Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
A yc leaps to his feet and pulls Xylie behind him. This can’t be happening. There must be some sort of daily quota of how many monsters one is allowed to encounter per day. The universe simply cannot allow them to face wraiths, dragons, and a Drakr all within the same twenty-four hour period.
Ayc shuffles backward, keeping Xylie behind him. She clutches at his back with trembling hands. The Drakr whips his head in Ayc’s direction. Shoulder-length dark hair contrasts against the cold, fair skin of the Drakr. Sharpness marks every line of his face, and his eyes look blue enough to be cut from a cloudless sky. He’s devastatingly handsome. Yet, his every movement is predatory, like Ayc has found himself in a lion’s line of sight. Not even the dragon made Ayc’s nerves shudder like the Drakr’s attention does.
“You travel with a human?” The Drakr’s curious tone would feel harmless from anyone else, but from him, it's a threat. “How interesting. Or—” The Drakr cocks his head at Ayc. He steps closer, and his nose wrinkles as he sniffs. “He smells different. What is he?”
A knife slices the air between Drakr and Ayc, still a foot from either of their faces, and sails into the darkness beyond. The Drakr’s smile disappears. He jerks his head back toward Peregrin. His eyes flash red.
Everadyn fae’s eyes glow silver; Tenebra fae blaze a cat-like green, but Drakr’s eyes burn blood red. Ayc shivers at the sight.
His smile returns as quickly as it disappeared, the red fading back to blue. “Is that how you treat your guests, gryphon rider?”
Tempest growls and flutters her wings, pacing uneasily behind where Peregrin stands. Peregrin only folds their hands calmly on their cane. “Guests rarely sniff my friends.”
The Drakr inclines his head. “That is fair. My apologies.”
The knife sails back into the light, arches over the fire, and buries itself in the sand at Peregrin’s feet.
“My fighters saw fit to return your weapon to you,” the Drakr says. “To show we come in peace.”
Ayc searches the darkness beyond the light but sees nothing.
Lora slides her swords back into their sheathes and rounds the fire toward the Drakr. As she passes Ayc, he nearly grabs her and hauls her behind him, too. But the instinct is ridiculous. Lora does nothing without careful calculation, and she doesn’t need anyone’s protection, least of all his. Instead, Ayc continues to walk backward until he stands next to Bronwen. Xylie clings to him tighter. Her entire body trembles like a leaf in the wind, and her terror cracks something in Ayc’s chest.
“You said you’ve been looking for me?” Lora asks. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. The firelight plays off her damp hair, and it shines like she might already wear a crown. “Who are you?”
“My name is Lahlis, lord of the Drakr’s eastern territories and ambassador to the Everadyn fae.”
That name. Ayc knows that name.
“ The Drakr lord is not one to trifle with,” Fennix said ten years ago, as he and Yris coolly debated whether to spare Ayc’s life.
“I’m hurt that you don’t remember me,” Lahlis goes on. “We’ve met before. Your mother and I are friends.”
Friends?
Fear and disgust war in Ayc’s chest. A mutually beneficial allyship exists between the Drakr and Everadyn, true, but to call each other friends speaks of an intimacy Ayc doesn’t like.
Bronwen hisses a sharp breath at the word, but Lora doesn’t flinch. Her stone-masked face gives nothing away. Perhaps, she knows about Lahlis and his connection with her mother. Perhaps, she doesn’t. It’s impossible to tell.
“What do you want?” Lora demands.
“You don’t waste time with pleasantries, do you? I like that.”
His smile twists into something a little more devilish, and Ayc seizes the hilt of his blade. The raw and blistered skin of his hand protests, but he doesn’t let go.
“I’ve come to make you an offer,” Lahlis states. “On behalf of my queen.”
Lora stares at him. In the long silence that follows, Ayc’s heart pounds a warning in his ears. Magic shimmers off Bronwen’s skin, ripples of blue shining in the night. Saga interchanges soft growls with little whines, as though not sure whether to be fierce or afraid.
Finally, Lora breaks the silence, sounding almost bored. “Are you going to explain the terms, or are we going to continue to stand here?”
Lahlis chuckles deep in his throat. “I want to offer you the same deal I offered your mother fifty years ago in her own Trials. I want to help you win.”
Xylie gasps as Ayc’s hand spasms on the hilt of the sword. A pulse of power releases from Bronwen’s grasp, and the campfire twists into a small cyclone before returning to its normal burning pattern.
“You…” Lora hesitates, and that hesitation speaks volumes, even if her mask does not crack. She didn’t know. “You helped my mother win her Trials.”
She doesn't ask if Yris accepted the offer. Three days. Yris won her Trials in three days, and then proceeded to turn the Drakr from enemies to allies. Yris made a deal with the Drakr, and she won the Sovereign throne.
Lahlis nods.
“What did you ask Yris for?” Lora asks. “In exchange for your help?”
“The same thing I would ask of you. A favor that I will call into play at a later time.”
Lora scoffs. Her mask seems to be slipping, but Ayc isn’t sure what is beneath the stone. Apathy? Anger? “Let me guess. You won’t tell me what it is. You’ll let it dangle over my head for the next forty years. Then you’ll call it into play. And whatever it is will cost me nothing less than my own soul.”
The realization creeps in like a snake slithering into Ayc’s chest and yanking taut. Of course, he knows what happened in year forty of Yris’s sovereignty. What happened ten years ago.
“ Lahlis said everyone in this castle. That was the deal.”
And Ayc cannot breathe.
Finally, he understands.
“Souls are such trivial things,” Lahlis says with a shrug. “You don’t have to worry about that until you’re dead, and we are immortal beings.” He pauses for a beat. “What do you say, Loraphne? Fifty years of reigning, for one small favor.”
“Fifty years?” Lora repeats. “Everadyn law dictates a hundred.”
The Drakr rolls his eyes. “Yet, that’s what I’m offering. You can take it and get fifty years, or you can refuse my help and lose these Trials. It seems like a good deal, doesn’t it?”
“And you’ll simply take my word that, when you come ask your favor, I’ll still abide by the terms when I have the power of all of Everadyn behind me?”
Why? Ayc wants to demand. Why is she asking questions like she’s actually considering saying yes?
“That would be foolish of me,” Lahlis says. He pulls at the string of a pouch hanging from his belt. He empties the contents into his palm. The green stone fits into his hand. It’s engraved with a single rune and glows like a firefly in the dark.
Ayc takes an involuntary step back, every instinct warning him of the danger. And it’s only a fucking stone. Except it isn’t just anything. A Binding stone is a rare and expensive magical item. Few possess the power of both sorcery and alchemy required to create them, but once made, they are a valuable weapon in the right hands—and a dangerous weapon in the wrong ones .
“This is a Binding stone,” Lahlis explains, “in case you don’t recognize it. Few have seen one in person. We’ll both swear on it. And we’ll both be Bound to uphold our ends of the bargain.”
Lora’s arms shift backward, as though her hands are fleeing as far from possible from the eerie glow of the stone.
“Oh, of course,” Peregrin mutters, and Ayc knows what they mean.
That was the reason Yris willingly surrendered her throne. She made a deal on a Binding stone for fifty years. If she refused to step down—as Ayc is certain she wanted to—the consequences would be painful, or even deadly, depending on the power of the stone.
“What do you say?” Lahlis asks, his blue eyes gleaming wickedly in the stone’s light.
Lora’s gaze shifts from the stone to Lahlis. No flicker of emotion corrupts her face.
Say no, Ayc wants to beg her.
There have been moments these past three days that have given him hope that she isn't a villain like her mother, after all. If there is ever a time to prove it, it's now.
But instead, she says, “I’ll think about it.”
Lahlis’s smile disappears. He strides forward until only a foot separates them. “I’m not a patient male, Loraphne.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t be a good leader if I didn’t weigh such important decisions carefully, now would I?”
He looks her over once more, before he nods. “Very well, Loraphne. I’ll give you two sunsets. And I do hope you haven’t lost the Trials by then. It doesn’t appear they are going well for you so far.” He gestures at her wrist with the chronicler. “You’re lagging behind all the other victors. ”
He sweeps around, and as soon as he steps into the shadow, he’s gone. But of course, he isn’t. He and his companions are still out there in the night.
Lora swings around and faces her Five. None of them move. Saga has sat down at Tavish’s feet, panting uneasily. Tempest ruffles her feathers.
The pressure of what Ayc has learned builds until he fears he may explode. He needs movement, release, something. He storms toward Lora and gets closer than he normally dares.
Despite the heat in his voice, he talks so low into her ear he’s convinced the others can’t hear. “It was Creed Castle, wasn’t it? That was the favor your mother completed.”
Lora draws away from him, her narrowed gaze as dark as the surrounding night. “We aren’t talking about this. Not until daylight.”
He signs instead, “ Because you don’t want to face what your mother has done.”
Her hands snap in the air, capturing her rage. “ No, because if Creed Castle is the deal my mother made, then according to those Drakr, you’re supposed to be dead.”
Ayc’s breath catches. One wrong word is all it would take for Lahlis to realize Yris didn’t complete her bargain. He would certainly kill Ayc on the spot. What would happen after? Would the Drakr punish all of Everadyn because Yris spared one peasant boy?
“We should go to sleep, all of you,” Lora snaps, turning toward the other four. “I’ll take first watch. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She starts back toward the fire, but she freezes and does a double take of her cousin. Terror remains frozen on Xylie’s face, her eyes so wide the whites of them shine in the dark. After what she survived, it would be foolish for her not to be terrified of the Drakr. Ayc starts toward her, at the same time Lora changes course, but Xylie throws up her hands and shakes her head.
“I’m fine,” she signs.
Bullshit, Ayc almost says, but she flings herself around and grabs her bedroll. In moments, she’s rolled it out and pulled a blanket above her head. Ayc knows she’s self-soothing. She's cocooning into herself because everything feels like too much, and even the most soothing things will feel unkind right now. Lora must know it, too, because she doesn’t take another step. Lora remains frozen, unreadable, untouchable. Then she turns and flops down beside the fire. She draws one of her swords and balances it on her knees, staring out at the night.
Ayc releases the anger with a shuddering breath. Now is not the time to continue arguing with Lora. It’ll upset Xylie further, and besides, Lora isn’t wrong. There are likely still people out in the dark, watching them. Better to wait until daylight.
Tension hangs thick around the camp. The distant hiss of the waves against the sand seems louder in the silence. Peregrin runs a hand over their face. Tavish strokes the length of Saga’s back, murmuring words of comfort, but it does little to soothe the dog who stares into the night. Bronwen studies Lora. Lines embed deeply beneath her eyes, so dark they look bruised. Finally, she tosses up her hands as though surrendering.
“I’m going to set up a ward,” she says, pushing to her feet. She moves with a stiffness Ayc recognizes as someone who's hurting but trying not to show it .
Lora looks at her sharply. “You almost burned yourself out today.”
“I’ll use a blood ward. The use of blood will take minimal energy to cast and none to maintain.” Bronwen draws a small knife from her side and continues talking, "Magic is a force, quite like nature. And like how certain things can influence nature—change it or make it stronger—certain things can make magic stronger. Blood is the easiest, because it is the essence of life."
Ayc isn't sure why Bronwen is rambling, but she glances over her shoulder at Xylie, so perhaps Bronwen thinks that Xylie will find this comforting. She's not wrong. Xylie loves learning.
"Love, death, sacrifice," Bronwen says. "Those can all leave their mark on the world and be drawn from to make magic stronger, but only by the most powerful. Such a thing can taint a soul and turn their magic dark. You have to be careful with such things."
"You're tired," Lora says, scowling at her First. "You always ramble when you're tired."
"I'm fine," she insists.
She runs the blade over the length of her palm. She doesn’t flinch. Bright red pours onto her pale skin. As she paces the perimeter of the camp, she mutters under her breath and allows blood to drip from her fist. She makes the loop once, twice, three times. With each circle, her steps become slower, and the line beneath her eyes deepen. Lora watches her every movement, as Ayc rolls out a bedroll. When Bronwen completes the final round, a pulse of power sweeps through the camp. The fire flares once more before settling.
“There.” Bronwen produces a smile, but it's thin. She sways a little on her feet. “It’s a smaller version of the wards that once protected Aluina.”
Ayc flinches at the name of his homeland and tucks his head so his loose hair tumbles forward to cover his face, hoping no one notices.
“So long as I’m alive and do not leave the perimeter, this ward will prevent anyone from entering.” She raises her voice, and Ayc is sure that, once again, it’s to make sure Xylie hears. “And I don’t plan on dying before morning.” She laughs under her breath, but no one joins her.
“Sleep,” Lora commands. She glares, as though daring Bronwen to fight her on it.
Bronwen doesn’t. She looks to where she left her pack to find Ayc has already laid out her bedroll. She nods gratefully. She stumbles the few steps there, and Ayc reaches out a hand in case she collapses. She flops down on her roll and buries her head into her arms. Her soft breaths tell Ayc she's already asleep. He tucks the blanket over her shoulders, then moves to his own pack.
He positions his bedroll, and more importantly, his pack, as close to the fire as he dares without making Lora suspicious. He doesn't pull the blanket from his pack and from around the dragon egg, but the warmth of the fire should be enough. To his right, Xylie remains hidden beneath her blanket. His tongue aches to say anything that might fix this, but his jokes are powerless against the war within her.
“Is she all right?” Tavish whispers, after he settles his bedroll down at Ayc’s other side. Next to him, Saga still stands at guard.
Ayc hesitates as he rolls onto his back. The stars have come out, blinking in their blanket of velvet. After a long moment, Ayc says simply, “No.”
Tavish leans close to Saga and whispers into the dog’s ear. It’s a different language, one Ayc doesn’t know, but thinks it may be the tongue of Tenebra, shared by both the humans and the fae who live there. Tavish releases the leash. The dog pads around Ayc’s hand and lays himself between Ayc and Xylie, nearly pressed to both their sides. Saga nuzzles his nose into Xylie’s form, then retreats, resting his head on his paw. For a moment, nothing happens. And then a hand sneaks out from beneath the blanket and settles into the dog’s fur.
Ayc draws in a deep breath, relieved the dog can grant a comfort that Ayc can't. Animals are special that way. He almost tells Tavish thank you, but Tavish speaks before he can.
“Why do I feel like I’m the only one around here without secrets?” He says it lightly. His head is turned past the flames, past Lora, toward the sea. Despite his tone, his black skin is tinged in gray as though today has exhausted him, too.
“Everyone has secrets, Tavish,” Ayc replies. He, himself, could not bury all of his if he used all the sand on this shore.
“Not me. If we hide the truth about ourselves away, are we truly ourselves? Or are we just the lies we hope people can accept?”
The urge to laugh surprises Ayc. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to suppress it. “Are you secretly some three-thousand-year-old wise man, like the ones in all the fairytales who give sage advice to lesser mortals?”
He smiles, but the far-away look on his face and the fatigue that hangs over him makes him appear far older than his twenty years. He pushes his tight ringlets out of his eyes with a sigh. “No. I’ve just… I’ve had a lot of time to listen to the ocean and think.”
Ayc’s stomach twists as he thinks about it. Tavish, on a ship—a thing that was once a home and then a prison—alone and listening to the song of the waves. How many times has Ayc stared out at the Bellum Sea, wishing for the answers to questions he doesn’t have the courage to ask? He hears a different part of that same sea now, exhaling as the tide rolls in, and inhaling as it draws back out.
“Does the sea ever give you answers?” Ayc asks.
“Generally, yes. If you listen long enough. Or maybe it’s not the water. Maybe we find the answers in ourselves.”
Ayc groans. “Go to sleep, old man.”
Tavish lays down with a laugh. He tosses and turns for a while, searching for a comfortable position. Still, he falls asleep long before Ayc. It’s not only that no position will bring him relief from his aching muscles. It’s the way he sees blood-red eyes when he dares shut his own and the unknown of what tomorrow will bring. It’s the way he can feel Lora looking at him, but every time he lifts his head to look back, she’s already focused on the night or the fire or on the moonlight that dances on the dark waves.
He’s thought a lot of what fate holds for him, how the result of the Trials will change his life, but he’s never imagined this. He’s never imagined that he’ll be the Fifth of someone who willingly makes a deal with the conquerors of his people. His whole life seems to rest in the balance of the answer Lora has not yet given.
Yes…or no.
Such simple words.
Such powerful ones.