Chapter 66
I thanked the servant who showed us the way to the seating area on the ground floor, where we were expected to wait for King Ryvar’s summons.
Astonishing, I thought, as I observed my grand surroundings from floor to roof.
Within towering walls and endless ceilings—made of polished, pearl-white marble striated with bluish-grey veins—were a variety of vibrant flowers and trimmed bushes adorning each corner and every passageway.
What I found striking was that the plants did not simply sit in pots, but rather sprang out of the floor, creating a contrast of botany and high-class royalty.
Walls alternated from marble to glass, allowing me the view of a different kind of desert than the one I was accustomed to. This one was white and cold. A few rocky paths wound along the snow dunes, and beyond was a horizon made of jagged white mountains.
Marshen preferred to wait outside. He said he needed to get some fresh air. I passed on his request to join him and instead took a warm seat on one of the plush couches. I was not planning on freezing myself to death.
As soon as I finally allowed my back to rest against the cushioned back, I heard footsteps.
Small ones, with even smaller ones in tow; they clicked softly at a fast pace.
The taps grew louder as they approached.
“Uncle Aegir! Uncle Aegir?” It started as an excited shout and ended as a perplexed murmur.
A golden-skinned boy—shadowed by a white dog-wolf—stared at me in confusion.
I knew those forest green eyes, the exact shade as his.
I wasn’t sure if the look on the boy’s face was solely the result of genuine bafflement or if he might have been a little scared of the way I stared.
I changed my expression and instead offered him a broad smile.
“I’m sorry, I am not Uncle Aegir,” I said.
The boy, perhaps ten, chuckled as he moved closer. He tilted his head as if he was both shy and curious.
“You’re a human. A woman.”
His wolf seemed docile—he wiggled his tail and handed me his paw, which I gladly accepted. Then he lay at my feet, his tail sweeping left to right against the marbled floor, exposing his belly, demanding rubs. I fulfilled the irresistible request.
“I am.”
The boy took a seat beside me and poked my arm with his finger. Then he looked up at me, and through another titter, said, “But you smell exactly like him. How is that possible?”
I realised then, the meaning of the Fae’s sense of scent.
As if they relied more on it than they did on their other senses.
I could not look any more different than his uncle, yet he completely ignored all that and relied only on his sense of smell.
In less than a minute, he was leaning on me, trusting me, giggling at me, because I overrode his senses.
My smell, the smell of him, offered immediate and unquestionable trust. He—he was acting like the godsdamned dog.
Fascinating, sort of.
It reminded me of that moment, when I jumped into the Wrathwater Depths. Perhaps I, too, in that second, relied on that same sense—when I instinctively chose the deadly waters just because its scent reminded me of safety, of him.
“Oscar, come here. Leave her be,” Queen Gloriana said as she approached. I noticed that the boy had inherited her full cheeks and her round lips, with a prominent cupid’s bow.
“Bye, Aegir’s lady.”
“Bye, Oscar.” Prince Oscar, I should have called him.
Marshen returned and the queen herself showed us into the throne room.
Two large crimson couches faced each other, and in between them, farther up the dais, was the king’s chair, grand and ornate. And sitting in it was Ryvar Hailin, King of Silch. I didn’t like the two identical pommels peeking above his shoulders. Twin swords were strapped at his back.
Those same green eyes as his looked at me; their irises, I swore, were indistinguishable, yet their faces diverged in expression.
King Ryvar’s brows were more angled, giving him a sharper look, and his lips were thinner than Aegir’s, his jaw less defined.
His long, dark brown curls were striated with white streaks.
I was captivated by how similar yet distinct their awfully beautiful faces looked.
Marshen knelt before his king, and I offered the same courtesy that I had been offering his wife. And even though I was sure Queen Gloriana informed him about my scent situation, King Ryvar still stiffened at my approach.
I was wearing what I was given. A long blue dress that covered me from throat to toes, and a furry, creamy-white cardigan that draped over my shoulders. And tucked away in the right pocket of my cardigan was the green box.
If the king disregarded my…relationship or whatever it was with his brother, I would show him the ring, and I would tell him that he should better respect my word.
A lie to preserve life is not a bad lie, Semuel whispered in my ear, just as an image of Emika’s face—one expressing disappointment—appeared in my mind.
I didn’t let it linger. I promised myself that I would only use it if the king gave me the cold shoulder, yet the weight of that tiny box felt so heavy, it dragged.
Marshen and I stood a few feet away from the king’s dais.
To my right, was Marshen. To my left, was a broad rocky alcove that led outdoors. The room was surprisingly warm and I suspected that it wasn’t just the burning hearth keeping it snug.
The king’s first words were flat and direct. “Marshen Deucane, you have finally returned for your execution.”
I blinked. Is this how the King of Ice treats his people? Ice-cold—fitting.
“King Ryvar, I am here for you to remove my execution order. I did as you asked, I found them. Over five hundred people from Nerithia.”
“And where exactly are these alleged people?”
“Alleged? They are very real. Your Majesty, they are trapped on Mistgeil Island.”
“You lie. My avian shifters informed me long ago that Mistgeil Island is a wasteland.”
Marshen’s voice increased in both pitch and volume.
“Mistgeil Island is shrouded with a witch’s spell.
Had one of your Fae shifters dared to land and not just sweep over it, they would have found that the island is, as a matter of fact, not a forgotten barren wasteland, but a very fertile asylum, invisible and silent from afar. ”
“What he says is true. I was there. His execution order should be levied and the people of Ilma must be given refuge.” I extended my hand towards Marshen as I spoke assertively, yet King Ryvar did not even look my way.
Even though it was the king himself agreeing with Aegir to send him on a mission once thought fruitless, something in my gut was telling me that he might not even dare set foot on that godsdamned island.
Was this also how Ayla Ikubib—the witch—was treated when she came to tell his parents about the people she had veiled? And where was she now? I swallowed.
The king rose from his chair, smugly, his eyes fixed on Marshen, and took slow, casual steps down the dais, stopping right in front of him.
Gods, this combination of Fae and Strongman.
Even the colours of his hair showed it—the blend of two formidable species.
And the size of him—he was even taller than Aegir. Not as broad, though.
“I believe our bargain was for you to return with an Ilman. You returned with a Rameli.”
“She—she’s your brother’s—”
“That does not matter. She is from Ramel. Freeing you would mean not meeting my end of the bargain, and I have an example to set here.” I took each word bitterly. The acid in my stomach boiled.
“His end of the bargain entailed returning with a Water Wielder or a Nymph, yes, but he is here telling you that he found not one but over five hundred Nerithians. He returned with much more than you asked for. Isn’t that more than enough?”
He had the audacity to curve his lips and scoff at me. “More than enough, but not what I asked for. Where’s my proof?”
I pursed my lips together, my fingernails digging in my palms so hard I knew they left crescents.
“Proof? I’m telling you there are Briartides on that island! They’ve been waiting for your aid for over ten years. Isn’t my word enough? Is who I am not enough?”
“Not really.” His cruel gaze fell on Marshen once more. “As your lady friend here said, I asked for a Nymph or a Water Wielder.” Then he looked beyond us and gestured with two fingers. “Guards, escort him to the basement.”
The basement?
My hand itched for my pocket, but Marshen’s serrated breath made me hesitate. Especially since his nervous huffs were directed at me. “I’m sorry, Delia,” he whispered. Then he turned towards his king and said, “It’s what you asked for that I deliver. She is not Rameli, she’s an Ilman.”
For a small second, I stiffened, and in that moment I realised I never thought myself any more stupid.
I tried to counter my earlier hesitation and instead tried to appear as nonchalant and as convincing as possible.
“It’s true, I’m from Ilma. I couldn’t say it earlier because I was sworn not to, but now you know, so you can set him free and provide refuge to the Hydrans trapped on Mistgeil Island. ”
I used the term Hydrans on purpose—to remind him that the Ilmans and Silchans were one. That they were also his people.
The king let out a low, spine-chilling laugh. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry to break it to you, but acting is not your best talent.” Then he turned towards Marshen. “Based on your lady friend’s reaction here, she does not seem to agree with you.”
“Yet what I’m saying is true, even if she doesn’t believe it. I saw her power. It was nothing like I’d ever seen before, she—she calmed the Wrathwater Depths and emerged from it like some sea goddess. And her eyes, they shone blue.”
I tried and failed at hiding my confusion—he sounded so convincing. I wanted to play along with his lies, yet I found myself with a jaw so clenched, my face hurt.
“I think that’s enough drama for one day. Guards,” the king called flatly.
Four males—Ice Wielders—surrounded Marshen. I blinked as one of them formed iced cuffs from thin air, then secured them around Marshen’s wrists.
My heart stammered. Marshen was going to die because of me. I should have known I was not enough. The words nothing and nobody carved deep into my skull, and I blinked hard, pushing them away.
I reached for the green box, but Marshen bellowed my name with such foreign seriousness, I froze in place.
“Delia! Listen to me.” Marshen resisted the guards’ pull, feet planted to the floor.
The guards were about to force him away, but to my surprise, King Ryvar lifted two fingers and nodded at them. The guards eased.
I moved in front of Marshen and with wobbling lips, I murmured, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have made you come—”
“Just shut up and listen to me!” My brow creased and I gave him a small, quick nod.
“What I said about you is true. You are from Ilma. Whoever gave you that intel was right. When we jumped into the Depths, it was not me who saved you, the waves were too strong, and to get a hold of you without impaling you with my teeth was impossible. Delia, I’m sorry, but you were going to die that day…
but you—you calmed the waters around you and emerged out of it.
The water moved at your command—you are a Water Wielder, Delia. I’m sorry I kept it from you.”
“I’m not buying it,” the king remarked at our side, his hand going to his chin. He watched us as if he was amusing himself with a theatrical performance.
The king’s words assured me that he had made up his mind, so instead of playing along, I found myself asking, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s true, Delia, those people, they are your people.”
“You’re lying!” I all but roared.
“I swear to you it is the truth.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Then if it is the truth…then why!? Why didn’t you tell me?”
What about the guilt I felt for dragging him to his death?
No, I had the right to feel all of it, because he was lying and I was not one of them and he was going to die because of me.
“Because I was afraid that you would choose to remain there, with them, with your people, and I couldn’t come here alone.
And then you suggested the idea to travel north, so I just went along with it.
You didn’t force me here, Delia, I came willingly, carrying that knowledge.
I’m sorry, but for what it’s worth, I did try to get us to Aegir first.”
He was defenceless, hands bound at his back, and he looked at me with nothing but pleading in his eyes, yet I still slapped him right across his face. I hit him so hard my palm stung and prickled.
I just stared at him with pursed lips and a death glare—unsure what to even believe anymore.
Am I all the time being lied to—by everyone? Manipulated by everyone?
King Ryvar rumbled a low laugh, and I shifted my piercing gaze towards him. My breath heaved. The king smiled at me. “Careful, or I might ask you to be his executioner come Sunday.”
The king squared his shoulders before facing Marshen.
“Marshen Deucane, you are going to be executed whether she believes you or not, because I know that she is not an Ilman. I’m not some gullible fool.
You forget, the people of Ilma are all powerless.
Law is law, and a bargain is only as good if it is met.
” His voice came out so powerful, it echoed through the throne room.
Despite having the deepest urge to cut off Marshen’s tongue with a serrated knife, I hated the king’s heartless words and lack of compassion with even more passion.
If I wasn’t sure of anything, I was certain that Marshen did not deserve to die. And to die from the hands of the man bearing twin swords—just like in his nightmare, when he screamed Blanca’s name.
At that very moment I no longer cared. I snapped and snarled at the King of Ice, “He went searching for the people you so very gladly sent him to fetch and he found them! Remove his execution order and go free those people now!”
A servant ordering around a king.
But for this afternoon, I had to pretend. I had to pretend to be brave, for Marshen, for Alma and her people.
King Ryvar gave me a blood-chilling scowl, then growled, “Just because my brother decided to bite down on your neck, it does not give you the right to give me orders.”
Now. I would do it now.
I reached into my right pocket, my fingers meeting the velvety box…but then—
“Yes it does.”
Then my heart shattered into the tiniest pieces, like pulverised glass scattering into powdered fumes. I was furious at my body. So fucking furious for betraying me so easily at the sound of his voice. Aegir.