Chapter Forty-Three #3
“I think the better question is what was your son searching for with me?” I shrug, taking care to keep slight rigidity in the gesture to make it seem more authentic—like I’m intimidated by him. “I never knew he was a Dalmar, after all. Let alone your Great House’s heir.”
Tynan chuckles, his grin widening to reveal his perfect teeth. “That is an excellent point you make.” He turns around, keeping one arm folded neatly behind his back, and flicks his gaze to Eri. “You may go.”
Eri clamps down on his anger and inclines his head, strutting off in the opposite direction after, shooting Draven a murderous look as he goes.
Tynan rubs at his jaw with his free hand. “Would it be too bold of me to presume affections are involved?”
“Presumptions are yours to believe,” I supply.
He hums, observing me from head-to-toe. “Would it be too bold of me to state them aloud, then?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “It would.”
His brows do a little jump before he resets his expression, clasping his hands together behind his back.
“Well then, forgive me for my brashness. You see, it’s just…
” He trails off, glancing at Draven—who remains insouciant as ever—with an unreadable expression.
“Draven has formed questionable attachments before, and I just had to be sure.”
I’d be lying if I said the words didn’t squeeze at some forgotten corner in my heart.
Tynan Dalmar squares his shoulders to me and exhales deeply. “Well, Miss Izacalli, it’s been a real pleasure. I do hope we’ll see more of each other in the future. In fact… I look forward to it.”
“Of course,” I reply with a courteous sweetness. “If I hope to be a commendable Jurafen for the Three Kingdoms one day, I imagine our encounters will grow rather frequent.”
“Precisely,” he says through a hollow smile.
He walks over to Draven, who stands still as a statue, and rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, observing him a moment longer.
Then, in tune with a sharp draw of breath, he drops his hand and strides off, humming to himself as he goes, hands again clasped behind his back.
I release a sigh and allow my shoulders to sag when he’s gone. “Your father is…charming,” I mutter with sarcasm, feeling suddenly exhausted.
Draven remains silent.
I steal a glance at him, a deep curve wedged in my brow.
Ghosts dance in Draven’s dulling eyes, haunting him from somewhere unseen. A visual that has me blowing out a weighted breath before approaching him with slow steps. I reach for his hand, and he jerks at the touch. But his eyes soften when they glance down, seeing me.
Until he gently sweeps his thumb over the already-sensitive bruise forming on my cheek. Then his eyes go cold as ice.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m okay. I’m…used to it.” I hate how tiny my voice sounds.
Now his expression looks pained for an entirely new reason. “Give me a list,” he murmurs, “and I will make every single person whose harmed you pay with their life.”
I huff an empty laugh. “That’d be quite the long list.”
His hand remains on my cheek, cupping it with a tender touch. “I have plenty of time.”
I open my mouth, so many questions forming on my tongue, but before I can ask a single one, another voice interrupts us. One that I do recognize this time.
And I’m starting to realize these “secluded” gardens aren’t all that secluded.
“Lyra?”
I turn, surprised at who I see. “Klytis?” My brows furrow. “What are you doing here?”
He approaches us, his eyes flicking between Draven and me with curiosity. “Transporting a few Rivarian diplomats on King Alastair’s orders.”
“To Bathara?” My features twist with confusion. “What in god’s veins are Rivarian diplomats doing here in the borderless region?”
Klytis shrugs, his shoulder-length auburn hair shifting from the gesture. “Couldn’t tell you. But Erandor has sent some, too.”
“So I’ve seen,” I grumble, folding my arms over my chest.
Still the fact remains, representatives are here from Erandor and Rivara, but not Anatolé. I wonder if that is an active choice by King Yarum, or something else.
Klytis watches me, amusement singing in his pale-blue eyes. “I’ve missed that endearing spunk of yours.”
Draven folds his arms over his chest and cocks his head, staring at Klytis—who meets his intense stare. And I swear Draven suddenly seems a little bit…taller? Am I imagining that?
When Klytis returns his eyes to me, there is a notch wedged deeply in his brow.
“Anywho,” he drawls slowly, “I’ve been looking for you since I arrived. I have a missive from the king I’ve been instructed to deliver directly to you.”
The blood leeches from my face.
Klytis sighs, sensing the shift in my demeanor. “I wish I knew what it says,” he tells me, dropping his voice. “But it’s sealed with the king’s crest.”
I swallow down my fear and stick out my hand, glancing at Draven side-long for only a moment. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Klytis offers me a sympathetic look before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a rolled up scroll tied with twine and sealed with red wax, the king’s crest pressed into the center. Gently, he places it in my outstretched hand.
And it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to curl my fingers around it and crumple it into nothing.
I inhale a jagged breath and break the seal, unrolling the parchment. The missive is short, scribed with intricately drawn letters .
Pet,
I hear congratulations are in order. That you have passed not only the first test, but the second test as well.
I concede that you have already bested my expectations, but I must warn you, this streak of yours is about to meet a swift and brutal end.
You will not win against the third test, though I wish I could be there to watch you try.
I do so look forward to your return to Keziah. I am more than ready to finally receive my heir, and my guests are ready to have their favorite night attendant return to their beds.
Signed,
Your King
My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths while anger corrupts my veins. I wrap my fingers around the parchment and squeeze, attempting to steady my breathing, not wanting to let the king get to me. If he does, he wins power over me, and I will do everything I can to ensure that doesn’t happen.
Fuck him.
I shove the parchment against Klytis’s chest. “Burn it.”
He dips his chin, but shifts on his feet.
My brows furrow. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
He rubs at the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”
I shoot him a pointed look. “I’ve known you since I was fourteen, Klytis. I can tell when you’re hiding something.”
Klytis drags a hand down his face and heaves a sigh. “I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, Lyra…not like this.”
My stomach drops. “Tell me what?” I ask, each word enunciated slowly.
Draven steps forward and places a comforting hand on the small of my back. I glance up at him before back at Klytis—whose brows are lowered and heavily wrinkled at the sight of Draven touching me.
“I’m sorry, but—” he points at Draven “—is that not the Dalmar heir?”
Well, he certainly figured that out sooner than I did. Though, I guess it makes sense, seeing as Klytis frequently transports emissaries and diplomats for King Alastair all around the Three Kingdoms.
I wave him off. “Yes, but irrelevant. Tell me what you're keeping from me.”
Klytis stares at Draven a moment longer, seeming a bit dumbfounded. Eventually, he drags his gaze back to me, his eyes turning downward. “It’s about Delroy,” he murmurs.
The stablemaster.
The kind, simple man who was always as good to me as he was his horses—which was finer treatment than most in my position see in their lifetimes.
A knot twists in my chest. “What about Delroy?”
Klytis rakes a hand through his auburn hair and braces his other hand on his hip. Suddenly, he won’t meet my eyes.
And the fear overtaking me becomes almost debilitating.
Finally, he exhales a long sigh and explains.
“King Alastair caught wind of someone passing out some sort of tonic to his night attendants that allowed them to get out of performing their…duties. He ordered every servant who lives on the estate to have their place of residence and workspace searched. When the guards reached the stables, they found a ton of Gardner supplies and ingredients matching the description of what was in the tonics. And the king…he did not take kindly to that.”
Needles appear in my closing throat, making each intake of air a painful struggle. “Delroy had nothing to do with that,” I stammer. “It was me. All of it. I gave him the supplies. I made those tonics. Not Delroy.”
Klytis looks at me with sad, sympathetic eyes. “I know that,” he confirms softly. “As did Delroy, naturally. But…he confessed to the crimes, saying that he, and he alone, was the culprit.”
The world tilts, threatening to knock me over with its sudden shift.
I shake my head. “No. No . I’ll go back to Rivara myself and confess to King Alastair. You—you can take me back with you. Delroy…he had nothing to do with it. The king would be punishing an innocent man. It should be me—not him.”
A thought stabs me in the chest.
Not again.
Klytis’s features crumble—his expression turning pained. “It’s already done,” he murmurs. “They hung him, Lyra. Delroy is gone.”
I start backing away, my heart decaying with every step. I shake my head. “No. That—that can’t be true. He… no .”
Klytis reaches for me. “It isn’t your fault, Lyra. Delroy made his choice. He—”
I don’t hear the rest of the sentence.
I turn and sprint, needing to get away. Needing to go someplace to wither—to evaporate into the frigid nothingness I feel threatening to shatter me.
And there is only one place that feels acceptable to fracture into oblivion.