Chapter Sixteen
There are no bright eyes, no smiles, no warm welcomes here.
I would be foolish to expect them.
Heads turn, a few at a time, to level cold, demanding stares in my direction. In the same instant, hands fly to lips, shrouding whispers.
It’s the hells’ court all over again.
A strangely familiar thing in the realm of the living.
And thanks to Lilith’s lesson, I’m not walking in entirely blind and naive as I did in the hells centuries ago. Eventually, rooms much like this became known and familiar during my time in Netharis’ court—from the games, to the stares, to the whispers—none of it is new.
In fact, it makes what we have to do today easier.
I’ve already a good mind of what to expect.
Granted, the outcome is likely to be far less hellish—at least for me. I can’t say the same for Rowen and Tanila. With any luck, and the learned skill of wading through dangerous waters like these, perhaps I can help influence this meeting’s end.
Never thought I’d find myself saving souls over damning them.
Despite the stares turning in different directions, I know better than to believe they’re not paying attention. No, my return has certainly earned their notice.
The bond between Ryc and me takes on a muted feel—he’s raised his mental ward. A mixture of envy and mourning curl themselves round my heart, a notion I’m forced to ignore.
Ryc has his own secrets to keep.
And refusing to raise a ward on my account would serve neither of us.
No, the feeling is better left to wither in the dark.
One thing makes itself clear as we venture farther into the room: there are far too many bodies for this meeting to be solely Sovereign Kings. And before I accidentally find a pair of violet eyes capable of prying amid this nest of vipers, I search for Rowen.
He stands ahead, on the far side of the wide room, at the foot of the dais. Our eyes meet and he offers me the slightest smile and acknowledging nod. On his left, Tanila shifts, turning in our direction, and of course, she looks every bit the fae princess I expect.
Her eyes follow her father’s stare and meet mine.
Layered in skirts of dark green with a bodice-cinched waist, her waves of chestnut brown hair swing as she quickly steals her eyes away, turning back to her father. She was captivating the day I saw her in the South Ward.
Today, she’s stunning.
Rowen glances at his daughter as she says something too low for me to hear, and his jaw tightens. He gives her the tiniest shake of his head, dismissing whatever she’s said.
Another female, dressed in a slip of a dress of deep violet, approaches Tanila, reaching out to gingerly touch her elbow to gain Tanila’s attention. The princess turns, and a dazzling smile spreads across her face.
Violet. The Lightblossom family color.
The female is Ganus’ mate—the Sovereign Queen of Battalia.
Which means a few of the additional attendees are Sovereign Queens. I should have asked more questions about them when I had the chance. Far too late now.
“Seems our seats have been chosen for us,” Fenryn says in a low whisper to me. He points with his chin toward the left.
Following his lead, four pairs of high-backed chairs line the left side of the forest green runner stretching through the center of the room. A male with flaming orange hair rises from the only occupied seat in the line.
Darin. The Sovereign King of Aeros.
Thanks to Lilith, I now know he’s the youngest member of the High Council at barely six and a half centuries old.
He offers us the same lopsided smile I remember—albeit it’s much less bloodied now than it was last time we met.
The king is much less likely to find himself at the receiving end of Ryc’s ire this go around.
The seat paired with Darin’s lies empty.
He has yet to find his mate.
The right side of the runner sits lined by the same number of chairs, fashioned in the same pairs, but there are more bodies on that side of the room.
It’s clear both Ganus and Eloric have claimed seats somewhere in that line.
It also becomes clear the runner serves as a proverbial line in the sand.
One—we need at least one Sovereign King to join on our side for this to end the way Ryc and I want.
“Which is Liran?” I whisper the question to Ryc.
“White hair, brown robes,” Ryc answers in kind. “His mate, Imera, sits behind him.”
With a quick sweep of the room, a head of white hair is all too easy to spot. He stands with a male clad in violet and my jaw tightens as my eyes race away.
He stands with Ganus.
Together they hover near the chairs farthest from the dais—across from Darin. A small surge of relief pulses through me.
I won’t be sitting directly across from Ganus.
At least there’s that.
Keeping my eyes fixed on Darin while we approach, my attention lies on the low whispers between Ganus and Liran. But with the abundance of louder conversations occurring, it’s impossible to hear much of what they’re saying.
Daring to glance over my shoulder as we pass the pair, cloudy white, unseeing eyes meet mine and pierce through me.
Is he blind?
Lilith made no mention of that during our lessons.
Turning away before his conversation partner takes notice, I find a pair of yellow eyes lingering upon me seated near the dais.
Eloric.
It’s hard to forget that piercing shade of yellow set in a perpetually scrutinizing stare. I’ve only met one other creature with the same color eyes, and I’m hard pressed to believe the truthteller is the progeny of a shadow hag.
Though, truth be told, it would explain his abrasive demeanor.
Pushing the annoying thought of Eloric from my mind, my heart sinks with the possibility of losing Liran to Ganus. If Liran sides with Ganus in this, Rowen might not survive today.
Neither will Tanila.
Shit.
Veering left, we step off the runner and onto the marble floor as we approach Darin. Beyond him, standing along the wall in a line of two others in suits of armor, stands Cyran. He surveys the room with acute awareness, his hand at the ready upon the pommel of the sword.
As we stop before Darin, Rowen approaches and Riordan sweeps past, joining Cyran.
“Fenryn, Vestaris, Alaryc,” Rowen says in a low, but warm greeting. “Starting with a strong message, are we?” A hint of amusement gleams in his dark brown eyes.
“Without Ryc and Ves they have nothing,” Fenryn replies, his voice hushed. “I’m making sure they understand that.”
Chuckling, Rowen turns to me. “Welcome to Nyluma, Vestaris. I apologize your visit couldn’t have been under more pleasant circumstances.”
“When did she return, Alaryc?” a deep male voice calls from the other side of the room.
The pointed tone of the question leaves no mistake in understanding he’s referring to me. Keeping my jaw firmly clamped shut, else my tongue land me in a dispute guaranteed to escalate, I keep my eyes focused on Ryc.
Both Rowen and Fenryn glance over their shoulders.
Ignoring the question, Ryc says, “We’ll speak after, Darin.”
Darin nods. “Well enough,” he replies, his tone one of understanding.
Without another word, Ryc moves down the line of chairs and I sweep along with him.
“Not going to answer?” the voice calls again and I resist the urge to seek the source.
Again, Ryc pays the demanding king no heed.
Instead, he gestures to my seat.
Fenryn takes the seat closest to mine in the pair beside ours, and Rowen seats himself in the seat closest to Ryc’s.
As we seat ourselves, I’m met with several fierce stares from across the room.
A pair of bright yellow eyes watches, set in a face filled with scrutiny as the Sovereign King lowers himself into his seat.
It’s a small respite not to be seated across from Ganus. But instead I’m faced with Eloric.
I’ll have to keep my gaze from venturing right. A simple enough task, I should be fine. No direct glances, periphery only. Ryc places a hand over mine on the armrest of my chair, and gives it a gentle squeeze.
Reassurance.
This can be done.
We can do this.
I admit, avoiding Ganus’ gaze will be easier thanks to Eloric’s intriguing wardrobe choice. Dressed in an eye-catching tailored jacket in a bright goldenrod with vivid green embroidery at the collar and cuff, I’m reminded of a flower.
An obnoxiously vocal flower.
He sits bright in a line of darker hues.
Louder than his jacket is the empty seat beside him.
No mate.
Another king sure to be on Vaelyn’s list.
I know little about the Sovereign King of Renna—but what I do know inclines me to believe if any king were to sign, it would be him.
“The timeliness of Ves’ return is not the intent of this meeting,” Ryc finally replies, his tone cold. “I’m presenting her before the council as expected.”
“As per usual, you’re asking the wrong questions, Eloric.” The white-haired fae sitting on Eloric’s right says, sounding annoyed.
The seat beside him is occupied.
A round-faced creature with storm cloud gray eyes and dark waves shifts. Her stare travels from Ryc to me, her eyes locking with mine. Another Sovereign Queen.
“What should be asked is does the god of death sit among us,” the male says, joining his mate in staring openly.
Fenryn scoffs. “You believe the god of death would sit in the company of mortals, Liran? Don’t be daft.”
“What demon would pass on the power of godhood?” Eloric retorts, the words sharp.
More eyes than I’d like turn and fall upon Ryc and I.
I take a slow, steadying breath.
Let this be the first and last time I attest this before the council.
“I sit before you mortal,” I say, my voice firm. “The hells are not mine.”
Eloric’s face sets in a sour scowl. “Truth,” he says.
Liran’s white eyes widen. “You forfeited the hells?”
Rowen raises a silencing hand. “Should you have further questions, I encourage you to approach Alaryc and Vestaris upon the conclusion of this meeting. We all have busy schedules. I’d like to get this trial underway.”
“Aye,” Fenryn says as he levels a sweeping stern glare across the room.