29. Friends, Old & New
Friends, Old & New
The brilliant, pale-barked palace of A’aravos Paravale emerged once more through the evergreen boughs. The spires glinted within the vast Faerie circle, awash in speckled golden light.
The Palace was a welcome beacon of rest, and Cypress couldn’t wait to be behind its walls once again, breathing in the air of the forest. She needed time to herself—to think, to process what had happened just hours ago.
Cypress could have sworn the return to the Palace was much faster than the trip to the tombs of the Winged Hounds. Perhaps it was the shifting nature of the Wylds, or maybe her guide took a new route? Cypress couldn’t say.
Before reaching the castle, Cypress needed to stretch her stiff limbs, or she might trip and fall flat on her face in front of Torren’s entire court.
If she stopped moving, her limbs would lock up, making it impossible to walk. So Cypress kept Seren moving at a steady pace, barely slowing as she swung her leg over the pommel and dropped down from the saddle.
Cypress nearly fell but caught herself, stumbling on her first stride. Her legs ached fiercely after the past few days.
“Have you ever seen it?” Cypress asked as Torren dismounted and walked beside her. His horses followed placidly in single file, heads bobbing above their withers.
“Seen what, exactly, Lass?”
“Eobbaara,” Cypress said, and hoped that she didn’t butcher the pronunciation of her mother’s home. The Soul Reach sounded haunted. As if sorrow echoed between the trees there.
Did Cypress believe everything she’d been told by Havanj? Torren couldn’t lie to her, but that didn’t mean the person he brought Cypress to couldn’t.
Still, the uncanny accuracy of two cards was undeniable: Cypress had been stabbed in the back and narrowly escaped danger.
The other card, though? Bullshit.
“I have. It’s a beautiful place.”
“Grand like A’aravos Paravale?” Cypress tilted her head. “Or more like Jinemelle?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, Duchess," Torren smirked.
She rolled her eyes, grateful to leave her horse at the stables, knowing Seren would be well taken care of.
When they were inside the walls of A’aravos Paravale, her leaves shimmered, letting through even more golden light. It was as if the palace welcomed them home.
“Will I see ye again tonight, Lass, or are you going to hide away and wallow?”
Cypress wanted to throw a punch at his stupid, smug face—maybe even put another scar across his nose.
Instead, she said, “I thought we were making plans.”
“Always better made after a full stomach and a night's rest, Lass.”
Damn him, he was right.
Rather than admit as much, Cypress drawled, “Does it have to be with you?”
"Don’t break my heart, Duchess. Not in my own home," Torren declared, theatrically flinging his arm over her shoulder and placing one hand to his chest.
Cypress hadn’t braided her hair back after the battle, so the weight of Torren’s arm across her shoulder pulled painfully at her scalp.
“Can you not?” she muttered, tugging her hair.
Rather than removing his arm, Torren eased the weight on her shoulders, then helped Cypress by gently lifting her hair free from beneath his arm and carefully draping it over so it no longer pulled at her scalp.
“Better?” Torren asked. That familiar, rakish grin was stretched across his lips while he led Cypress through the halls and up the stairs.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Cypress shot back.
“Fine, be that way,” Torren said, peering down his crooked nose. “Dinner in the hall or sent up to you?”
Cypress sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ll come down for dinner.”
But only after she had a bath and scrubbed her skin until it was pink. There would be time later to process everything and plan their next moves.
They still needed the scepter and had to subdue the Hunt. The rest could wait.
Torren was right after all. A hot meal that wasn’t a hastily cooked hare over an open fire sounded downright divine.
“That’s the spirit,” Torren said and led her to the same plum colored door as her previous stay. “Athima will bring you something to wear while your clothes are being laundered.”
Then, the Prince of Faerie disappeared behind an earthy olive green door only a few down from Cypress’s.
The only thing Cypress thought of while entering her rooms was that glorious crystal-cut bathtub.
After Cypress had scrubbed at least an entire layer of skin clean off, Athima brought her a collection of fabric so soft it felt fit for royalty.
Or, perhaps, nobility.
A fucking Duchess. She was a Duchess.
Cypress donned fine cloth leggings laced down each thigh to the ankle, a low-slung dress-like garment with thick, draped sleeves, and extraordinarily soft sandals.
As always, Cypress tied the reinforced leather armored corset around her ribs. There was still nothing covering her heart. But it was better than nothing.
She’d been wearing the armor given to her at the camp at the edge of the Wylds, but she felt foolish wearing it to dinner.
Cypress hadn’t felt even a flicker of fear while under Torren’s protection. Well, monsters aside.
She didn’t even know if she could bring herself to wear the Captain Cy armor again, now that she understood the true meaning of the emblem stamped on her chest plate and what it represented.
Now was not the time to dwell. Cypress set it aside and focused on her reflection in the gold-framed mirror.
Remarkably, Cypress enjoyed the clothing Athima had found for her. She shouldn’t be surprised, since she had liked everything provided by the Fair Folk so far.
Cypress didn’t feel like the hyper-feminine version of herself that she presented as Lady Cypress in the Keep. She often did, wearing some of the frillier garments in trend with the Ladies at Court.
She wasn’t wearing a dress, stuffed with bustles and sleeves so tight they felt like they restricted blood flow.
Cypress still felt feminine in the garments of Faerie, powerful in that alone.
Cypress left her rooms and ventured out into the palace. Already, merriment was unfolding below.
Musicians played stringed instruments in haunting, bouncy tunes. An ethereal voice accompanied the notes, singing softly, their voices in tune with the beat of the drums. The performance was atmospheric, almost unnatural. The drumming reverberated through the floor and shook the canopy high above.
The entire performance was eerie enough that Cypress would remember the song, yet lively enough to encourage dancing and frivolous joy.
The wondrous aromas of roasting meats and sautéed vegetables made Cypress’s stomach rumble in a decidedly unladylike way.
Once Cypress arrived at the grand arched entryway of the great hall, she scanned faces for familiar ones. Not that she knew very many people here.
The apparent Steward, Athima, was not amongst those she could see. Cypress wanted to thank her for the clothing. Once again, the garments fit like a glove.
Beyond the Ziomora, master of stables, whom she did not see anywhere amongst the crowd, she only really knew Torren.
Some fresh company sounded much better than bickering with him for the next few hours.
Mother above, Cypress wanted a drink.
After her last visit to A’aravos Paravale, though, Cypress was hesitant to let a single drop of anything even vaguely wine-shaped to touch her lips.
The thought lingered for a moment, then another before Cypress squared up to the hesitation.
If Cypress could abandon an entire kind of drink over a single—well, not truly bad—experience, what business did she have helping Torren steal from Caelith when her own neck was at stake?
Cypress straightened her spine and strode through the crowd. With a graceful smile on her lips, she slipped through the Fair Folk mingling and watching dancers in the center of the room.
She found the staff pouring drinks into the fine crystal stemware by following the servants carrying empty trays back to their source.
The bar was polished to a mirror finish. Stemware stood neatly arranged on new trays, ready to be delivered. Several bartenders worked in tandem behind it.
A fine boned Fair Folk greeted Cypress with a “My Lady, what can I do for you?”
They had muted, dusty-lavender skin, a mop of white hair, antennae erupting between the strands, and nearly lime-green wings tucked behind their back.
“It’s just Cypress, if you please,” She said first, giving the Fair Folk a small nod of her head and the bend of her knee. “Can I have wine? Normal wine, definitely not Pixie Wine, please?”
They said, “Of course, Miss. Just a moment,” then grabbed a fresh glass, and turned to one of the large wooden barrels behind the bar. The one they poured from had a relief of a Paradise Plum burned into the wood above the spout.
“What’s the matter with Pixie Wine, Lassie?” Someone asked from her side, and internally, Cypress was already cringing.
“Let’s just say I’d rather avoid that embarrassment tonight,” she replied, not looking over.
The stranger threw his head back and roared with laughter, drawing looks from several people around them.
Cypress sighed. Another one. There was another one who thought her barely humorous remarks were entirely too funny.
“Problem?” she asked and leaned on her elbow, the glass of Paradise Plum wine now in hand.
Cypress hadn’t even seen the Fair Folk drop the glass off, but there it was, and she instinctively knew it was what she requested.
“No problem, can’t a man laugh?” He asked, head propped on his fist. His silver hair was messily braided back against his scalp, and a beard in a similar color was sculpted into a point on his chin.
Cypress rolled her eyes. “Laugh all you like,” she said and raised her glass to him as she turned and left the bar.
Maybe she didn’t want to find company at all.
And anyway, Cypress supposed it was time to eat, and then she could disappear into a luxurious, soft bed until midday at least tomorrow.
Decision made, Cypress moved through the tables to the same one she’d eaten at before. Thankfully, the five-pointed leaf lying next to a setting told her she was in the right place.