Chapter 4
ELORA
“Would you like some water?” I asked, hovering over Cyran’s shoulder with the pitcher I’d fetched from the kitchens. I could have easily filled his glass without asking, and he wouldn’t have questioned it thanks to the stuffiness of the library. But I wanted him to say something. I wanted to hear his voice. It was rare he spoke these days, and I wondered if it was possible he’d lose the ability altogether if I didn’t force him every now and then.
I still didn’t know why I wanted to interact with him at all. After what he did to me, after he killed me, I had wanted to stay far away from him. It was only when he’d planned to leave Vesta that I’d had regrets over how I’d handled things between us. But did that mean I forgave him? Did that mean I was ready to trust him again?
Did I want to be his friend after everything? How could I be friends with someone who’d carved the pale scar stretching across my throat?
He said nothing, dismissively wiggling his bejeweled fingers at me. I recognized the glint of a ruby—his sister Ismene’s ring was too small to properly fit past his first knuckle.
I sighed, torn over my feelings. Kindness and compassion were all I wanted Cyran to experience, and yet I wondered if I should give it to him. Or if I even could.
We were floundering in our grief. He’d lost his sister to Declan’s rage, and I’d lost Theo. Because of my mother’s choices, I lost my best friend.
Common sense said we ought to seek comfort in one another. But how could I seek comfort in the man who killed me? It shouldn’t have felt as complicated as it did. It should have been simple. But so much of my life in the past half year had gone from fairly simple to extraordinarily complex.
I knew Rhia valued forgiveness, and it was possible I only existed thanks to her. Should I have been doing my best to please her? Giving Cyran my trust and not harboring our past against him would be an ultimate act of devotion to the goddess.
It seemed it didn’t matter what I wanted, though. Since arriving at Crown Cottage, Cyran barely spoke to me, sinking further into despair and solitude. Gods, I didn’t even know what to do with my own sadness, let alone Cy’s.
“Are you getting hungry? I know I am,” I said. Grimacing at my desperation, I set down the pitcher. Why did I have to fill every silent moment with incessant rambling? It was something I’d learned from Mama. It was just me and her so often, she talked constantly to fill the quiet. I swallowed, pushing the ache of nostalgia down. Maybe one day I’d forgive her, and we’d enjoy a quiet moment in a sun-drenched kitchen together. Maybe one day, I’d think of her without anger stirring deep in my belly. But it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“You can take a break, Your Highness,” Reminy said, pulling off his spectacles. With three books stacked in front of him, the top of his head was barely visible. Truthfully, he was so slight and calm that I often forgot about his presence. “I’m sure this is quite dull for you.”
I plopped into a seat at the table, making sure I was in Cyran’s line of sight. I felt pitiful, not sure if it was worry for him or longing for a distraction that made me eager to speak to him. Probably both, if I was being honest with myself.
Pulling over a book from Cyran’s stack, I glared at Reminy as I flipped through the yellowed pages. “Because I couldn’t possibly find history interesting?” I asked, channeling my grandmother’s imperious manner.
“Because yesterday you asked, and I quote, ‘How could you possibly find my great-great-great grandfather’s defecation habits interesting?’ when we found the record of your ancestor’s privy audiences,” Cyran answered. With a slight tilt to his mouth as he teased me, I was certain his expression counted as a smile. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said so many words in a row. And, though his statement irritated me, there was a lightness in my stomach over his chiding tone.
Gently shutting the ancient text, I glowered at the prince, hoping he’d look me in the eye.
I missed him. I missed the way things were with him before he hurt me. Was there an amount of apologizing that I could consider enough? Could I truly look past it enough to return to how we were?
“I still don’t know why such a custom existed,” I grumbled. The slight exhalation of breath which came from Cyran might have once been a chuckle—before all the sorrow. I still considered it an improvement.
Reminy stood, reorganizing the books on the large oak table. Shivani had instructed the limited staff who tended Crown Cottage to drag the enormous piece of furniture into the library in a moment of frustration. Though the man ran the bookstore in Astana, and clearly knew how to treat books with care, even I had been surprised when Reminy stacked them so high in front of my grandmother. She’d insisted on bringing in a larger table to ensure proper treatment of the tomes.
Running a hand through his dark hair, Reminy cleared his throat. “I believe the romance collection was substantial. The Queen Mother is known for her love of them. Perhaps you could?—”
“Are you saying a simple girl shouldn’t concern herself with?—”
“You know that is not what he means, min viltasma .”
My eyes widened just as Cyran’s hazel gaze met mine. My lips parted, and my heart sped up. He hadn’t called me by that name in weeks. The familiarity in it, the fondness of his tone, made it hard to breathe.
“Perhaps you should eat, Elora,” he said, rushing to speak as if he wanted to cover up the last thing he’d said. I blinked, almost shocked by his continued speech. “You’re quite grumpy when you’re hungry.” The tips of his ears turned red, and his cheeks darkened. Was he embarrassed? Had he not wanted to use those words for me?
“Dine with me?” I whispered, aware that I sounded pathetic. Cyran swallowed, but before he could answer, the door to the library opened.
“I’m surprised to find you here, Your Highness,” Thyra said, tossing her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. She’d taken to leaving it unbound and wearing more formal garments since we’d been at Crown Cottage. Not one for a dress, today my guard wore trousers and a light blue tunic, embroidered with tiny yellow flowers. When Reminy squeaked out a hello to her, Thyra turned the same shade of pink as Cyran. She cleared her throat, pulling out a scroll.
I sighed. “I told you, I don’t want?—”
“It is not a matter of what you want, Princess. I have to give. After that, the decision is not mine.”
Little, contrary girl.
I swallowed when I heard Mama’s voice in my mind. Uncrossing my arms, I attempted to control my attitude toward Thyra. She didn’t deserve my ire—only Mama had earned that. Wiping the sour look off my face, I took the scroll, unrolled it to look at the handwriting, and confirmed it was from Mama. When I walked toward the fireplace, I pretended I didn’t hear Thyra’s heavy sigh.
“You will have to read one eventually,” Cyran said, and I almost turned to yell at him. He barely talked to me for weeks, and when he finally shared his thoughts, they were all spent reprimanding me. Perhaps I didn’t miss him after all. Perhaps there was no depth of groveling which would allow me to forgive. Breathing deep, I chose to ignore him instead, tossing the letter into the fire.
“He’s right, you know.”
Stiffening, I slowly turned toward the door. Shivani stood there, casually leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. She wore a simple cotton dress, though it was dyed a rich sapphire. I’d found her to be far more casual since we’d arrived at Crown Cottage, and it was both strange and welcome.
“Even if you don’t want to read them now, you shouldn’t burn them, darling,” she said. Many ill tempered remarks ran through my mind, but I refused to say them. Part of me wanted to accuse her of defending Mama’s bad parenting decisions because they probably paled in comparison to hers. I’d gleaned more than enough about my grandmother to deal a striking blow. But I decided against it.
I wasn’t stupid; I’d noticed how she treated me. Shivani Vestana wanted a second chance, and I was it. Another shot at mothering, at maternal love, I wasn’t sure. But she cared for me—was maybe even fond of me—and I didn’t want to use my coarse words on her.
Mama, though...
“Her words are as good as ash to me,” I retorted. Turning my back on Mama’s smoldering lies, I gave my grandmother a thin-lipped smile. “Is it already time for our lessons?” I ignored the hazel eyes peering up at me from beneath a mop of light-brown hair and pulled at the leather on my wrist. Using it to tie my curls away from my face, I wished for a change in subject.
Before she had a chance to answer, Cyran coughed. Eyes bulging as he choked, his gaze rested firmly on the scar on my throat. I frowned at him, debating offering him water, when he reached for the pitcher himself. It wasn’t as if I hid the evidence of his violence, but it was fair to say he’d been avoiding me. I wondered if it was easy for him to forget what he’d done without seeing it every single day.
My grandmother stepped forward, taking in Cyran who sat at the table between us, before she turned her disdainful attention toward me. Gaze drifting to where my fingertips danced at my skin, she let out a long, suffering sigh.
“You don’t appreciate your handiwork, boy?” she asked, before stepping forward and putting her hand on his wrist. “She seems to manage seeing it every day in the mirror just fine.” Her grip tightened just enough for Cy’s face to screw up in pain, even as a wet cough forced its way past his lips. “There are consequences for your actions. You knew that when you did it.”
He closed his eyes, and my gut lurched as she siphoned his shadows away from him. The only reason I knew she was doing it was because there was a slight shift in the air. When I’d first started my training with her in Astana, I hadn’t been able to notice the subtle change, but now, I could tell. I didn’t have the proper words to describe it, but it was similar to the strange feeling that one had lived through an exact moment before. Like a scenario repeating itself to perfection.
“Grandmother,” I said, uncertain if she might take offense to my warning tone. There was no reason for her to make Cyran feel worse, especially when her hatred loudly and clearly outweighed even Rainier’s—a challenge I wouldn’t have imagined her rising to. She did have a point, though. I’d finally stopped wincing when I looked in the mirror, finally stopped tracing a shaking fingertip across the pale slash. The nightmares had even abated, although I suspected someone might have been tampering with them.
“Meet us in the courtyard once your divinity has returned,” she told him. “Enough to be worth our time.”
Striding out the door with a haughtiness I found exhausting, Shivani left the library. It was assumed I would follow, and ordinarily I’d be thrilled to work on my divinity. Thyra gave me a pointed look before she went after my grandmother, as if begging me to spare her from the woman’s irritation. But as Cyran’s coughing slowed, and he stared down at the tome in front of him, I was tempted to stay in the stuffy library.
“I...” I didn’t know what to say, and the words didn’t come.
“Reminy, will you give us a moment?” Cyran asked.
My heart jumped into my throat as the small man shuffled out of the room, pressing a hand to Cyran’s shoulder as he passed. The prince—king, now, I supposed—unfolded himself from his seat. I wondered if Reminy had bonded with him. Did he know things about Cy that I didn’t? Something twisted low in my gut.
“I think it best if?—”
“Do you really find privies interesting?” I asked, quickly, fearing the worst from Cy’s somber gaze. He blinked before a smile crept over his face. I could tell he fought against it. I was glad to have his handsome features as a distraction when he rolled up his sleeves. For someone who’d barely held a sword before in his life, his forearms were more muscular than they had any right to be.
“The man held meetings of great importance while...well, I will spare you that odiferous detail,” he said, a single eyebrow raised high. Its appearance was comforting. “It is very possible the Myriad secured their funding while your ancestor relieved himself.”
I made a face, and Cyran allowed himself a brief chuckle before blowing his breath out far too quickly. Preparing for the worst, I realized.
“I do not think I will ever be redeemed,” he began, but I didn’t allow him to finish.
“Fresh start,” I blurted. Clearly surprised into silence, he shoved his hands into his pockets before he leaned back against the table. His confusion likely mirrored my own. I shook my head to clear my mind. “If my parents win this war, we are to be allies. You are the king of Folterra now, crowned or not. I will be queen of Vesta eventually, I suppose.” I didn’t like thinking about that for a few reasons. Starting with it requiring my parents to be dead and ending with my complete lack of desire. “We should be friends—amicable at the very least. Wouldn’t you agree?”
His throat bobbed, and he stood a little straighter. Glancing at the fire, he didn’t reply for long moments.
“If you told me the cost of your kindness was to roast myself alive while singing a bawdy tavern song, I would do it. Whatever fondness you are willing to give me, I will receive it with the knowledge I don’t deserve a second of it. And that at any moment, you will come to your senses and rightfully revoke it.”
“That’s quite enough,” I said, feeling my cheeks heating. “What could I possibly say in response to all that?”
“‘You’re far too handsome to serve as kindling,’ would be quite flattering, I think.”
When my laughter echoed down the corridor, my grandmother started calling my name. Thyra’s harried form rushed around the corner, certainly coming to fetch me.
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Prince.”