Chapter 17
We returned to Ivyhill over the next few days, an excruciating journey south through forest and greenway. Ryder found the horses not far from where we’d left them, grazing contentedly in a scrubby mountain meadow, and we rode them back to Vallenvoren. I traveled in a sort of numbness, punctuated on occasion by seething jolts of anger. Philippa could have made our journey home shorter, easier—of this I was certain, as certain as I had reluctantly become of her godliness. I couldn’t stop thinking about her broken jaw snapping back into place, the horrific sound of it like a great branch breaking.
But she sent us from Wardwell without aid—a punishment, I assumed, for refusing to stay. As my sisters and I walked through the slippery curtain of the ward magic—Mara silent and grave, Gemma crying quietly, the men following shortly afterward—the disturbing thought occurred to me that Philippa could have forced us to stay. I supposed I should be grateful for her mercy, but instead I felt only resentment.
When at last we arrived at Ivyhill, we were without Mara, who had returned to Rosewarren. I hoped her absence had gone unnoticed by the harried Warden; to me, the loss of Mara after days spent in her company stuck in my throat, an ache that wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t imagine not knowing where she was every moment of every day, if we were ever lucky enough to once again live in the same place. But then, I loved Mara. What did the Warden feel for her Roses? Surely not love, or at least not the same kind. An instinctive possessiveness of the chicks in her care, perhaps. I didn’t think the Warden was capable of actual affection.
We’d all spoken on the way home, in those strange quiet days in the northern forest before we’d reached Vallenvoren, and Ryder and I had told the others of Ankaret. Gareth was eager to return to the university and his research—of Ankaret, of the concept of godly resurrection, of the ytheliad and the Three-Eyed Crown. Gemma would go with him—eager, I think, to avoid Ivyhill and its memories in the wake of so much time spent with our mother—and Talan would return to his travels, now searching for rumors that might point to the existence of other gods come back to life.
Demigods . The word haunted me with every step I took, every breath I drew. What did it mean, for the blood of a god and the blood of a human to live in one being? Had such a thing ever happened before? Were there other demigods elsewhere in the world, born of humans and gods in human shells? Gods who were only just now awakening, as Philippa was?
The weight of my innumerable questions pressed down on my shoulders, making them ache. They would need to be answered, but who could we trust with such information? The Warden? Yvaine? Gareth’s many books?
I told myself that nothing could be done until I’d slept. From the steps of Ivyhill, our weapons and supplies heaped at my feet, I watched the others in the violet-tinged evening light. A chill breeze gusted across the drive, rustling the manicured lawn edged with golden autumn blooms. Gemma and Talan were saying a tearful goodbye at the mouth of the hedge maze. I was glad I couldn’t hear them; I didn’t think my brittle heart could bear the added weight of their sadness.
One of Ryder’s wilded ravens, tired and homesick, had found us on our journey south. It was one of the many he’d sent off in search of Alastrina, but it had brought him nothing—no news, no leads. I wouldn’t soon forget the sound of its mournful cries. Now Ryder was speaking to the creature, preparing it for a new mission: to be Talan’s companion, to guard and guide him as he roamed the world listening for gods. He held the raven in his cupped hands as if it were a treasure. I couldn’t hear his voice from where I stood, but I could imagine it—low and gentle, the rhythm of whatever bestial language he used like a cool wind rushing through dark trees.
Then I heard a quiet cough behind me—Gareth, clearing his throat. I turned to see him standing awkwardly in the entrance hall beside Gilroy, who worried his hands together. His bushy black eyebrows were furrowed in obvious distress. My stomach sank to see him in such a state. I knew before he said a word what it must have meant: something was wrong with my father.
I hurried to them, but before I could utter a word, a door opened to my left, and a column of firelight spilled across the floor. Father stood in silhouette at the threshold of the morning room, posture slumped, shirt untucked, hair in greasy disarray.
“You’re back,” he slurred, his voice hoarse as if from disuse. “I wasn’t sure you would return.”
Gareth touched my arm, but I shook him off. I could handle my father.
I joined him in the morning room, shutting the door quietly behind us. The air reeked of drink. Empty glasses stood on tables and lay strewn across the floor. That our staff hadn’t collected them told me Father hadn’t allowed them in, perhaps not for days. I could picture it clearly—he’d call for them, ask for a drink, and make them leave it outside. Once they were gone, he’d push open the door just enough to retrieve the glass, then shut it again.
I knew the ritual. I’d seen it many times over the years since our mother had left.
As I watched him stumble to his chair by the crackling hearth, my heart twisted, warring with itself. I saw him clearly—how pathetic he looked, and how embarrassing, how unworthy of any of us. And yet I loved him still. I had spent years loving him through every mess he’d made, every danger he’d put us in; I didn’t know how to stop.
But for the first time, I found myself wishing I could.
He fell heavily into his chair, gestured at the one across from him. “Sit, then, and tell me: Have you fucked the Bask boy yet?”
The words were meant to shock me, and they did; meant to infuriate me, and they certainly did that. But greater than my shock and anger was a wrenching pity. The sight of him brooding drunkenly before me compared to the memory of Philippa, clear-eyed and mighty, luxuriating in her isolated paradise—the contrast was stark, even humiliating. What would she think of him, if she saw him now? I felt fiercely glad that she’d insisted on staying at Wardwell.
I didn’t sit; I stood behind the other chair, keeping it between us.
“Have you eaten today?” I asked him.
He glared at me, bleary-eyed. “I asked you a question.”
“And I refuse to answer it.” I kept my voice calm. “It’s good to see you. I missed you while we were gone.”
He laughed. “There’s no need to lie. You’ve never been good at it, anyway.”
He was right. I wore everything I felt on my face, though I’d always tried my best to hide it with a scowl, a forbidding glare. Such looks were considered off-putting, especially on a woman—a ridiculous opinion held by much of high society that I’d always used to my advantage.
Still, I tried again. “How is Ivyhill? Has Byrn made any progress with Jet?”
“Answer my question, Farrin.”
I clutched the back of the chair. My palms felt clammy. “I’ll send for supper. I’m sure Mrs. Rathmont can easily warm something for you—”
He surged to his feet with such sudden violence that it shocked the breath out of me. “Answer my question, Farrin!” he roared, and then he flung his drink at the fire. The glass shattered against the mantel; pieces of it went flying across the carpet.
A deafening silence fell. He glared at the fire, breathing hard. I couldn’t move. I held on to the chair, a cold, sick feeling crawling slowly down my body. My heart raced with rabbit panic. I wanted to run; I’d shove the chair at him if I had to. Two thoughts occurred to me, one after the other: that I was a fool for having taken off my fighting staff, and that it was awful—and horribly sad—that I had to worry about such a thing in my own home.
Father stared at the mess he’d made as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then he looked over at me in horror.
“Gods…” he whispered. His shocked expression crumpled. “Farrin, I’m sorry…”
A moment later, the door to the morning room swung open so hard it hit the wall. Ryder stroke in, looking murderous; beyond him stood Gareth and Gilroy, and our wide-eyed housemaid Emry, carrying tea and sandwiches on a tray.
Ryder came to me at once. He didn’t look at Father; he looked only at me.
“Farrin?” he said quietly. I knew he was angry, could feel the seething heat of it matching my own. But his voice was soft, his gaze on my face steady and calm. I’m here, Farrin. I’m here with you. Farrin of the forest light.
With his eyes on me, I could almost believe we were back in Wardwell’s quiet wood, before Ankaret came, when it was only his arms around me and his strength holding me up, bolstering me, reminding me to breathe.
And suddenly I decided not to be there anymore. Not in that room, not in any room containing my father. Let him clean himself up, I decided. Let him clean up his mess and come apologize to me later, when he was sober and remorseful. Only then would I speak to him, and not a moment before.
My decision left me feeling lightheaded, like I’d stood up too quickly from a chair. I blinked back my tears, my chest aching with sadness and anger and a sort of disgusted, tired clarity. I looked up at Ryder and gave him a brave smile.
“Let’s eat something,” I told him. I held out my hand, and he took it gently in his own, his eyes soft on me. “I’m starving. And look, Emry’s brought sandwiches. We’ll eat in the dining room.”
I walked away with my hand in his, shut the door to the morning room behind us, and didn’t look back even once.
***
The next morning, Gemma and Gareth left for the capital at dawn. Neither of them wanted to be at Ivyhill for a moment longer than they had to. Our dinner the previous night had been a sober affair in the wake of Father’s tantrum, and no doubt Gemma saw echoes of Talan wherever she went.
While Ryder worked with Jet at the stables, I busied myself with an endless list of tasks for most of the morning, determined not to think of either of my parents. Father had locked himself in his rooms upstairs, for which I was grateful. At least now the staff could clean the morning room. This was the single thought that ran coldly through my head on a loop, like a depressing prayer. At least now the staff can clean the morning room.
Then, at lunch, a letter came bearing the seal of the queen. I opened it with shaking fingers, expecting the worst: an edict of exile, a letter from Thirsk telling me that Yvaine’s illness had gotten much worse.
But the letter held only Yvaine’s familiar looping handwriting.
Dearest Farrin,
I’m writing this with Thirsk hovering irritably over my shoulder. In fact, he just let out a grunt of disapproval. But the important thing is, I’m feeling much better, and given that, I’ve been able to explain to Thirsk and my other advisers how furious I am with them for turning you away from the Citadel. I’ve shown them the error of their ways. You are always welcome here, and in fact I’ve drawn up an official letter, signed by all members of the Royal Conclave, that grants you and your sisters and your friends admission to the Citadel whenever you wish it. No guard will turn you away. Thirsk has reluctantly agreed that I am of soundest mind, and therefore neither he nor anyone else can in good conscience protest my decision. I hope this letter brings you some comfort. I’ve missed you.
And because I’ve missed you so terribly, I’m throwing a party the day after next to celebrate your return. You will come to my party, won’t you? And do bring Gemma with you, and Ryder too. His quick thinking the night of your poisoning saved your life, and therefore he is dear to me. And I suspect you would be glad to have him with you. What a fearsome beast of a man he is, and yet he held you so tenderly that night as you came back from the brink of death. I certainly understand the attraction. Bring him, then, so I might get a closer look at him and officially grant my approval.
Yours,
Yvaine
I read the letter with my heart in my throat, relieved and amused and yet feeling the faintest twinge of unease. I hurried out to the stables and thrust the letter at Ryder before I could think better of it. I waited for him to read it, and when he was finished, his eyes lifted to meet mine, and a delicate thrill of nerves skipped down my back. Words from the letter had stuck in me, fluttering frantically in my chest like pinned butterflies. Attraction. Approval. As if Yvaine had looked at us and decided something that we ourselves had not yet put into plain words.
But I shook those thoughts away as best I could. The more important thing was the letter’s tone—a little arch, a little unbalanced. A slight thing, and yet it worried me. I’ve shown them the error of their ways , she’d written. I am of soundest mind . Brief, almost casual declarations woven through a letter that on its surface seemed innocuous enough. And yet reading it had left me feeling discomfited in more ways than one.
“We’ll go, of course,” I said. “Unless you’d rather return to Ravenswood? I’d thought you might, after being gone for so long.”
Ryder’s laughter was dark and quiet. He handed the letter back to me. “No. I don’t want to go home. There’s nothing for me there. I’ve left behind instructions for our staff, for our tenants. They know what villages to monitor, how to distribute aid when necessary. And Father, for all his faults, has never neglected those particular duties, so…” He paused, his expression shuttered. “No. There’s nothing for me there.”
I sensed he wanted to say more—Alastrina’s name hung unspoken between us, lonely and dear—but instead he turned back to Jet in silence, his shoulders high and tense, a shroud of sadness enveloping him. I hesitated; perhaps it was too bold a thing to do. But then I thought of Gemma rushing at Talan whenever she first saw him after he had been gone, showing him her unabashed, untempered joy. What a beautiful thing it must be, I thought, to receive love like that, to be able to give such love.
So I went to him before he had the chance to turn around. I wrapped my arms around him and held him close, burying my face in the warm, broad stretch of his back. I closed my eyes and through the press of our bodies tried to send him everything I felt, everything I wanted him to feel: I don’t know why your home makes you so sad, but I’m sorry it does. Wherever Alastrina is, your love for her will give her strength. I wish I could take your sadness from you, and your anger, so that you might know peace. Thank you for the way you looked at me in the morning room last night, telling me without words that I was safe, that I was brave. Thank you. Thank you.
Ryder’s hands came up to hold mine, pressed them softly against his chest. Beneath my fingertips drummed his racing heartbeat, matching my own.
***
The day of Yvaine’s party, Ryder and I traveled to Fairhaven using the greenway that for generations had connected my family’s home to the capital. This was not an occasion for pageantry, but rather for speed; both of us were tense and uncertain. What would we find at the Citadel? We would say nothing of Philippa, nor of Wardwell; knowledge of a resurrected god was our burden to bear and not Yvaine’s, not with her sickness, and the sinkhole roaring quietly in the Citadel, and the country still grieving its lost. But would she sense the truth nevertheless, and if so, what would she do with it?
The city was quiet, yet its streets felt restless to me, as if behind closed doors and windows roiled storms I could not see. Portraits of those lost still papered the Citadel walls, but no protesters gathered there, and only bedraggled petals skipped across the ground where before there had been piles of flowers. The city was tired; its exhaustion was heavy in the air.
On the western horizon, a true storm gathered over the choppy gray waters of the Bay of the Gods. The churning sky was green and purple, the line of the storm’s approaching front a startling blue gray against the autumn trees, which gleamed red and gold. Like Ankaret , I thought, then quickly put the thought out of my mind, lest the mere act of thinking of her could summon her to me. I hadn’t dared to leave her feather at Ivyhill; if it could truly bring her to our aid at any moment, with all her snapping fire, I’d be a fool to ever travel without it. And yet suddenly it felt careless to have come to the Citadel with such an item tucked into my dress. Would Yvaine sense its presence at once, demand an explanation? I had to hope that the feather would protect itself, remain quiet and hidden unless I decided to use it.
Guards ushered us into the Citadel and escorted us to the queen’s tower without issue. No advisers came to intercept us, bearing sobering news—the queen was in fact quite ill and could not be seen; the queen was dead; the queen had disappeared, abducted by whatever phantom evil roamed the land. The cavernous marble halls were eerily quiet; our footsteps, and the clanking ones of the guards escorting us, echoed like thunder in a lonely canyon.
But then we arrived at the tower, and the doors swung open as we turned the corner, as if Yvaine had been standing on the other side, waiting for us. Her receiving rooms were a riot of color. Brilliant purple silks hung from the rafters; luxurious velvet cushions of midnight blue and periwinkle lay scattered across the gleaming floors. There were revelers everywhere, most of whom I recognized: fluttering courtiers and gregarious merchants’ children, some of Yvaine’s favorite servants from the palace. Ostensibly this party was to celebrate my return to the Citadel, but no one looked up upon our arrival; they kept on with their singing and dancing, their drunken lolling by the windows thrown open to the evening. There was a giddy thrill in the air, a tremble in even the most jovial voices. The queen is not ill, she is well, and we are here in her tower as favored guests. There is nothing to fear. Everything is fine and good. Can you believe it?
“Darling Farrin,” Yvaine said. She gathered me to her in a whirl of white hair and ruffles of lilac chiffon, her breath sweet with wine. Her fingers were like claws, digging desperately into my flesh through the thin fabric of my plain gray gown. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. Thirsk has apologized a hundred times for sending you away, but I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him.”
I held her, noting with alarm how thin she felt in my arms, and how hot, as if she burned with fever. Each word she spoke was breathless and nervy.
I pulled back from her a little, searched her face. I saw the shadows under her eyes, her chapped pink lips. “How are you? Have you been sleeping?”
She dismissed my concern with a wave and looked past me at Ryder. She smiled to behold him looming there at the doors—bearded and scowling at all the merriment around him, looking deeply uncomfortable even though, in his blue-and-black finery, he was as grandly dressed as any guest of the queen.
“Lord Ryder,” said Yvaine, extending her hand. “I’m so glad you came too.”
There was no reason not to believe her—she had asked for him in her invitation, after all—yet I heard a slight edge in her voice. She watched Ryder with curiosity, her eyes sparkling, as he bowed his head to kiss her offered white fingers, each one heavy with pearlescent jewels.
“Your Majesty,” he intoned. “You honor me with your invitation. It is…” He hesitated, glanced around. His implacable expression gave nothing away. “It is a marvelous party, to be sure.”
Yvaine burst out laughing. “Oh, Ryder. There’s no need to lie. It’s awful here—everyone’s far too loud, and they’ve made a mess of my rooms. But Thirsk is funny like that. All my advisers are. They seem to think a party is less of a danger to me than an Ashbourne on her own. Isn’t that odd?” When her eyes cut to mine, their hard glitter softened. “So, a party it is, if that’s what I must do to see my friend. I do hope Gemma will join us too, and Gareth as well, if they can bear to pull themselves away from their books.”
Then, before I could reply to any of this, Yvaine grabbed my hand and pulled me into the room, past the crackling hearth and the tables piled high with plates and goblets, the fiddlers in the corner, the dancers spinning beside them. There was laughter everywhere, and someone was playing a jolly reel on a piano in an adjoining chamber. Yvaine’s guests called out to us in greeting as we passed; I gave them only the barest distracted replies. I was too focused on Yvaine. She darted through the room like a newborn lamb, her gait unsteady. Her hand was sweaty around mine, her grip hard. I glanced back once at Ryder, who was following us, and saw in his thoughtful frown that he was thinking the same thing: something was wrong. Yvaine was not as well as her letter had said. My stomach dipped, unsettled; I wondered what exactly she’d said to her advisers—what she’d done—to make them relent and allow my return.
She led us to a corner of the room adorned with cushions and blankets, lit by a crystal chandelier that spun slowly, casting soft fragments of light across the floor. She sat on a tasseled burgundy chair, grabbed a flute of sparkling wine from a passing servant’s tray, and knocked it back in one gulp.
I reached for her in alarm, words of caution on my lips, but she started talking before I could say a word.
“So, tell me, my gallant champions, my eyes and ears,” she said, looking back and forth between us, “what is the latest news from out there in the world? What evil forces have you rooted out and conquered in my name?”
Flummoxed, I at first said nothing. A hundred different answers came to mind—resurrected gods, Ankaret, Wardwell tucked away in the northern forest, Gemma and Mara and me, all demigods—but I dared not voice any of them.
Ryder spoke first. “This is hardly the place to discuss such matters, Your Majesty. With so many people about—”
“No, of course, you’re right.” Yvaine waved her hand, silencing him. She watched two dancers whirl by, something pensive on her face. They were drunk and laughing; they knocked over a small table and sent glasses crashing to the floor, which made them laugh harder.
The sound made me flinch; I thought of Father locked in his rooms at home, the glass flying against the mantel, his roar of fury.
Yvaine jumped to her feet and reached for me, her eyes shining. “Dance with me,” she said abruptly. “Won’t you, Farrin?”
Quite lost for words, I glanced at Ryder, who looked deeply unhappy, and let Yvaine pull me to my feet with a flutter of fear in my chest. We whirled about the room, and those gathered cheered us on, raising their glasses to us, urging the fiddlers to play faster, and faster. The musicians were competent enough, though their instruments could have used a good tuning, but I didn’t have time to ponder that for long. Yvaine didn’t allow it. I could hardly keep up with her; she was so light in my arms I thought she might fly away with every step. The changes in her made me feel sick at heart—how thin she was, how her every movement was frantic, edgy. At last, the song finished, and we returned to our little corner. Yvaine grabbed another drink and flopped down onto a luxurious emerald-green cushion. Panting, grinning, skin damp with perspiration, she looked up at me, then at Ryder.
“Now you,” she said, gesturing at us. She shot Ryder a playful smile, but her fingers trembled. “I know you want to. Dance, and show me how good you look together.”
I wanted desperately to do anything else; Yvaine’s snappish voice belied her indulgent smile. But what were we to do? Our queen had commanded us to dance.
Ryder stood, and so did I. I couldn’t look at him; in his direct blue gaze, I knew I would see all my discomfort, all my worries, reflected back at me, and I wasn’t sure I could bear that. What was happening here? Yvaine was even less herself than she had been the last time I’d seen her, when she’d murmured those strange words: Moon by day, fire by night. Come and dance. Don’t try to fight. The beauty of shadows, the garish sunlight. Spin for the watchers, their revels so bright.
Moonhollow. The word danced through my mind on slippery heels. The fiddles were playing a slower song now, a little melancholy. I clung to Ryder as we danced, letting him lead me with his easy strength. He was a surprisingly graceful dancer, sure-footed and confident. His hand at my waist was firm, and the heat of him was intoxicating—not fevered and strange like Yvaine’s, but steady, comforting, like a lit hearth in winter. When we finished dancing, I squeezed his hand gratefully. Moving with him had cleared my mind.
We returned to Yvaine, who sat regarding us over the rim of her goblet. Her expression was troubled, wistful; her eyes no longer held that hard gleam. Then she nodded to herself, as if something had been confirmed for her, and said to Ryder, “Tell me about Ravenswood.” Her voice was grave now, almost solemn. “I’ve been there before, but it’s been many years.”
Ryder looked surprised. He glanced at me, then back at Yvaine. “It’s…cold. Not as far north as some other places, but high enough in the mountains that the wind often cuts you. The mansion has forty-two rooms, and everything is made of black stone. We have five stables, and our forests stretch for miles—”
“No, no. Not the house. Tell me about your life at Ravenswood. Your…” Yvaine hesitated, and I saw a glimmer of her normal, steady self, a flash of pity and kindness. “Your sister, Alastrina. You grew up together in those halls. You were close. You always have been.”
At the mention of his sister, Ryder’s expression closed. “Alastrina,” he repeated flatly. “You want to know about Alastrina.”
Yvaine looked away, took a sip of her wine. “They’ve been coming to the Senate hall every day,” she said quietly. “The families of those who were taken. They tell me everything about the lost, trying to make me love them as they do, I suppose. They don’t understand that of course I already do. The whole world is my home, every creature my child.”
She took another sip, and her voice hushed even further, her gaze distant and flat. “They plead with me to do something, and every time I must deflect them without frightening them. I can’t tell them how I search and search for the taken, stretching my power as much as I dare, and yet find nothing. I can’t tell them about the sinkhole, about my illness. What would they think? They would be even more afraid, and there are already rumors enough.” She touched her temple, her fingers unsteady.
“More recently,” she went on, “these people have been making petitions to my councils, because Thirsk and the others, the Royal Conclave, haven’t let me attend their sessions. They fear the distress of these people will distress me . And of course it will. It does , and it should. I went to the Senate hall today, despite their protests. I told them I would banish them from Gallinor if they tried to stop me. They believed me. I think I sounded very fearsome when I said that. I knocked Lady Bethan off her feet with only my voice. I didn’t mean to. She cried for hours afterward.”
The matter-of-fact way she said it made my blood run cold. Yvaine was usually careful to disguise her might from us all. It was a kindness, I’d always thought, a way to make us feel safe in the presence of something unthinkable—a human chosen by the gods to be a queen. But tonight she seemed almost relieved to speak of such things so candidly. Her words were tired, blunt.
She looked up at Ryder, silently imploring. “But no one has come to speak for Alastrina—not yet, anyway. So I want to hear it from you, if you’ll grant me that gift. Tell me about her, and about you.”
Ryder sat in silence for a moment, his mouth thin. Then a cold ripple of power swept over us—a power of compulsion, urging us wordlessly forward. Yvaine didn’t look ashamed; she fixed Ryder with an even, unblinking look.
He spoke then, reluctantly, which made me think the nudge she’d given him was only a small one. Yet still I felt sick to see it happen, to hear his rough voice and know he had no choice but to use it.
“There isn’t much to tell,” he began. “It’s a simple story. My father is a cruel man. He always has been. Like Lord Gideon”—he glanced at me, a slight apology in his eyes—“he was ruled for years by Kilraith’s will, by the machinations of every demon he held in his thrall. And so was his father before him, and his father before that. When you are raised in a house of violence, it is all too easy to become violent yourself.”
Ryder drew in a shaky breath. “My father’s moods were capricious. I woke every morning not knowing if it would be a day of terror or of peace. If a blizzard came, would that be enough to send him raging? If he slew a big enough stag while on a hunt with his men, would that buy us a few hours of quiet? Mother took the brunt of his anger, when it came. When we were little, Trina and I were too frightened to fight for her. We quickly found all the best places to hide—every cupboard, every dark corner, every loose floorboard. This was how I learned to be quiet, to move with stealth. Trina made it a game. The worst days were when Father sent his men to search the house for us while he roared at them from downstairs to hurry up, to not be so stumbling and stupid. Just be very quiet , she told me on those days, both of us crammed into a kitchen pantry full of pots and pans, or a wardrobe behind our dead grandmother’s dresses. Be very quiet, and they won’t be able to find us. Not here. Not ever. ”
Listening to him, I could hardly breathe, my chest knotting up with breathless sadness. I had known none of this. Had my parents known, and walled up Ravenswood in that cursed forest for years even so? My stomach dropped to think of Ryder and Alastrina and poor Lady Enid trapped in a house they couldn’t escape, locked up with a father and husband who was more terror than man. It was suddenly, heartbreakingly clear to me why Ryder had chosen not to use the name his father had given him.
“She protected me,” Ryder said, quieter now. “She was afraid too, of course she was, but she didn’t let me see it. I was her little brother. Protecting me was more important than being afraid. Later…”
He paused, swallowing hard. I wanted to spare him this revelation, to yell at Yvaine to stop it, to free him, but I couldn’t speak, and I wondered with a spark of fury if she’d done that too. If she’d known I would protest and had seen to it that I couldn’t.
I couldn’t look at her, too angry to bear the sight of her. Instead I looked at Ryder, right at him, only at him: his dark beard, his bright eyes, the little scar above his eyebrow, his hands in fists on his thighs. My heart was in my throat, every inch of me bursting with a tenderness so fierce it made me dizzy. I knew what it was to live like a shadow in your own house, to not know when you woke what the day would bring—a father lost in his own despair or a father who remembered to eat, to change his clothes, to love you as he should.
“Later,” Ryder began again, “as we got older, it became more difficult to hide, but it also became easier to fight him. Alastrina and I befriended every animal in the forest; there was little else to do. And we made them hate him, and he grew afraid of them, would sometimes lock himself up in his rooms for fear that some forest cat would come for his throat when he wasn’t looking. And we were tempted to make that happen. The deaths we imagined for him, each more gruesome than the last. But Mother…”
He shook his head, shut his eyes. “She forbade us from it. She’s an Anointed beguiler, and her talent is narrow but powerful: persuasion. Every time we neared the brink, hungry to kill him at last, she would turn her magic on us—some spell, some clever working of language—and convince us it was folly to turn on him. He was the lord of the house. He’d given us life. She loved him.” He spat the words. “Incredible, what sorts of lies a mind will conjure up just to survive.”
He fell silent then, and after a moment the slight pressure in the air disappeared. Yvaine had released us. She leaned back into her cushions, her face carefully blank. She looked between us, reading us. I hoped she could see how angry I was, how utterly the whole strange evening had unnerved me. I grabbed Ryder’s hand and held it fiercely. He sat slumped in his chair beside me, spent from the telling, and I hoped that the grip of my hand would bring him some small comfort, some scrap of strength.
Yvaine’s gaze fell to our joined hands. I thought she would say something; her pale brow furrowed as if she were thinking something over very hard. But then the oblivious dancing crowd near us parted, and a harried-looking adviser bustled over—Lady Goff, with her smooth brown skin and her head of dark braids. She shot me a watchful sort of look, then bent and whispered something to Yvaine that I couldn’t hear.
Yvaine listened, nodded, then rose sedately from her cushion, the folds of her lilac skirt cascading into place around her. “I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but I am needed downstairs,” she said, not quite looking at either of us. She cautiously put her hand on Ryder’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lord Ryder, for sharing that with me. I hope you…”
She hesitated, then looked at me beseechingly. “I envy you,” she said quietly. “I envy you both. Hold on to each other. And you’re…you’re welcome, of course, to stay here as long as you wish.”
I couldn’t make sense of it—how scattered she was, how obviously, horribly sad. I thought she might be ashamed of what she’d forced Ryder to do and gave her a pointed look— apologize, now —but she said nothing and instead let herself be led away. I dug my fingernails into my palms as I watched her go, dangerously close to jumping up and making some sort of scene, demanding she make amends in front of everyone. Never mind her too-thin shoulders, bared by the ruffled gown; never mind the way she leaned on Lady Goff as they hurried out of the room. Using her power to protect her people was one thing; brandishing it to force a grieving man to recount his sad family history was quite another. The next time I saw her, I would tell her as much. No champagne, no advisers. She would apologize and mean it, or I would leave the Citadel and never return.
In her wake, we sat in exhausted silence. I let Ryder have a few moments of peace before I turned to him, feeling bold and brave, and said, “My rooms are nearby. They’ll be ready for me, and no one will disturb us. Would you like to go there with me?”
The relief on his face made my heart swell. I wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and protect him from the world—this big burly man with a boy’s broken heart.
He took my hand. “Please, Farrin.”
***
My rooms were quiet and clean—the fire crackling, the bed turned down, a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemon water on the table by the bathing room. I fussed about nevertheless, tidying blankets that didn’t need tidying, straightening rugs that were perfectly straight. In the private haven of my rooms, with a breeze fluttering the curtains and no noise to distract me from my thoughts, my courage from before seemed foolish and slight. Ryder’s body took up too much space in the room, turned it unfamiliar. It was not altogether an unpleasant feeling; in fact, it thrilled me. I trembled with anticipation, feeling on the edge of something I couldn’t name.
I poured myself a glass of water and then one for Ryder. I gave it to him, shaking a little, not looking at him. What did I expect to happen here? I should go into the bathing room, use that as an excuse. I needed a bath, he could make himself comfortable on the sofa, and I would see him in the morning.
“Farrin, please don’t worry.” He set the glass on the table, then did the same with mine. “I expect nothing. Just being here with you is all I need to be content.”
He took my hands in his, so gentle I wanted to cry. All of it made me want to cry—Yvaine’s strangeness, Ryder’s horrible story. The image of him hiding in a cupboard with Alastrina, their fingers over their lips. Let’s count to one hundred and see just how quiet we can be. Most of all, I wanted to cry because being so near Ryder was like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind at my back and my toes curling in the dirt. I was going to fall, and the idea both frightened and exhilarated me. What sort of madwoman wanted to fling herself off a cliff into the unknown?
I put my arms around him, drawing him to me. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, which seemed far too pale a thing to say. So I touched his chest and reached up on my toes to kiss him. I decided I would press all my pity and tenderness, all my understanding, right into him. My touch, unpracticed and halting as it was, would tell him what my words were too small to encompass. My heart pounded hard in my ears, in my wrists, at the back of my throat. I pulsed with need and nerves, with a fear of what this could be, of what we could be. But then his lips were in my hair, his hands sliding gently down my back, and though I still trembled, I felt stronger, less afraid. Always, when he was near, I felt less afraid.
He led me to the bed, helped settle me among its feather pillows, its blankets of soft linen, and I drew him down to me, shaking all over, breathless with joy and wanting. The gentle firelight warmed his face, softening the faint lines that years of grief, fear, and anger had carved into his skin.
I wound my fingers into his dark hair and held him to me, kissed him until my head spun. The weight of him above me, the muscles of his back under my hands, sparked in me a feeling of simple, vivid joy. He drew his fingers lightly down my arms, making them prickle with goose bumps, and then circled his thumbs over my breasts, my ribs, my waist, learning with unending, focused patience every dip and curve. My gown was plain but fine, a gauzy gray, and through its silk I could easily feel the careful heat of his hands, every warm caress.
Then he moved lower down my body, dropping kisses on each pleat of my dress along the way, and began sliding his hands up my legs, under my skirts. I ached for his touch—my thighs were damp and trembling—and yet suddenly a fist of nerves seized me, and I went rigid, felt my heart began to race in a different way. Not with wanting, but with doubt.
With a gentle touch to his shoulders, I stopped him. I whispered, “Wait.” He moved his hands away at once and came back to me. He pressed his brow to mine, breathing hard, a question on his face. Those eyes of his were soft and warm on my face, his lashes thick and dark.
The old fear had come back to me—my body, its frightening nakedness, how for so many years it had remained closed to me, stubbornly quiet. What would Ryder see if I bared myself to him completely? I couldn’t answer that question. I’d spent so many years ignoring myself, tired and angry, every now and then futilely trying for release, that even now, as desperately as my body ached for his touch, I felt the familiar terror of the unknown. What did I look like under these clothes? Only Gareth could truly say, and it had been years since that night, and he didn’t love me, and I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not like this.
“Is it all right with you if we keep our clothes on?” I whispered. I closed my eyes, humiliated. What a question. He would think me a child, a cold fish. I couldn’t look at him.
But then I felt him kiss me—my brow, the tip of my nose, the sharp curve of my chin—and I opened my eyes and saw him smiling down at me, tender and dear. No judgment on his face, no confusion.
“Of course,” he said gently. He brushed my cheek with his thumb. I was crying; he dried my tears. “Farrin, look at me.”
I obeyed, because I loved looking at him. I obeyed, because being told what to do, having the choice made for me, unwound some tight coil of fear within me. I was nervous, and still he wanted me. I was uncertain; he would be certain for both of us.
“You’re beautiful,” he told me, his gaze locked on mine. “Every day, every moment. Everything you wear, everything you don’t. Every time I look at you, every moment I’m apart from you and have to imagine your face instead.” He drew in a breath, let it out. He cradled my face in his hands, his eyes storm-bright. “Farrin, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. In the forest light, in the candlelight. Star of my life. You’re perfect. I know you don’t believe it, but someday you will. I swear it, you will. I’ll make sure of it.”
Chills raced up and down my body. Star of my life. A peculiar thing to say, but lovely, and also familiar in a way my fevered mind, fogged with desire, couldn’t place. And then the thought was gone, bolting cheerfully away, because Ryder was lowering his mouth to mine and kissing me, and with that kiss, the last of my fear dissolved. I whispered my assent: “Yes, Ryder,” I told him, feeling suddenly light as air and brave as I ever had. I wanted this; I wanted him. And I knew that at any moment I could say stop , and he would at once, without question. This most of all was the thing that helped me find my courage.
So I gave myself up to him, let him guide us both toward the cliff’s edge. The thrill of it was astonishing—his kisses licking up and down my body like slow-burning fire; his hands holding mine, pinning me to the bed as he knew I loved; his palms sliding my skirts up my legs just enough, rolling down my tights just enough. He kissed my thighs, reached under my gown and drew light circles across my trembling belly. I whimpered something, some wordless plea, and the sound elicited from him a sharp, desperate groan. Quickly he undid his belt and loosened his trousers. Then, his mouth on my breasts through the thin bodice of my dress, the hard heat of him pressing inside me. His size matched the might of his muscles, and for a moment I gripped his shoulders in shock, stilling him.
He held himself over me, his arms shaking, and I breathed for a moment, eyes closed, until I was able to relax a bit. I nodded and said, “Please, it’s all right now.” I looked up at him with a smile, panting a little, shifting to accommodate him. “Really,” I reassured him. “It’s all right. I’m all right.” Because, incredibly, I was. I laughed a little from the sheer joy of it; I arched up into him, wrapped my arms around him. His beard prickled my cheek, and I relished the feeling, rubbing against the soft bristle of it as a cat might.
And then he kissed me, so sweet and soft that I couldn’t contain my happiness. I cried out against his mouth, a sob sticking in my throat. He began to move, his hips pressing slowly into mine, filling me, pushing with unhurried insistence against the glorious ache between my legs, and it was that—the care with which he claimed me, the incongruous gentleness of all that hard muscle—that began to unravel me. He slid one of his hands down my body to cup my backside and lift me slightly higher, an angle that brought him deeper inside me, and I cried out, overwhelmed, delighted, and when inspiration came, I didn’t shy away from it. I tugged on his belt, which hung loosely at his hips, and whispered, “Tie my hands, Ryder. Tie them to the bed.”
I made myself look up at him through the heat of my embarrassment, refusing to hide my face. I wanted to be completely under his control: my hands pinned, my hips cupped in his palms. Trapped beneath him, held immobile by his belt and by the force of him, the rhythm of him. I wanted this with a sudden clarity that left me giddy.
He blew out a sharp curse, then said my name—“Farrin, gods ”—and went to work. He slid the belt free of his trousers with a swift snap, then used it—gently, such unbearable gentleness—to bind my wrists to the headboard. I tested its strength, tried to tug free, and couldn’t. He was hard as steel against my thigh, hot and wet from our union, and I shuddered, feeling delicious, feeling delirious.
“Is it all right?” Ryder asked, his hands still hovering near mine. “I’ll undo it in an instant, if you wish. Just say the word—”
“No, leave it,” I breathed. The sensation of abandon, of giving myself up to him, left me dizzy, triumphant. This—yes, this is what I wanted. I didn’t know what would come next, and it didn’t matter; Ryder would choose for me, for us, and while in his arms I would always be safe.
I arched up a little, begging him silently to come back to me, and when he did—a swift, smooth thrust that made us both cry out—it was like coming home to a haven I’d never known. His breath came in hard bursts against my neck as we moved together; his voice broke on my name, and the sound of him so overcome, the feeling of my arms held in place, of his broad, muscled weight pressing me against the bed, shielding me from everything that could hurt me, left me undone.
A great wave of pleasure was building inside me, drawing me up into myself, into him—the sure grip of his hands, my name hoarse on his lips. I knew he was being gentle for me; I could feel the restraint in his body, how desperately he wanted more—more of this, more of me. Harder, faster. I ached to imagine it, my mind wild with a hundred fantasies all blurring together.
Our rhythm grew erratic and frantic, a thrilling respite for my metered, musical mind, and when we fell over the edge at last—one right after the other—I wasn’t afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of, because he was with me. As I came apart beneath him, my vision went soft and dark, tinged with gold. Almost at once he reached up to tug the belt loose, freed my hands, whispered hoarsely to me, “Hold on to me, Farrin. Please, hold on to me,” and I did, clinging to him as he shuddered in my arms.
“You’re safe,” I told him, without thinking. I knew only that it felt like the right thing to say. I threaded my fingers in his hair, kissed his rough cheek. “I’ve got you.”
And as I held him, determined that he should feel in the fierce press of my arms all the kindness he’d been denied as a child, I decided that next time— next time! —I would like to try loving him with my tights all the way off. With my naked legs so freed, I could wrap them around him, pull him even closer to me, urge him deeper.
The obvious revelation made my cheeks burn, but I was too happy to be embarrassed for long. I laughed into Ryder’s hair, flushed and damp beneath my rumpled dress. I turned my face up to his, felt him smile against my cheek—easy, open, his own laughter rumbling happy and deep between us—and let him kiss me.