Chapter 23 Alfheim #4
“Your Royal Highness, we are pleased to greet you and lead you to the palace.” The emissary looks to Draven’s chest instead of meeting him in the eye. “However, we are not supposed to bring soldiers into His Majesty’s Grand Palace.”
“These are my royal and personal guards,” Draven says dismissively. “They go where I go.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” But the emissary swallows, his hands skittish. “May we offer our mounts? They will traverse the area better once we arrive—”
“I’ve seen your mounts. I’ll keep to my own, thank you,” Draven says.
“Of course.” The emissary moves to one of the jutting cairns, placing a long-fingered hand against its surface.
A blue light skitters across it, casting runes over the stone.
A loud churning fills my ears, like heavy rocks scraped against each other.
I look down. Runes shimmer at our feet in that same bright blue, and then the stone platform rotates, slowly at first, but then gathers speed.
I stagger and bump against Fable. She puts a hand on my shoulder, holding me upright, blue light forming a circle around the dais.
The platform drops, sinking below the ground at a steady speed, and the light of the dais grows until it’s all I see.
I grit my teeth, nausea churning in my stomach, legs shaking. The spinning slows, lessening into nothing as the blue light shrinks away. We’ve been transported somewhere entirely different, standing on an outcropping in a large cavern system that spans hundreds of feet above and below us.
Sunlight streaks through the openings, illuminating the stalactites and branching into different cavern systems. Below us is a second world, green and overflowing with great trees connected by vines, and separated from us by misty little clouds.
The kingdom of Alfheim is beautiful, singular in its design.
Elves fly on the backs of creatures I’ve never seen before, spinning through the small spaces between stalactites. A few riderless creatures land on the platform beside our emissaries, and our wyverns hiss.
Whatever these things are, they look like enormous bats, with dark fur and fox-like noses, their ears oversized, wings more heavily veined. They cling low to the ground, and the elves lie flat across their backs, hugging to their fur.
The druids give the creatures a bit of space.
“Draven,” I ask quietly, “what are those?”
“They’re bakka.” He lowers his voice. “And frankly a shitty ride.”
The emissaries click their tongues, and the creatures take flight. The spinning way the beasts fly must be exactly why Draven denied them, even if the wyverns seem too large to follow through the odd holes chiseled in the rocks and stalactites.
He mutters, “This route is difficult on wyverns. I’ve made it a few times, but just watch your head, keep low, and let your mount lead.”
“Sure.”
He reaches down to adjust my buckle, tightening it one-handed with easy dominance. His hand lingers on my waist, gaze dragging down my body, and I swear I can feel its damn path, arousing every inch of me. My lips part and his own turn into a vulpine grin. Prick.
He snaps his reins and his wyvern dives off the outcropping of rock, gliding above the elven cityscape below after the emissaries.
I hunch low, following his lead as my wyvern flies through a hole in a low-hanging stalactite, small enough that there’s barely room for us to slip through.
We bank hard to the right, soaring nearly vertically, but my elbows and knees still graze the rocks.
We pass through a few more tunnels chiseled through the crags. My head spins as we squeeze between other spires at dizzying speed, bruises forming. The light from overhead cuts in and out, as if I’m riding on horseback through the forest.
I gasp as we come into a cavern large enough to fit most of Westfall.
The full sun shines down on the elven capital below through a circular opening above, the largest castle I’ve ever seen occupying the center like a sundial. There are figures, likely elven kings and queens of old, chiseled along the sides of this enormous space, stretching hundreds of feet skyward.
There’s no time to appreciate it as we dive down. We land on the top of a large turret, my legs shaking from the strain of gripping the wyvern.
But it was so exhilarating.
Draven dismounts smoothly and I fumble at my belt.
Before I know it, his hands are on my waist and he helps me slide off Spirit’s back.
I pat her head, running my hand over the soft scales, and the wyvern leans into it, her golden eyes sparkling, a strange purring rumbling through her.
Draven’s hands haven’t moved, and his lips twitch upward.
“See, not so bad.”
“She will do until I have wings of my own. Unless your offer still stands?” I smile up at him, and his brows draw together in confusion. I fill in, “You know, to ride you instead?”
Draven chuckles deep, his tongue tracing a sharp canine.
“Why don’t you compare the two before you decide.” His hissed words raise the goose bumps across my body and I bite back a grin.
“Okay, you two, save the mate stuff for later,” Fable chides us. She puts a hand against her stomach and bemoans, “I don’t even know how you can be thinking about anything beyond throwing up after that ride.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad, you’ve always been such a baby—”
“I am not, you little—”
“Quiet or Draven will think we’ve never been anywhere before.” Malik shushes the blonds, smoothly helping Zara down as if that ride didn’t bother him in the least.
“I thought it was a blast,” Zara says dryly, her hair pulled out of its long braid. She gives me a slight smile, probably rarer than direct sunlight in this place, and I feel a bit of tension ease with it.
We leave our mounts on the tower, and the emissaries take us through several corridors and courtyards until eventually we reach a grand throne room.
“Here is where we will leave you, Prince Draven,” the emissary says. “The elven king awaits.” He gives a stiff bow and beckons the others after him.
We turn to the chamber and follow Draven inside.
Atop a dais at the back of the hall sit four tall thrones, crafted from white oak.
Vines and flowers wrap around them, spreading up the wall so thickly that I cannot tell where they end.
Our footfalls echo across the chamber, our eyes sweeping across the walls as we slowly approach.
Soto’s hand stays on the sword at his hip, his men equally tense.
A few uniformed elven advisors linger about the room and elven guards line the hall like statues.
Their king is the only royal member in attendance, watching our arrival with unblinking eyes as he stands with preternatural grace on the dais.
The elven king is so beautiful he’s almost hard to look at for too long.
The symmetry of his face is nearly unnatural, and the sweep of his flawless hair is oddly mesmerizing.
He watches us with bored, pale green eyes, all the more piercing against his deep brown hair, and his attention stays on me a moment longer than the others before he addresses Draven.
My heart raggedly paces, and I feel a surge of want, of adoration. Draven’s eyes cut to mine quickly, and I realize … this must be the power of compulsion and manipulation he warned me about. I cannot necessarily trust anything I feel in the elves’ presence.
“Prince Draven, welcome to the great halls of Alfheim. You are our treasured guests. Is there anything we can do to bring you more comfort during your stay?”
“I am honored to be here, King Eldarion. My only request is the recovery of zenith crystals, at your leisure,” says Draven. His cold formality is so at odds with the version I’m privy to.
“I must confess we’ve heard rumors even down in our hallowed kingdom of war brewing between the seraphs and druids.
” King Eldarion’s light eyes settle on me once again.
“King Altair has said there’s a dangerous changeling in your midst, one whose future has foretold our downfall, and yet you keep this Forsaken One as a pet?
He also claims you’ve broken your word, and you’re no longer betrothed to his daughter. Is this correct?”
Forsaken One? Seems a bit exaggerated.
Draven’s body is occultly still. Then he turns to me, his eyes burning like fire opals, holding a hand out for me to join him at the forefront of our group.
I link mine to his and stand at his side, curtsying swiftly for the king, my back ramrod straight.
Draven’s voice is tight as he says, “It’s true I’ve broken the engagement set by my father for someone far superior.
But it was never my word I was breaking. ”
The elven king shifts in his throne at that, leaning forward.
Draven gestures to me, his smile charming, though I see the tension in his shoulders, his wings.
“But does she seem all that dangerous to you? We are merely two people, brought together by fate. This angered King Altair. But the rumors of her becoming some … Forsaken One are nothing more than jealousy over my unwillingness to let her out of my sight. Take the words for what they are—rumors and lies.”
Do not make eye contact, Draven’s voice unspools into my mind, and I realize how low my guard has dropped in the king’s presence, as if whatever power he holds has been quietly smothering my mental wards.
He is by far the biggest danger here. I lower my eyes and look at his hands.
There are so many rings on his fingers, but I don’t recognize the emerald gleam of Seithr, the Kingmaker.
The elven king’s attention turns to me.
His voice is sharp as a scythe as he speaks again.
“I’m inclined to disbelieve the seraph king’s warning, if only because Altair can be so droll, seeing threats in every shadow.
But know this … if I find that you’re lying, or that you or your pet have any inclinations to deceive or threaten me, I will not hesitate to act.
King Silas and the others may have convinced themselves that your changeling kind are part of us, worthy of our crowns, but I have not forgotten where you hail from.
You were raised as royalty because of the card that chose you, not by skill or blood right.
At least my heir fought for the right to bear my titles, but all I see when I look upon you is a rebel scab who got very lucky. Do not test that luck here.”
Draven’s eyes burn red, the silence unnaturally thick.
“Husband!”
The entire room’s attention shifts to the elven queen as she wanders into the hall.
Her skin is as dark as his is pale, her face too perfectly proportioned to feel real, eyes wide and doe-like, lips full and pouty.
Her braided hair shines, and I envy the perfection in them.
She looks absolutely mortified and the king merely shifts in his chair, one leg crossing the other, frowning as he leans heavily against one arm like a sulking teenager.
The queen clears her throat, her voice tense. “Forgive our king, he has been most strained recently due to the toxic drake roaming our hills. Please, you must be weary from all this political talk. I would be more than happy to show you to your rooms before the feast tonight.”
Draven gives the king one last heated stare before nodding to the queen. I walk quickly to match the pace of his longer strides. Passing a thought his way, I eye him apprehensively.
What a prick. I pause, stewing on my thoughts, scratching the claim mark on my neck. Do all the immortal royals know your parents were rebels?
He was there the day of my Selection. He’s been particularly vocal about his disgust of changelings and was the last to choose one as his heir.
The prince of Alfheim was forced to fight in a trial for his place, and he’s a cruel prick, just like his king.
He pauses, fuming, then suddenly adds, Keep your guard up, Rune.
Elves have magic, too, even if it’s not as complex as our own.
I follow his lead, but I feel the elven king’s eyes on my back.