night, and Tynan claps his hands together. “It’s remarkable what Gardners can do, isn’t it?”
I say nothing.
My gaze instead slides to Rhea, the one holding her still keeping a blade at her throat as if she is too much of a wildcard to set free.
But I can see the truth—can recognize the look with sharp clarity.
She has nothing left to offer this fight.
Tynan approaches me, a sharp gleam in his eye. “I must say, I find a poetic irony in all this.”
“Go burn in Merikh’s realm.” I spit at his feet.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I have a kingdom to conquer and then a continent to run.” A smile. “Besides, we have one last game to play. Though I assure you, this one is quick and painless. I’ll give you a clue—it’s called ‘Guess the Name.’”
“I’m done playing your games.” My fists clench at my sides. “Have you not taken enough from us already? Are you truly so cruel?”
“Ah, but see, in this game I am not taking. I am giving you something. Something I know you will want. Really, you should be thanking me.”
“What could you possibly give me that I want? Outside of your son’s freedom and your own death.”
He chuckles, clasping his hands behind his back. “I can offer you the truth of your heritage.”
The shocking weight of that rattles through me. “What?” I breathe before shaking myself free of my daze. “Why?” I demand instead.
“Because, moving forward, I think it will make things very, very interesting.”
Uncertainty clings to my skin. Yet it is muted by the overwhelming ache of curiosity. To know what information he has.
It doesn’t matter. It changes nothing.
That’s what I try to tell myself, anyway. That the truth of my heritage holds no bearing any longer. I am who I am—have lived how I have lived. Why should I care now?
And yet…
I lift my chin. “Tell me.”
Tynan smiles with perfect poise. He paces.
“From the first moment I heard the surname Izacalli, I knew something was off. And see, that? That piqued my interest. So I investigated. Oh, and what I discovered was sweet.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Lyra Izacalli,” he hums. “The sole daughter to Railiana Izacalli, a Gardner in servitude to King Alastair. Only, your mother wasn’t just a Gardner, was she?
She was also a Veilreader, and quite the talented one at that. Do you know the truth of why?”
My heart picks up speed in my chest while fire blazes beneath my skin.
My silence is my answer.
Tynan’s smile crawls up at the sight. “It is because Railiana Izacalli wasn’t your mother’s real name.
Railiana Izavarda was. She was the lost daughter to the great Izavarda line—a legacy bloodline that, if located inside Erandor Kingdom’s borders and not gone extinct alongside its final daughter, would be considered a Great House, right alongside House Sulien, House Fjolla, and my very own House Dalmar. ”
The world stills for a blurry heartbeat before slamming into me. Glass shards suddenly encase my lungs, and my mind can’t seem to fully process those words. As if on reflex, my eyes slide to Draven. He watches the exchange with a perfect mask of indifference.
I shake my head, dragging my eyes away from him.
It…that’s…not possible. It can’t be.
Right?
“This realization certainly leads one to wonder: where, then, did the last part of your surname come from? Personally, I find it a reasonable conclusion to surmise it comes from whomever your father is.” Tynan mocks consideration, pressing two fingers to his lips.
“Remind me, what is King Yarum’s surname? ”
The room closes in on itself. The glass shards multiply. My mind tangles in a spider’s web.
“Calliva,” I answer, breathless. “King Yarum Calliva.”
“Ahh.” Tynan snaps his fingers “Yes, that’s it.” He halts his pacing, squaring his shoulders to me. “Lyra Izacalli. Would you like to finally know who your father is?”
I don’t answer. I feel incapable of speaking. Hell, simply standing is an act of will at this point.
“Your father,” Tynan drawls, eyes bright with delight, “is none other than the great King Yarum Calliva of the Anatolé Kingdom.”
Bile burns my throat; I’m going to be sick.
Tynan cocks his head, a frown pulling at his lips.
“Do you think he knows about you? Knows he has another daughter out in the world? One with the rumored love of his life, no less.” He resumes pacing once more.
“You see, I did some digging, and I discovered the most fascinating information. Your mother and father had a secret love affair while he was betrothed to his current wife. It was an arranged marriage, so it’s hard to fault him, really.
But on the eve of King Yarum’s wedding—well, I suppose he was only the Crown Prince at that time—your mother, the final-born Izavarda descendant, simply disappeared, never to be heard from again.
Her mysterious vanishing was officially recorded as uncertain circumstances, most likely from unfortunate trafficking or an untraceable murder.
Her parents grieved, yet no one questioned it further—made certain by Yarum’s father, the former king of that time.
” He pauses, observing me with a sharp stare.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you? ”
“Liar.” The word flees from my lips less as an accusation and more as a plea.
Tynan chuckles. “I swear to you on the Dalmar name what I tell you is no lie. But if you don’t believe me, put the evidence together yourself.
Railiana Izavarda. Yarum Calliva. Iza. Calli.
” He annunciates the final sounds slowly, punctuating each syllable for emphasis.
“Put them together and what name does it form?”
Izacalli.
Defined by a name both two and one, born from the ashes of a great love.
Everything tilts, and King Yarum’s words to me in his private gardens suddenly take on an entirely different meaning.
You reminded me of someone I once knew; when I first laid my eyes on you that night, I thought I was seeing her ghost.
The reason he saved me during The Founding celebration was because he thought he saw a ghost in me, only…he was actually seeing a reflection. He was seeing my mother. He was seeing me, the product of them both.
I wobble on my feet.
Tynan watches the truth settle inside me, too indisputable to deny. He grins with unbidden satisfaction and strolls over to me, pinching my chin between his thumb and index finger, lifting it to where I am forced to meet his oceanic eyes.
“Which means you, dear girl, are not only the last member of a legacy bloodline, but you are also a living member of the Anatolé Kingdom’s royal bloodline. Perhaps even his only living daughter, if the rumors surrounding the lost princess’s fate are to be trusted.”
As odd as it is—probably because my mind and body are working so quickly to put a barrier between me and this revelation—a strange relief washes over me by what information Tynan let slip, whether intentionally or not.
He still doesn’t know the truth about Nuri.
Which means the Veilreader—my mother, I now suspect—gave King Yarum the correct instructions.
Truly helped Nuri evade being identified and targeted.
She saved her life.
Tynan tightens his grip on my face. “You know what that means, girl?”
My upper lip peels back, but I say nothing.
He slides his fingers up, digging them into my cheeks.
“It means I suspect you are a Veilreader just like your mother was. And you would be no ordinary reader. No. You would be an Izavarda Veilreader.” He glares into my eyes like I have materialized a new form.
One composed of adorned glass, belonging on a black and white playing board.
“Which makes you incredibly useful to me.”
“Fuck. You,” I bite out, the act of speaking hard with my face pinched between his grip.
I feel it as I hold his eyes—different pieces and elements inside me snapping. Breaking apart and unraveling, shaping itself into something new.
He laughs, the sound sharp. “What—you don’t want to serve under a new regime? One of power and grandness? One which will rewrite the course of history as we know it?”
“Fuck your regime. Fuck your power. And fuck you. I am through being a pawn in men’s games. Through being told who I must serve and what I must want.”
“Bold words for someone who has been cowering like a babe for the duration of these games.”
“You just drove an arrow through that babe’s chest; she exists no longer.”
“And suddenly you have no fears?”
I rise to the tips of my toes, holding his stare with matching resolve. “I will not cower,” I spit, jerking my face free of his grip. “I will not yield. And I certainly won’t falter when I end this game of power you insist on playing.”
“Cute,” he mocks coldly.