CHAPTER 39 #2
The male is in a neatly pressed dress uniform, one hand resting on his lower back, his hair swept up in its customary braids, plaited into a single thick column.
My breath catches in my throat when she produces the small flower she’d taken from my hair.
My spine tingles as she leans in and whispers into Toren’s pointed ear.
In a flash, the cold steel of his eyes are on mine, stiffening my back.
The gesture itself might not be alarming, if it weren’t for the female’s insistence that I not feed the tiny bloom to anyone in attendance.
But when Toren gives the lieutenant a curt nod and excuses himself from the conversation he’d been having with some of the more important looking guests, I can’t help but question the potential uses of the flower beyond what I know.
Hisht.
With every step he takes toward me, I feel the web of the fates binding my future, until he’s standing beside me, offering me his arm.
“Shivaria, I was told you requested an audience with the king,” he says.
Even as I drape my arm over his, making my excuses as I depart from the others, I remind myself that this was my choice. This is my choice. That of the few and narrow paths my future holds, only one is a path I desire to live, and it starts with this.
There is no time for goodbyes as he leads me through the room, my eyes lingering on Awri until she disappears beyond the throng of dancing guests.
A pang of regret wells in my gut when I consider what this truth will cost her.
My actions as her friend have made her cautious of me, and rightfully so.
After tonight, I can imagine no way to bridge the rift that will swell between us.
The time for any mending has passed. And friendship is a skill I was never taught—after all, Drakai have no use for anyone beyond their use as a tool.
Maybe it is only my nerves, but I swear every eye in the room is upon me. I straighten my back, head held high as I pass through the midst of them all, trying to keep my thoughts from my future.
I expect to be led through a tall set of doors, brilliantly carved and inlaid with gold. The doors of a king. The doors to a throne room. But the door he opens, swinging his arm in as he offers me entry, is humble and plain.
My stomach dips when I walk inside, each breath requiring a monumental effort to draw. I think my lungs might like to give up, to let this be the end. They burn in clear opposition to my chosen steps.
It’s a large room. In many ways, much like every other I’ve visited in the palace.
White stone, thick veins of gold beneath my feet, tall windows lining every wall.
Unlike every other room, however, it boasts a large array of plants.
Some in large pots strewn about candlelit paths, others planted into the ground where large swaths of stone have been removed, revealing the soil below.
Much of the foliage is in the throes of early spring bloom. The colorful flowers fade in and out of the darkness with every passing firebug drifting about on the breeze coming in through the open windows.
“The king will be here shortly,” Toren says, following me down a path winding north.
I nod my understanding, full of wonder and dread, hope and fear, my entire being raging a silent war within itself.
“May I ask, why you have requested this audience?” he asks flatly.
“To thank him,” I say, the same lie I gave to Xeyvian.
“You could have done so at the masque,” he prods.
“And to ask him if he will allow me to remain in A’kori,” I add.
“Again, something you could have asked outside of a private meeting,” he says.
My feet still beneath me when the path breaks into a large clearing, the glass dome roof offering a stunning view of the brilliant stars looking down upon Terr.
A single star tears itself from the heavens, my eyes following its path as it crosses the vastness of our skies.
Until it falls below the northern mountains, lost to my sight.
“Tell me,” Toren’s low voice bounces off the stone, “are you here to kill him?”
My gaze falls to him, his eyes darkening as he studies me.
My blood chills when he looks at me like he knows every secret I’ve ever harbored, every lie I’ve ever told, and every truth I’ve ever left unspoken.
My palms begin to sweat as I’m reminded of the tales of their king, of his gift, and it takes every bit of my willpower not to reach for the feynstone blades strapped to my thighs.
I eye the male before me as if I’ve never seen him before, asking myself questions that should have surfaced in my mind long ago.
What if the king of A’kori was here all along?
There is a moment I doubt myself as I recall the icy touch Toren set upon Siserie, but hadn’t Awri told me that their gifts are all unique?
I should have asked when I had the opportunity to understand all that she meant.
“What do you want with my king, Drakai?” The menacing tone of his voice is matched by the promise of wrath in his eyes.
My entire being begs to remain hidden among the lies I practiced for so long when I insist, “I am not Drakai.”
“Lies,” he growls.
“I am not. But I was,” I admit.
“Clever,” he smiles, “to twine your lies with the truth. But a Drakai cannot unbecome Drakai, just as there is no gift on Terr that can unmake a feyn.”
He rounds me like a lion, on slow and silent steps. Each stride a sure testament to the male’s restraint. His breath comes out in a puff of icy mist, as bright veins of blue reveal themselves on every inch of his exposed skin.
The truth then, all of it. For there is no question in my mind that I will not leave this room alive if I cannot make him believe me.
The truth spills from my lips in a torrent.
That I was raised Drakai, of the day I received my mission from the La’tari king, of my intentions to end the life of his own.
He lunges at me, fangs bared, and I fall to my knees, raising my hands over my head, palms up in supplication just as Ishara had done with the general.
He stands over me, a low rumble in the back of his throat. I swallow hard, keeping my eyes nailed to the vein of gold beneath me. Dropping a hand in front of my face, he spins the small flower from my hair between his fingers.
“Brazen,” the low vibrato of his tone is near a growl, “to cover yourself in shadowbane, strap those blades to your form, and meet with a male you’ve been sent to end, all while claiming innocence.”
A quick glance and I find the high slits of my gown have fallen, revealing the feynstone blades. It’s a mistake, one I will surely regret for the rest of my life. The shimmering panels of the dress drape between my thighs, pooling on the marble beneath me.
“I swear, I only brought them to defend myself if the Vatruke came,” I say.
“That was wise.” A female’s silken voice caresses my ears and the flesh on my arms prickles.
Risking a glance up, I find Toren’s body rigid, facing a tall silhouette as she glides into the low light.
“Useless, but wise.” She smiles.
“Vos,” Toren says in a low warning. The air is driven from my lungs when the name finally finds meaning within my scattered mind.
Her lithe frame sways as she walks, the long black of her dress melding with the shadows, her dark hair glinting as it’s pushed over her shoulders on a gust of wind coming off the northern ranges.
“Toren,” she says in greeting. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear.”
She clicks her tongue at me when I risk rising to my feet by Toren’s side. Sliding the blades into my hands, I conceal them from her view, resting them against the back of my forearms.
“Leave, Vos. I will only ask you once,” Toren threatens, and I can’t help but wonder if his gift is enough to match the power of her own.
I think not when she laughs. Waving her hand at the male dismissively, she says, “Give me the girl and I will. She is the only reason I came here tonight.”
My stomach pits with dread when she offers Toren a simple solution to his problem. Give up the Drakai. A life already hanging at the precipice of his mercy—my life—as an offering to his enemy. One that will appease her, if only for tonight.
“I cannot,” he says plainly, startling me when he places himself between us.
“Really?” she purrs, “In that case, I’m sure you will understand.”
With the flick of her wrist, Toren grunts and in the next moment the male is careening through the air. He stops when he collides with the thick stone wall of the keep, a sickening crack resounding through the night before he lands upon the ground in a crumpled mass.
She tips her head to the side as she observes me.
“I thought your death would make me feel better,” she admits, “But you are nothing, and even I will have forgotten your face in the span of a few short years.”
I will my feet to remain beneath me as she steps toward me.
“I would like to make this last longer,” she says, “to take my time with you. I would enjoy watching you suffer as I have, but vengeance is vengeance, and I will have mine.”
She waves her hand toward me, and I can’t help the coiled tension of my body when I flinch, my eyes remaining fixed on the female.
If I am to die, I will not let her see the fear that bleeds within me, staining the very essence of my being.
Ice snakes up my spine, even as my veins ignite as if they will be set ablaze and the air is driven from my lungs.
The female frowns, lowering her hand to her side, and my demon unfurls within me.
A wicked smile takes over her features, the look on her face truly pleased when she says, “Shivay lathrek, Valtoura.”
She chances another graceful step in my direction. I move to the side, unwilling to turn my back to the female. I work my way toward a larger clearing amidst the vegetation, where I can more easily defend myself if it comes to blows.
“I thought I might have to burn down every forest in Brax to find you,” she says gleefully, “And all the while, Xeyvian hid you here. Clever.”
Her words have no meaning. Every thought that exists within me, homed in on one simple task. Survive. I round the courtyard defensively, searching for an exit, for any way to escape the certainty of my future if I end up within her reach.
“Had I not sought you out after you killed my mate, I might have overlooked you in this form,” she says, “A mistake I won’t make again.”
The loud click of a solid door at the far end of the room draws her attention and I bolt.
Ducking beneath low branches heavy-laden with a myriad of blooms, I round tall bushes covered in thick waxy leaves.
I head toward any of the open windows that will allow passage to the northern lawns.
My stomach wells with dread when her laugh chases after me, the female following close behind.
Each window slams shut the moment I reach for it. Every attempt to dart toward an opening and claim my freedom only ends up costing me precious inches of what little space remains between us. Until I am standing face-to-face with Vos, my back pinned against the cool stone wall of the palace.
“Shivaria!”
I want to weep when Xeyvian’s voice comes from the farthest side of the room, just as I hear the skirmish begin between the male I treasure and what I can only assume is a squad of Drakai. I won’t let myself consider his fate if it is the Vatruke and not the La’tari assassins he faces.
“So disappointing,” Vos says softly, her face contorting in mock sadness. “Will you only run? Or will you show me what the ancients would have me fear?”
I lunge at the female, swinging the pointed tip of my blade into my palm as I strike out at her chest. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, as I thrust the dagger toward its mark only to be halted the moment it pierces her flesh. A single drop of blood beads and falls between her breasts.
Her head tips to the side curiously, her eyes squinting in confusion when she asks, “Why do you hold yourself back, Valtoura? You know as well as I do that your human form is not strong enough to wield those blades against the might of my power.”
Her eyes fall to the blades. Icy tendrils spread through my body, her gift threatening to tear the blades from my hands.
My brow pinches down as they begin to slip, and I struggle to hold my last defense.
It is no use to fight the might of her power.
I know I’ve lost even before the blades fly free, one slicing a deep gash into my palm.
They clatter, bouncing upon the stone path that I hoped would lead to my freedom, until they are lost to my sight, tumbling into the darkness.
Even as I think it, I know it is only a vain hope that the general will reach us before Vos ends me. Any hope I hold of making it out alive dissipates with the seconds that pass by. He won’t make it in time, if he makes it at all.
It is panic or madness, I am not sure which.
Though, only madness can explain the thoughts that cross my mind when I strike at her with nothing more than a closed fist. Not a single lesson I’d ever received about warring against a feyn leads me to believe that this is a good idea.
And yet, when my fist collides with her nose, there is satisfaction in the way it bends unnaturally.
The fragile bones within give way to the battering ram of my arm with a loud pop.
A slurry of feyn curses come from the female as her hand flies to her nose, attempting to stanch the heavy flow of blood gushing out.
It is enough. The moment her eyes flicker shut I dart away, sure that I can hide myself somewhere in the dense foliage around me until someone more equipped for this battle comes to aid me.
“You will live to regret that, Valtoura.” Her voice comes from behind me, and in it I can hear the blessed distance I have put between us.
“Sleep well,” she says. A pang of dread wells deep within me when, in the flicker of a windswept flame, a large stone slams against the side of my head and my eyes shutter into darkness.