Chapter 30 The Crystal Wand #2
Half of me is furious at Draven taking days to check in, but the winning part has me running back to my Hearth to read Draven’s words in private. I plop down at my desk and flatten the letter. An odd little pen rolls out of it onto the desk.
Wraith,
I’m sorry I disappeared. My father doesn’t want me to return to the Forge for the rest of the semester.
He’s certain the drake being alive was no accident, that they killed a younger male drake but knew a female remained.
He’s paranoid that King Eldarion and King Altair may have joined forces in secret, both of them hating mortals and changelings, and that Eldarion aimed to be rid of you on Altair’s behalf, or me, or both of us to weaken Sedah.
While I think Altair would prefer for us to join him too, he may have decided it’s easier to carve a path through us instead.
My father thinks that the Ascension’s assassination attempt could even be related, after all, no mortals are supposed to be able to get over the Wall, or even pass messages. Not without inside help, and the changelings involved never left the Forge.
My father fears someone’s been planted on the grounds. To disrupt things from within.
Maybe he’s right. The evidence certainly supports it, and though he tends to err on the side of caution his suspicions have an uncanny knack of ringing true.
Watch your back. I’ve ordered my friends to do the same.
You can write to me with this pen, it’s a twinsoul to the one I have. I’ll receive your message instantly. Just put it down when you’re done. You’ll see.
—Draven
I look at the pen, then grab some paper.
Does this thing actually work?
—the Wraith you decided to ghost
I set it down, waiting, and a strike of pleasure courses through me as it lifts and writes a reply, as if it’s been possessed.
Speak for yourself. What took you so long?
—the Princeling you’ve been ignoring
I laugh, surprised at the relief it brings. A weight seems to unclench itself from around my ribs, dissolving. I chew my thumbnail. Things between us were left so messy.
Malik just gave me this ten minutes ago, I’ll have you know.
No sooner have I set the pen down than it flies right back to the page.
I will personally send him to the Boiler for that.
I reply with, It’s the first time I’ve seen any of them since Alfheim. Have you gotten any more updates?
It takes a moment, as though he’s thinking. But then Draven writes, Everyone that made it home is breathing, most just stuck in the healer’s ward. I shouldn’t have brought any of you on that mission … I’m sorry we found that drake.
The vision of its serrated teeth, the stench of the acid, still grip me in the night.
He holds the pen a bit longer than needed, like he’s considering more, but finally sets it down and I pick it up. I’m sorry too, though the you-know-what was a nice reward. Only three more to go.
I drop the pen and it lifts, held over the paper a moment.
What would I do without you?
I grin, chewing the pen a moment. I force myself to keep going, And you? Any more progress for your partner?
There’s a pause and then, I’m working on it. The pen taps against the page in a little dance. But I’m using every available channel. I swear to you.
I believe you. My leg bounces, nerves firing like fireworks in my chest. Especially if you want me to return the favor you gave me in Alfheim. I twirl the pen in my hand. Though I guess if you’re not returning there’s no good time for you to put me on my knees.
For a long moment the pen doesn’t move. Shit. Was that too much?
You dare tempt me with this now? I’m supposed to be in an advisory meeting in five minutes.
Boo-hoo, sounds like your problem.
How would you like to spend Winter Solstice at the palace with me? That’s four weeks away.
I grin, chewing my lip. So long as you make the wait worth it.
His pause feels intentional, a temptation to bait me, hanging on his words. The things I am going to do to you. I’ll make certain it’s well worth it. The pen nearly juts through the paper. And burn this letter, don’t leave it for Magda.
ELEVENTH MONTH BLEEDS away as I settle into a new normal.
Eat, magic, write Draven, sleep, and repeat.
I find myself relishing the nights spent writing him.
There’s teasing and banter, and other more important updates.
Draven has been hard at work living up to his promises, and each new piece of intel fills me with hope.
He’s narrowed down the list of potential candidates that could be my brother, and Zara might have some intel we can use as blackmail for my mother’s freedom.
The latest news comes on a quiet night with no lead-up, no warning. I’m falling asleep reading about complex divination draws, and their varying accuracies, when the pen lifts.
I think I know where Oathbreaker is.
A jolt goes through my chest.
I wait for more, but the pen stays stubbornly still.
So dramatic, I write. Consider me intrigued. You going to elaborate?
I can nearly feel his hand cradling over mine as he yanks the pen back. Brat.
We made a vow, out with it, I remind him and yet the pen is slow, hesitant.
It’s something your mother said. About my father’s blood.
It could be a trick of the zenith light on my deck, but I swear the pen trembles.
Draven continues, I started thinking back and my father was from an ancient royal line.
He was also the first mortal leader to be able to get a small group of immortals to join him.
But how could they have broken their oaths?
How could a sympathetic druid have wiped your memories?
You think he had the Cup?
It may have been passed down to him. I need you to go into my room and check a book. It’s emerald, with gold foil along its spine. It’s titled The Rise and Fall of Mortal Kings. There’s a bookmark.
I cross the hall to his room. It lacks all warmth without him here.
But it smells like him, and I eye a waffle-knit blanket on his bed, making a note to steal it later.
I set down the pen and paper and grab the rolling ladder, looking for the tome.
Finally, I find it and take it to the table by his fireplace.
The book is worn, and the page in question has a drawing of a tomb, a statue of a man on his knees with arrows in his back, leaning against a marble sword. Beneath him is a small bowl, for candles or coins. It’s titled The Last Resting Place of Kieran Ceres, the Traitor King.
Traitor. The immortals would see him as such, but with what I know now about the Curse … he and my mother betrayed mortals, too.
I hesitantly take up my pen and a spare piece of paper.
I have the book.
Can you … draw at all?
My brows come together. Surprisingly, they didn’t teach it in Wraith school.
All right, smartass, just try to draw the collection bowl.
Hesitantly I sketch it. It’s oddly shaped, narrower than most bowls, with ancient carvings on the side.
Oh dear gods. There’s a pause, then he picks up the pen, and I sit impatiently as he draws a clean-lined, finessed sketch, his movements easy, as opposed to my scribbling.
Why didn’t you just do that in the first place? I ask.
It’s the same, right?
I look at the drawing of Oathbreaker, comparing it to the bowl at his father’s grave site. Not a bowl, but a cup, half buried. The images … are very similar.
I think so. Draven … if you’re wrong …
I’m not. The ink bleeds against the page, like he forgot to pick up the pen. I’ll be out of touch a few days looking into this. But … Rune. I need you to know. It’s been fucking misery being stuck here without you.
I don’t know what to say, so I write the only true words I know. I’ve missed you too.
IT TAKES A FEW worrisome nights to hear back.
I got it. His letters aren’t as neatly written as usual. They’re shaky. He just had to defile his father’s grave, to pull the Arcadian Artifact from marble and concrete. I can’t imagine his headspace.
Are you all right?
There’s a pause. I will be. I don’t want to think about it.
My thumb runs the length of the pen, wishing it was his hand instead. That I could have been there with him.
With this, we can make things right. Unshackle our bonds. Maybe it’s a small comfort. But we won’t be forced to keep our loyalties to his father. With the wand we can summon an army.
He replies with, You don’t know how sexy you are when you think like a queen.
A heat pulsates between my legs and my mind flashes to our time in that apartment, as it so often does.
And yet you plan to keep leaving me here until the Winter Solstice. Maybe that wand will get the action I promised you instead. I don’t know what makes me write it, but the pen doesn’t even reach the table before he’s replying.
Are you truly going to torment me like this?
P.S. it’d likely split you in half.
Coyly I reply, At least something would …
There’s a lengthy pause then, Damn you, Rune.
As the pause elongates I wonder if he’s sitting there, likely in his private room, perhaps sliding his hand down his open pants, gripping himself, waiting agonizingly for a reply.
I let the pause turn lengthy, then pick up the pen again and write, The things I could be doing to you right now …
but you’re trapped in a palace instead. It’s too bad.
We could’ve destroyed some sheets. Maybe broken a bed frame.
The pen seems to jut into the paper when he writes back, We won’t be truly even until you’re on your knees for me. Mouth open like a good girl.
“Prick,” I say aloud, hating that this has backfired, riling me. I detest that he isn’t here, and for a moment wonder if he might not just find some relief with someone else. Before I can stop myself, I write:
I hope you’re not tempted to break our bet first—but the pen moves while it’s still in my hand, and I nearly feel his grip ghosting over mine.
I only want your lips wrapped around all of me.
I blush, embarrassed but grateful.
He continues, I’m more worried about you fucking that wand. Or worse that guy from Judgment who can’t keep his eyes off you.
I’m surprised, realizing he’s jealous of Wynter still, who has been nothing but polite to me since our return.
Draven continues, I’m glad you have friends. Tell me I have nothing to worry about and I’ll stop daydreaming about shoving him off a cliff.
I laugh. Wynter is a beautiful man, druid, whatever, but perhaps too pure, like fresh snow. Draven’s like fire, a chaotic mess that burns a path wherever it pleases. My hands are too dirty for the first.
I don’t want anybody else. Just your cock in—but I stop writing as ink spills over the page from his side. The words I’d planned to write dissolve under the mess, and I burst into laughter at the hasty scribble on the only clean corner of the sheet.
My brother just walked in and scared the ever-loving shit out of me. To be continued?
I shove the paper to the side and write on a fresh page, Sure Draven, sure. Tomorrow? (Also, hi Ansel, if you are really there)
He says he can’t wait to see you at Solstice. Also, Ansel is making you a gift and it’s hideous. For his sake, please pretend to love it. Let’s continue this discussion tomorrow after your classes.
I take the destroyed page to the fireplace as per usual, smiling and laughing a bit to myself as I let it catch, curling to nothing, only ink remaining on my hands.
SEVERAL MORE WEEKS pass and before I know it, the end of the semester has arrived.
Draven and I have been passing increasingly thirstier notes, some downright outrageous, getting bolder with each pen stroke.
Finally, the day before finals I write, So, are you planning to return for my soul-day, or do I have to wait till Solstice to see you?
I’ve never mentioned its arrival to him, but some part of me has squirmed the closer it’s gotten.
My soul-day is often overlooked by the Winter Solstice, and it hasn’t been something I’ve celebrated since my family’s separation.
I’ll be twenty-one this year, and a large part of me is surprised I survived this long.
Draven writes back, Wait … when is your soul-day?
The 15th of Twelfth Month. Some fated mate. We’ve never used the term on our own, just when convincing everyone else. I let the words hang there, heart pounding.
Had I known your soul-day was this soon I could’ve showered you with gifts leading up to the day, Draven writes.
Or spent it worshipping you in private. I guess I’ll just have to redouble the effort in what I was putting together for you for Solstice.
Unfortunately, it’ll be late. I won’t be allowed to leave in time for your soul-day.
But I cannot wait to see your face again.
I think I’ve mildly annoyed every person I know with my inability to think of anything else.
You can thank these notes for making me fail all my private classes tomorrow.
Better smarten up, I write back. I won’t suffer a partner with failing grades.
Good luck on your finals Rune. I bet my grades are still higher.
That’s the asshole I love … I … no. Wait. No. Fuck. My elation sours, mind slipping on the truth. I put my face in my hands and groan. I’m too fucking happy he’ll be returning to me.
I’ve known how I’ve really felt since that day in the drake cavern, when I nearly lost him. These ridiculous feelings flooding my veins were so much stronger than my fear.
I’m hopelessly fucked, I realize, and I think I have been for a long time.