51. Saige
Saige
Surrounded by Azkari reeling at the news of their prince’s return, I have never felt so small, so inconsequential. The familiar urge to shrink into myself, to make myself invisible rises to the surface.
“I’m a fool,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief.
“No you’re not,” Raven replies quietly, squeezing my hand again as the crowd surges around us, desperate to see their prince.
There has to be some sort of explanation for all of this, but here is not the place. I don’t want to draw attention to myself or my friends in this volatile place.
I spy Daemos coming towards us and as soon as he’s within reach, I grab him by the arm. “Get us out of here.”
He surveys the flurry of movement as more courtiers flood the throne room, many surging to the front in a swell of beautiful silks and jewels, vying for Archer’s—Archeron’s attention.
Daemos gives me a stiff nod and pulls me through the sea of Azkari with Raven, Yevna and Grim trailing in my wake. An array of suspicious looks are directed at us, while other immortals take a wide berth around us, treating us with open hostility.
“This way,” Daemos murmurs, leading us from the Eros Atrium into what could only be described as a great hall.
The ceilings are just as high and grand as in the throne room, but we’re moving so quickly that I can barely take in the details, just the blur of volcanic glass and elaborate hearths that line the walls, orange flames dancing within.
There is no time to ask questions, or to pause and truly drink in the architectural magnitude of the court.
Daemos draws us away from the bustle of the hall, ducking beneath an archway and leading us down a corridor.
At long last, he reaches a set of double doors and opens them inward, revealing a large, beautiful room beyond that extends out onto a generous balcony.
“This is one of the reception rooms,” he explains. “It’ll be safest to wait here, out of sight.”
“Safest?” Raven echoes, taken aback. “You told Archer to bring us here—”
“I told him to bring the Confluence here,” Daemos corrects her. “Not a trio of mortal women and a dog.”
“So we’re not safe?” I ask, tucking my satchel close. I can no longer feel the thrum of the magical tome inside it, but that gives me little comfort.
“No one’s safe now,” he tells us gravely. “Rhendorn—our uncle—is a sly bastard. You did well not to approach Archeron in front of everyone. Rhendorn will already know you mean something to him if he brought you here and he’ll use that—”
There it is again. Archeron, not Archie, not Archer. A bitter laugh escapes me. “Mean something? How can I? I didn’t even know he was a prince.”
There’s an awkward beat of silence as Daemos grimaces. “Don’t judge my brother too harshly. He was trying to protect you.”
I glance back at Raven and Yevna, noting their tattered clothing, the scratches across their skin. They were attacked in their own city. Raven’s workplace, my shop was under siege by a fucking souldren elite. “Well, he failed on that front.”
Daemos gives me another pitying look, which only serves to make me feel more of a fool. “This will do for a place to rest, to wait, while Archeron deals with the fallout of his return.”
Dread latches its talons in me, just as it had when that monster had clawed its way through the mirror in my bindery.
A sense of foreboding, inevitable doom cloaked me in a heaviness I could not shake, and the same sensation washes over me now.
“What about the Confluence? I still need to finish restoring it. Then we can all leave this place.” I feel a beat of power from the Confluence in my satchel, as though it opens a sleepy eye in the presence of anger and desperation.
“I’ll have someone escort you to one of the workshops. You’ll find all manner of artisans in there, but they should have a space for you. The library might even—”
“Before I hear another word about books and bargains, I want to know, where the fuck are we?” Raven demands at my side, arms folded over her chest.
Daemos at least has the good sense to look guilty.
“You are in Ignizar, the House of Desires—Archeron’s territory.
It’s located in the northern ridges of the Spine of Lorevael, my own territory, the House of Whispers, is to the south.
We brought you here to stop Malevron getting his wretched hands on the Confluence.
His essence was hosted inside that souldren elite in the bindery.
He spoke to both Archeron and myself. He would have taken the Confluence and the war would have been over before it begun. It was the only way. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I seethe, forgetting that he’s a powerful Azkari ruler and I’m a mere mortal woman.
I step into his space, my rage spilling forth like a river flooding its banks.
“What for exactly? For bringing us to a Azkari house against our will? For lying to us about your identities as princes of Lorevael? For putting us in the path of monsters serving Malevron? For leaving out the fact that he’s your brother?
Or for leading us like lambs to the slaughter in a fucking volcano? ”
Daemos winces. “All of the above?”
My anger threatens to swallow me whole, even though I know it’s not Daemos I’m upset with. Luckily, Raven inserts herself between us.
“You Azkari already dragged us mortals into one war, and now once again we’re on the brink of being swept up in your blood-thirsty madness. We’re going to need food and drink, Daemos,” she says more calmly this time. “Or so Triad save you, we’ll set Grim upon you in your sleep.”
He stares at her for a beat, before he nods. “I can do that.”
Raven glances at me before she speaks again. “Will your brother be joining us?”
“No,” he replies. “You may not see him until the meeting now. Archeron hasn’t been back to Ignizar in over two centuries. There is a lot for him to catch up on.”
I look away. The name still sounds strange to me, as though part of me doesn’t believe it belongs to the Azkari who freed me from the prison and bargained with me.
“So I was right about the rings,” Raven declares, her eyes trained on the jewel on Daemos’ forefinger. She shakes her head with a huff of frustration. “He even said, ‘I could be nobility’ when I said they were usually reserved for nobles.”
“They’re reserved for royalty,” Daemos tells her. “Only an Azkari of royal blood can wear a ring on that finger.”
I gaze upon the glimmering jewel, all the treacherous pieces falling into place. “And the language you speak. It’s Thaelindor, yes? Only spoken by nobles and royals.”
“Yes.”
My chest is tightening by the second. “I need some air,” I declare and head for the balcony.
A warm wind plays with my braid and tugs at my shirt as I step out onto the pavers, but it is not of Daemos’ magic. It is another magic entirely.
“Oh.”
The expansive stone balcony stretches wide enough for more than a dozen courtiers to gather comfortably, its carved marble railings adorned with intricate reliefs of intertwining vines and wildlife of the lands: phoenixes, nightingales, and strangely, mountain goats.
Beyond the ornate balustrade, the Spine of Lorevael’s peaks rise like jagged obsidian teeth against the sky, their summits wreathed in sulphureous clouds that glow amber and crimson from the fires burning within.
Rivulets of molten lava trace glowing veins down the mountainsides, casting dancing shadows across the balcony’s polished floor, while crystalline formations jut from the peaks catch and refract the light into rainbows.
“Over seventy years on Lorevael’s soil and not once have I seen anything like this.” Yevna joins me and rests her elbows on the balustrade.
I do the same. The marble railing feels warm to the touch, no doubt heated by the magical energy radiating from the volcano—Archeron’s magic.
There’s a distant rumble within the mountain, a low note that vibrates through the stone beneath my feet, punctuated by the occasional sharp crack of shifting rock or the hiss of steam.
Yevna pats my arm. “Not where you thought you’d end up, eh?”
“Not even close,” I admit, dropping my head into my hands. “I’m such an idiot.”
Anyone else would protest, would offer soothing words of comfort, a sympathetic ear. But not Yevna. Instead of consoling me, my old friend nods gravely. “A feckless fool to be sure.”
My answering laugh is broken, somewhere between amusement and tears. “You sure know how to make a girl feel better, Yev.”
“Not my job to make you feel better,” she mutters. “But I will say, you’re not the first fool to fall for a Azkari prince, of that we can be certain. Handsome face, big cock and all that.”
“So I’m unoriginal as well as foolish.”
Yevna snorts. “Your words.”
“Feel free to stop any time,” I huff.
To my surprise, Yevna takes me by the shoulders and pulls me into a hard embrace. “Why don’t you tell me about it? About him?”
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her familiar floral scent. “Because I’ll cry.”
“And why should that stop you?”
I pull back to gaze at her hardened face. “When’s the last time you cried, Yev?”
She blinks at me. “I’m sorry I gave you the impression that it’s not alright to cry, Saige. That it makes you weak. That’s not the case.”
“Then what is the case?”
“I’m no expert. Sometimes it makes you feel better, sometimes it makes you feel worse, and sometimes, though you’ve got all the reason in the world to cry, you simply don’t have any tears left.
But if you need to cry, cry until it floods.
It doesn’t mean you are less worthy or weaker than anyone else. ”
My eyes sting, but before Yevna can offer up any more wisdom, a horrendous scraping sound cuts through the moment. We turn to see Raven dragging a settee from the reception room by one end, its legs scuffing the stone floor as she works.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” she calls to me sarcastically as Grim darts around her ankles.
I don’t move. Instead, I opt to watch her battle it out with the furniture as she hauls it onto the balcony. “What are you doing?”
“I figured we’re going to drown your sorrows,” she says. “And if we’re going to do that, then I want to be comfortable. And Yevna’s old, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“And you’re old enough to know better,” Yevna quips.
A pair of servants bring out trays of food, one of them meeting my gaze with a look of reproach. “We were informed of your allergy, master bookbinder. There are no walnuts in anything here. In fact, our prince has had them removed from the palace entirely.”
Pain blooms in my jaw from where I’m clenching my teeth. “Thank you,” I manage.
Yevna eyes the drinks tray another servant brings out. “That’s Azkari wine ladies. You’ve barely got two wits between the pair of you; you don’t need to rid yourself of any more.”
Raven shrugs, taking a full goblet from the tray with a murmur of thanks to the attendant. “Suit yourself, Yev.”
Losing the rest of my wits sounds incredibly appealing for a myriad of reasons. However, I remain by the balustrades, and hide my smirk as Yevna mutters fuck it, and takes an offered goblet before joining Raven on the settee.
“Don’t look so smug,” she chides Raven. “The more I drink, the less there is for you.”
“So selfless, Yev. Ever the protective guardian,” Raven snorts.
They fall quiet as they sip their drinks, watching me, waiting for me to explode.
My vision blurs and a sudden sensation of heat consumes me as I fend off the tears stinging my eyes and the painful lump forming in my throat. “He lied,” I say quietly.
There’s a beat of silence while my friends exchange looks.
“Did he though?” Yevna asks at last.
“Well, he certainly didn’t tell the whole truth,” Raven retorts.
I turn back to the breathtaking view before me, palming my spilt tears away. “No, he didn’t.”