Chapter Twenty-Seven
As I open my eyes and the white ceiling of my new marital quarters comes into focus, the last few fuzzy details of my dream fade faster than fog. I shiver against the cold permeating my bones as I peer toward the windows.
Dawn.
The dim light slices between the dark curtains, giving the far side of the room a punctuated silver glow. Beside me, Ryc shifts, curling an arm beneath his pillow as he rolls onto his stomach, his breathing deep and even.
It’s surprising to find him here.
More oft than not, he’s already set off.
Ready to face the day by sunrise. After yesterday, he more than deserves a day of rest. Slipping from the bed as carefully as possible, I rise, stretching stiffness away.
As I cross the room, making for the fireplace with a haste prompted by chill, I snag a bit of tinder and kindling from the box to add to the embers.
The tinder takes, bright orange flames dance to life, and my hands seek their warmth. A flash of vibrant green against my wrist in the firelight catches my eye and draws a heavy sigh from me.
Yet another veilflower bracelet.
A shiver races along my spine and tiny veilflowers pop open along the vine. Their blue glow casts the pale of my skin in an eerie light, one that seems to pulse in a slow, metered rhythm.
It reminds me of a heartbeat.
Resisting the urge to thrust my wrist over the fire and burn it away, I curl a finger and snap it. It vanishes in a burst of dark blue smoke.
I’ve yet to understand what it means.
And I’m inclined to believe I’m not going to understand until I’ve mended my soul. I’m serving as an open doorway between the other half of my soul and this realm. These little bouts of magic—these flare ups—they’re her… not me.
She may be me, but I do not know her.
And gods only know how much I’ll change once we meet.
Rising, I meander to the line of windows and, peeking between curtains, I stifle a gasp.
Ollora has been blanketed in white.
It’s an astonishing sight.
The view from these windows… it’s no longer the north lawn with a few peaked rooftops peering over the curtain wall. It’s a view few others will ever see… the whole of western Ollora.
I pause, my eyes narrowing.
It’s the view Ryc shared weeks ago… the night on the balcony.
Peeling back the curtain, I search and reach for the door handle. Cold radiates through the glass, chilling my skin, but it doesn’t deter me. I step out into the frigid morning air, caring little for the snow beneath my bare feet.
As I wander toward the balcony railing, I stare in awe at the landscape before me.
A pristine view of the vine-covered courtyard and temple, deep green against soft white.
The curling shoreline of Kevus Lake lies beyond.
With parts of the North Docks visible, many ships’ masts stand tall above snow-blanketed rooftops.
Instead of hearing the Daxing beyond the wall, I see it. It roams in a lazy wind through the city, a dark ribbon stretching to greet the blues of the lake. Billows of white rise from chimneys, countless homes fighting off the first touches of winter.
This isn’t the first I’ve seen snow.
But it is the first I’ve been granted the time to admire it.
“Little love.”
I turn to greet the soft call as Ryc appears in the doorway, an open letter in his hands. With a smile, he steps onto the balcony.
“I didn’t hear you wake,” I say.
“The arrangements I spoke about a couple days ago? They’re ready,” he says, nodding toward the letter.
“You’ve found a way to Illa Ysari?” I ask, surprised.
He chuckles, nodding. “Wear your armor and pack what you need. We leave within the hour.”
?????????????
The version of winter gracing Ollora is much milder than the version that’s settled into the northernmost parts of Erus.
Specks of freezing rain mixed with flurries of snow strike any and all exposed skin without mercy, hastened by a bitter wind.
Drawing my hood tight, I raise the cowl of my armor as I walk beside Ryc.
The portside town of Galyne is nothing notable.
If I’ve visited it in the past—which I’m confident I have—I don’t recall it.
There are many towns like this one throughout Eldoterra.
A series of gray stone buildings weathered by rain, wind, and sea.
This one sits along the coastline of the Clarecier Bay, much too close to Ashemere for my comfort.
Only those brave enough, skilled enough, or foolish enough would reside here.
Were the skies clear, the vampires’ home might be visible in the mountains to the northeast.
“This weather works in our favor,” Ryc says, his voice resonating in my head as he glances in my direction.
I’ll take him at his word.
Sure, the low visibility helps.
But the near constant assault on my being does not.
We walk east, into the cold wind carrying the faintest scent of blood.
It lies mostly hidden by the salty tang of the water.
In this weather, the street lies mostly empty as townsfolk bunker down for the incoming storm Cyran mentioned before we departed.
Those daring enough to venture from the warmth and security of their homes do so at a quick and pragmatic pace.
Shutters and curtains drawn, windows lie darkened, adding to the isolated feel of Galyne. Today is not a day anyone should be venturing forth, yet… here we are.
Of course, I’m not going to insist we disregard this opportunity.
I need access to those archives.
The sooner I know what it takes to mend a soul crystal, the sooner all of this can be put to rest.
Earlier, when Ryc said we were leaving for Illa Ysari, I expected to ferry directly to the island.
Apparently, that can’t be done. To reach its shores, we have to ferry by boat and Galyne is the closest port to the island.
The arrangements Ryc made were inquiries for safe passage from private couriers.
With our visit being unsanctioned, discretion is a necessity.
Though, I’m not confident four people clad in black armor and cloaks stalking through the street isn’t attention drawing—even with the weather.
Eve and Cyran follow behind, not a word passing between the four of us as we make for the docks. If either did have anything to say, their words would be lost to the wind.
At the end of the street, the docks come into view, peeks of brown emerging from white. A few boats appear, bobbing rather precariously on storm-stirred waves, and my eyes narrow.
None of the boats are anything more than simple passenger vessels.
They’re not the grand ships I’ve seen come into the North Docks.
They’re nothing I expect to be capable of carrying us through hellish winds, snow, and waves to reach an island.
Anxious dread fills my stomach.
We’re sure to capsize.
And demons… don’t swim.
The only lake in the hells exists in the Layer of Treachery and it’s hundreds of feet deep frozen solid ice.
I may visit the North Docks to watch from rooftops, but there’s a reason I stay well away from the water.
Drawing closer, barely visible on the horizon through the snow, sit roughly half a dozen ships.
Pieces quickly fall into place.
The water here with the storm must be too shallow for ships of their size to moor properly. It’s safer for them to remain at sea. Though I could be entirely wrong and piecing together things that I shouldn’t based on parts of conversations I’ve picked up over the summer.
As we step onto the dock, Ryc takes my hand, leading me down a crate-littered walkway. Before long, the ground below becomes water, and I find myself staring at the dizzying rush of waves.
Nausea sweeps over me, and lifting my eyes, I’m met with a fae male a short distance ahead.
He lifts a hand in greeting, the wind tearing at his jacket and short cropped silver hair.
He doesn’t bother pulling himself from the stack of crates he leans against, and instead watches our approach with sharp brown eyes.
“You the ones?” he bellows over the storm, his breath creating curling white clouds snatched by the wind—though whether they’re from the cold or the burning cigarillo wedged in the corner of his mouth, I couldn’t say.
Ryc stops before him, much closer than I would like.
“Please tell me you’re the ones seeking passage to the island,” he says, his voice not as loud this time. “I’d like to get out of this blasted wind.”
“Yes, we’re the ones,” Ryc answers, his tone calm.
The male’s features light up with excitement.
“Perfect,” he chimes, peering between Ryc and me. “Four then?”
Ryc nods.
“Twenty thousand,” the male replies, pinching the cigarillo between his fingers.
Twenty thousand?
As in twenty thousand gold?
I’ve no means to pay that. I—
Ryc tosses a heavy, black leather pouch to the male and he catches it with ease. The rattle of gold rings sharp enough to cut through the wind. Drawing the rolled tobacco away from his lips, he exhales a thick, white plume of smoke toward the ground.
“Thank ya, sir,” he says, giving the pouch a hefty bounce in his palm.
“Consider your fee covered,” Ryc says. “With enough to purchase your silence.”
The smile on the fae’s lips turns wicked. “That it does,” he says, returning the cigarillo to his lips to tie the pouch to his hip. He juts a thumb over his shoulder. “This way, my new rich, anonymous friends.”
“We could have bartered,” I send the thought through our bond and I’m met with Ryc’s shimmering amusement. “We could have threatened. We could have avoided paying twenty thousand gold—”
“This ensures silence,” Ryc’s calm reply is effective and it certainly silences me.
Fine.
Fae are only slightly less opportunistic than demons it seems.
“Captain Connak Hazelwind at your service,” the fae says as he moves around the stack of crates, swinging an arm to his right. A gesture to the small passenger boat tied to the dock. “Please take care when stepping aboard. Once you’re all seated, we’ll be off.”