Chapter 30 The Tea
The Tea
“Brother, I have not heard from you in some time. Write soon.”
— Correspondence from Lord Xavian Steele to Lyonsreach
I propped my elbow on the meeting table. An ocean breeze flowed in between stone columns.
Avan sat at my left, his red hair disheveled. He wore casual Castivian black and tried to hold in a yawn. Draven sat to my right, looking quite the opposite in a plum velvet dress shirt, with his long black hair slicked back.
I knew it was a dream because Riven, of all people, was present, sitting alongside Draven. He wore his uniform with an arsenal strapped to his body while leaning back in his chair.
“Arthur Pos is late. We should start without the old grump,” Avan said, spinning a coin on his finger.
“He’s unfortunately an important asset to this council,” Draven droned, a deep frown settling into his face.
The doors opened, and the older man shuffled in, wispy brows low and spectacles on. He wore a burgundy tunic, black pants, and silver rings adorning every finger.
“My lord, you look upset,” Arthur said, wrinkles creasing across his forehead as he made his way to his seat.
“I was hoping your tardiness meant you were dead. Now, when is the next ship's departure?”
My voice was not my own; it was Xavian’s. I was watching through his eyes.
Arthur Pos did not look surprised by my brother's comment, nor offended. Draven answered, “Tomorrow. Another returns in a week. I hear there are twenty Dark Natured refugees on board.”
“Only twenty?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Xavian's fingers drummed on the table. The council members held their breath as he contemplated. “If the majority are trapped in the Waywards, then the next group we send needs to retrieve them from within. Is that not obvious?”
Avan rubbed his jaw. Arthur scoffed. “Those who go inside the Waywards do not come out.”
“I believe my sister walks on these lands, does she not?” Xavian asked.
Pos’s cheeks reddened. “She is an exception. She was given a way—”
“I’ll go back.”
All eyes turned to Riven.
Avan shook his head. “You’ve just returned. The Brotherhood has been without its Captain for three years already.”
“He knows the Waywards,” Dravan offered, nodding with approval.
“These resources are not worth squandering on imprisoned creatures while Saffron ignites wars,” Arthur sputtered.
Xavian leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Creatures?”
“Well, they are simple, and not like us or usefu-”
Riven shot out of his seat, yanked Arthur Pos up by the collar before he could manage a full sentence.
Draven stiffened. “My lord, I implore you to remember that Lord Pos controls our mines. Do not allow the Oathkeeper to behave this way.”
Effortlessly, Riven dragged Arthur across the floor to the window overlooking the sea and dangled him over the edge.
“You should have stayed in Drakington! You defiant, hedge-born, bastard!”
Arthur squealed like a castrated swine on his way down, landing with a grand splash.
The rest of the council rushed to the window, peering over. He flailed as his head surfaced for air.
Draven glared at Riven, while Avan was thrilled.
“Reschedule our meeting for this evening,” Xavian said. “Pos will need time to dry.”
He left the meeting room, storming down the stone hallways and entering a courtyard behind the House of Sterling.
Blademen trained while elegantly dressed nobles strolled along casually. A woman with sandy bronze hair wearing a light-blue dress caught Xavian’s gaze. She was slightly taller than the other women around her, curvy, and had an element of innocence about her.
She gave him a quick look before strutting back into the House of Sterling, letting the door close behind her.
Xavian moved along, taking a lap around the courtyard while mostly focusing on the training. Nobles rushed to him, their eyes alight by the sight at their lord.
After a few minutes, he exited the courtyard through a side door, and entered a muted stairwell. He crept up the steps before walking down a hallway that appeared… residential?
He opened the door to a feminine bedroom, where dresses were laid along a chaise and an array of powders and cosmetics were scattered on a vanity.
The woman in blue stood against a bedpost, hiding her arms behind her back. From her attractive gown to her freshly pinned-back curls and jewels, it was obvious she was of wealth or nobility.
“How was your meeting?” Her voice was rich and silky, like it too, was expensive.
“None of your concern.”
“Of course.”
Xavian's eyes practically undressed her from the bottom up as he placed his hands on her waist.
“Did my father—”
He tensed, and she stopped herself, words lingering without an end.
“I have no desire to discuss your father.”
She was Arthur Pos’ daughter. They shared the same pronounced chin and hooded eyes.
If she was disappointed by Xavian’s answer, she hid it well. “What do you desire, my lord?”
“Put your hands on the bed.”
Oh, hell no.
No no no no.
I tried forcing myself awake, but my eyes would not open.
As she turned, Xavian gripped her dress and brought his mouth to her ear. “It’s a shame that you look better without this.” He ripped the fabric straight down the back, corset and all, dropping the garments to the floor. She leaned forward, arching her back, as he brought his face down and—
I gasped and gagged, eyes flying open as I mercifully woke up. I shook the disgusting dream away, orienting myself.
I had spent most of the night searching for trouble, and when the sun finally rose, a port-side alley was the most secluded spot I could find to rest. I was still in the alley, and thankfully not in Arthur Pos’ daughter's bedroom.
I rubbed my face. The whole thing was so bizarre. In previous dreams, I’d been unaware of my brother’s advisors' names or faces. Yet when I arrived in Castivian, they were real people, as if I’d manifested them myself.
It was like Xavian was in my head somehow, and I wanted him out immediately. But if I went to the Silver Circle, demanding for him to get out of my dreams, I would sound entirely deranged.
My stomach rumbled.
This city had an abundance of food options, yet I still hadn’t adapted to eating regularly. In truth, I hadn’t adjusted to anything about Castivian. I was the only person carrying around something as warm as a cloak, and I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder for Witchlords or Drakers.
I dusted myself off and squinted at the midday sun before setting out. I’d handled two rotten men during the night, leaving me with plenty of coin for simple luxuries. Their weapons were of no use to me, so selling them would be next on my list.
The capital during the day felt so homey, like a dream. Street musicians played enchanted harmonicas and violins, while artists on balconies splashed paint onto canvases, and two women walked out of a quaint restaurant arm in arm before sharing a tongue-swept, parting kiss.
People here were happy.
One day, hopefully, everyone left in the Waywards would experience this.
Silver carriages led by black stallions waited outside of an obsidian theatre, just down the street from a dimly lit violet lounge. Bellows of sweet smoke seeped out, and low music played. I could see myself enjoying both one day.
A familiar laugh stopped me in my tracks. Trista sat at a bar that smelled of fresh fish, her red hair blazing. Cackles and hollers spilled out of the open door.
She caught sight of me, quickly setting her drink down. “Elora! Girl, get in here!”
Finding lunch was no longer a priority.
As I hopped right onto a barstool, she slid me a mug.
“It’s late for tea, is it not?” I asked.
Falling back into the familiar routine with Trista was easy, but it was the time and place I wasn’t sure about. We usually had tea at her shop on bitter cold mornings. The warm air flowing into the tavern was disgustingly muggy, like a storm was brewing.
“Oh, it’s never too late for tea.” She wore a strappy grey gown, flowing and unbound compared to the drab sweaters that had swallowed her up in the Waywards. From her sea-salt curls to her smug smile, she looked happy.
After everything that happened, especially with Arielle, I was glad for her.
“Drink!” she urged.
“I suppose I did just wake up.”
Both of us sitting on the same side of the bar was strange, but in the spirit of change, I relaxed and took a sip.
It was nowhere near as good as back in the Waywards. In fact, it tasted like dirt coated in the color grey.
I grimaced, placing the mug back on the counter.
Trista snorted, wrinkles tracing her forehead and crinkling around her eyes. “Drink again, please,” she laughed, forcing the mug back in my hands.
I warily took another sip.
“How have you been?” I asked, attempting to determine the flavor.
“Since finding out about this new tea—amazing. I feel like I’m seeing life for the first time, Elora. It’s all so clear now.” She lifted her finger, calling over the server. “Two shots, clear please.”
The shots arrived promptly, and went down our throats even faster.
“How have you been? I never see you!” Trista threw her hands up in the air, as if she had just realized this.
How had I been? The world was a spindle of thread from the tailor house, and I was unraveling with it. With every blink, my surroundings became watery, my mouth drying.
“Trista, what in Fate’s name is in this tea?”
She giggled and called for more shots. “They put ‘infused’ herbs in the tea here. They’re splendid. You see the world for what it is, and it’s so… beautifully terrible.” Tears filled Trista’s eyes as her smile dazzled. One by one, her freckles floated right into the air, like specks of dust.
I was so fucked.
Refusing the second shot, I also pushed the tea away, but it was too late.
The bar and everyone within was like a painting, yet I wielded no brush. I was at the maker's mercy, nothing but a drop of ink in the ocean of existence.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Trista mused, finishing my tea off herself.