Chapter Seven
Pikquarrys
“Ah, there you are, my littlest bloom.” Vyrion reaches for Princess Loreleivnna, who has yet to spare a glance my way. She takes his hand and circles the dais to sit on the arm of his throne.
Vyrion lifts his horn, tilting it in my direction. “Ignore the clod. He’s only been released from the stables recently and isn’t accustomed to civility.”
I force a soft nicker at his jab and divert my gaze from my best friend’s daughter, taking a sip of cider to ease my nerves.
“Yes, Father,” she says, sweet as morning dew. “I’m aware of your spellcarver and all the ways he’s the dullest flower in the field.”
Vyrion laughs heartily. I force another fake laugh.
My gaze drifts back to the princess, and I’m surprised to find more gentle compassion there than the hurt and anger I’d expected.
She offers a small smile and raises her shoulder just enough for me to know her tease is an olive branch I do not deserve.
All of the fuzzy nostalgic feelings flee, chased away by a thousand things I shouldn’t feel.
Princess Loreleivnna is a slice of sunshine incarnate, her timid smile one of many distracting qualities that trap my words in my chest. She wears a long, flowing day gown comprised of layers upon layers of sheer moonsilk strips in shades of yellow, purple, and green.
The luxurious fabric is spun from lunaberry silkworms, which only live on Aeveumoon Irises.
It’s notoriously soft, and I picture my hands sifting through the ribbons of her skirt, my knuckles brushing the skin underneath.
My undercarriage grows hot. I loosen the strap of my pack.
Seeing her casual beauty this way, it’s even more alluring than in the stiff servant’s dress.
A sliver of frosted sage skin peeks from between her skirts as she crosses her legs at the ankles.
Her bare feet dangle off the throne’s armrest. Wine-red paint the color of sequoiaoak leaves decorates her toenails, extra bright next to the fresh layer of dirt.
My eyes sweep back up to her face, then to the autumnal flower crown resting on her windswept burgundy hair.
Judging by the fresh smell of the amaranth of the crown, the dirt on her soles, and the thorn marks on her fingers, she ran here from the garden.
When my gaze lands back on hers, the smile has faded from her features, replaced with something more vulnerable. I want to reassure her, to tell her everything is the same as it was, there’s no harm done, no reason to feel unrest in my presence.
Yet like a coward, I look away. My next sip of cider tastes like the dust of the leaves on the skryite floor.
“Loreleivnna turns 132 this year,” Vyrion says casually, as though the air isn’t crackling with embers of my shame. “She’s well past the age a noble petal should’ve bloomed.”
“Father!” Princess Loreleivnna covers her face with one hand. She peeks at me over her fingers, then squeezes her eyes shut, her neck and chest flushing lily pad green. “Snip the unnecessary details, please? And stop saying the word bloom in that context!”
He chuckles dismissively and continues. “I wish to see her accept suitors this festival.”
“Interesting.” I take three long gulps of cider and refill my horn, shifting restlessly on the cushions. There must be a reason he’s telling me this. I sense I won’t like it.
“I’m aware this is outside of my usual requests for the great Vir Pikquarrys, but there’s no one on this side of the sun I trust more than you.”
I wince at the honorific. My actions the day a portal collapsed an entire ridge in the Craegnach Mountain range to the east were not honorable. Many fell during the moon cycle of the Battle of the Unseen. But creatures must cling to hope; thus I’m stuck with the title, a reminder of the bloodshed.
Vyrion slips his horn into a stand and leans over the tray to rest his hand on my shoulder. “Therefore, I beg your help, my friend.”
The fresh pour of cider pauses halfway to my lips. At the earnest gleam in his eye, I down this horn as well. “Of course. You know my sword is yours.”
Vyrion sits back with a chuckle. “Fallen Ones be merciful, I will not require your sword.”
“Whatever you need.”
“As the youngest daughter, Loreleivnna will face many desperate nobles, driven by ambition or familial pressure. Usually, the task of Guardian is assigned to the First Knight.” The longer he speaks, the clammier my hands grow.
“I beg of you, grow to the occasion and use your sense for enchantments to keep Loreleivnna safe while she finds and accepts suitors.”
It’s a feat of the Fallen that I’m able to maintain my friend’s pleading gaze for as long as I do before breaking away to pour another cider. He glances at the drink in my hand, noting that it’s my third or fourth—fifth?—horn in our short sitting, but says nothing.
The third week of the Lunaplume Harvest Festival is the most popular time for noble families to pursue first mates.
The first week is melancholy, full of reflection and rites for the dead.
The second week is for harvesting lunaplumes, starseeds, and basic crops.
While hands are busy with the harvest, the boons granted by the Nocturn Aevumdivus when they descended from the sky to spread their seed across our land are fresh on everyone’s minds.
During the third week, Svitaeryl honors the Wise Ones with celebration and festivities.
Meanwhile, aphrodisiacal pollen permeates the air of the Spiritgrove each night. Lust is in the air. Many seeds are sown in wombs this time of year, and in the spring, fertility rites have living proof.
Enchantments are not technically forbidden when nobles court, but I completely support my friend’s caution. Princess Loreleivnna is a special lass and deserves a worthy first mate, though I struggle to believe there’s such a creature in Svitaeryl.
I look to the princess perched on his armrest and immediately regret it.
The bitter cherry ring around her pupils is profound, her glittering peridot irises shining with a heat I can only interpret as anger.
Her chest heaves, sending little puffs of breath out of O-shaped lips.
The mossy blush on her cheeks and neck has transformed into a tempting amaranth.
It resembles the flustered state she’d been in while trapped between my arms and a sequioaoak trunk.
I loosen the leather strap of my pack and slip it all the way off, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.
“You have my vow,” I mumble into my horn before downing it.
“Rosy!” King Vyrion claps me on the shoulder. He refills my cider and clinks our horns. “Don’t look so wilted. Are you in such a hurry to return to Ashfall Valley? Give your apprentice a chance to prove your worth as an elder.”
At the word elder, my attention snaps back to Princess Loreleivnna. The little brat glares at me like I’m the one who’s put us in this position.
“Yes,” she spits, all of the good humor sapped from her tone. “I’ll be sure to let our family’s favorite elder see all the fun he’s missing out on during the moonlit frolic.”
“Do not be a brat,” I snap without thinking. “Your father is right there.”
The king lets out a boisterous laugh. “You see, this is why I’ve chosen you. Don’t let her act out. She may be the king’s daughter, but she must be polite. No one wants a thorn-mouthed petal.”
“Father!” Princess Loreleivnna protests.
Vyrion points at me around his horn, oblivious or ignoring the daggers shooting between his daughter and me.
I smooth my features and return his smile, raising my horn. “I’ll ensure she behaves.”
“Sun favor you, Brother,” he says with a smirk. “If she gets out of line, bring her to me, and we’ll see if she’s too old for a spanking.”
Vyrion laughs, but I nearly choke on my cider. The princess lets out a pained groan and leaps from the dais. I dare not look up at her departure, but my mind supplies the memory of her plump rear swaying tauntingly as she runs from me, begging for my hand across it.
“Pluck me,” I mutter.
Vyrion’s laughter grows. He pours water in my empty horn and taps it with his. “So you see my plight. Roots guide your step.”