Chapter Four #2
Long before Einar was born, it had been the Phoenix who had drawn the final line that had led to the War of the Gods.
Legend held that Sorin—then known as the Builder—had fouled the land with a factory meant to speed technological advance.
The Phoenix had walked into it, alight with their own fire, and razed the structure to bare earth.
But the Phoenix’s fire didn’t destroy. It renewed. It was rebirth. Their flames purged the corruption from streams and soil, returning ruined land to pristine condition.
How Sorin must have loathed a god with the power to destroy anything he built. No, not just destroy—erase, as if it had never even been.
“Presenting the Huntress, General of the East, Seeker of Knowledge and Keeper of Truth. Along with the Wolf, Lord of Beasts and King of the Wild Places.”
This time the gasps were even louder. Frightened whispers wove through the crowd, but the noise was not loud enough to drown out the sharp sound of Elevia’s heeled boots . . . or the click of nails on stone from the giant wolf who kept pace at her side.
The Huntress wore an even more elaborate version of her usual armor, tan leathers studded with steel that bore the distinct golden hue of metal from the Blasted Plains, where her keep of Blade’s Rest stood.
The lush velvet beneath the leather was the Wolf’s deep forest green, a color repeated in the dyed belt that held her weapons.
She moved with the easy grace of a born warrior—and with her bow already held loosely in one hand, an open challenge stripped of any artifice.
Ulric had clearly decided to be even more aggressive.
In his wolf form, he was so large that his head was even with Elevia’s elbow, and his eyes glowed a fierce gold as he bared his teeth and surveyed the crowd.
As he drew even with Sir Balian, the man dropped a hand to his sword—and Ulric’s growl of warning had him stumbling back.
Elevia reached down absentmindedly with her free hand to stroke soothing fingers through Ulric’s fur. The Huntress and the Wolf were a pair Einar would not like to face across the battlefield.
But if they had come, too, then the only person left was . . .
“The Witch,” the herald announced, his voice trembling a little. “Bringer of Life and Death, Weaver of Magic.”
Einar had to bite his lip not to laugh as the overwhelmed nobles braced for someone even more terrifying, only to fall into confused silence at Inga’s entrance.
The Witch had always enjoyed whimsy and drama far too much for Einar’s tastes.
He had never visited her castle deep within the Witchwood, but even descriptions of its chaotic whimsy had given him an actual headache.
In her free time, she cultivated flowers in colors no artist with good sense would have ever considered, flowers that could pulse with the mood of those around them and cause insects who fed on them to glow in the moonlight.
Apparently, she had decided to bring all that melodrama to the court of the Ice Queen.
She floated through the door in a black gown that brushed the floor in front of her and swept behind her in a train that encompassed an impossible rainbow.
He had no idea how the woven threads shifted color from one moment to the next, but the butterflies following in her wake matched every wild hue.
The black-crystal-encrusted bodice of her dress was cut in a deep vee nearly to her waist, and the collar that flared dramatically around her neck gave way to a headpiece that radiated glittering spikes of ebony around her head like a dark sunburst.
Her kohl-rimmed eyes met his, their intense pink depths seething with mischievous power.
Her black-painted lips quirked into a tiny smile of acknowledgment before she lifted one beringed hand.
The butterflies swarmed into a glittering storm that swept over the heads of the assorted nobles, drawing startled gasps as several people flung up their arms as if to ward off an attack.
The entire High Court was here—and they were not in a subtle mood.
The eight new arrivals stopped before the dais. Instead of a line or semicircle, they broke into an arrangement vaguely reminiscent of a battle formation. Tension tightened through the room, the promise of violence a whisper against the back of Einar’s neck.
Gwynira rose, steady even in the face of such an overt threat, and stretched both empty hands out in a gesture of greeting. “You are welcome to the Crystal Palace, though I cannot account for the honor of such a visit.”
Ash turned, his gaze seeking Aleksi in the crowd. The Dragon lifted one eyebrow in obvious question. Aleksi looked as if he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, but instead he answered his friend’s unspoken question with a gentle smile and a slight nod.
The High Court barely moved, but the tension abruptly dissipated. Stances that had screamed imminent attack softened into friendly curiosity. Fingers that had brushed weapons relaxed. Ash reached out to touch Sachi’s arm, and she stepped forward with a smile that banished any lingering ill feeling.
“We have come in friendship,” she said in a musical voice that carried easily over the crowd. “And to demonstrate—unequivocally, Grand Duchess, should anyone wonder—that you have the support of the entire High Court. We are at your service.”
Murmurs rose from every side as the court grappled with the implications of such an announcement—and undoubtedly tried to discern if this could be leveraged in any of their own petty squabbles.
Fabric rustled at Einar’s side, followed by the crinkle of paper. He glanced at Klement to find the scholar scribbling frantically in a tiny notebook with one of those odd Imperial quills that needed no ink. “. . . what an opportunity,” he murmured.
Einar suppressed a sigh and returned his attention to Gwynira in time to see her shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. She stepped down from her dais and gestured for the High Court to approach. “Please, join me. We have some introductions to make.”
The air swirled around Einar, tugging at him in silent summons from the Siren.
Aleksi had already broken free from the crowd and was walking forward to join his friends, with Naia not far behind him.
Einar left Klement to his frantic note taking and ignored the speculative looks from the assembled nobles as he strode to stand with his lovers.
Sachi glanced at Elevia, who nodded. Then the Dream raised one hand, and a shimmering veil formed around her. It slowly expanded, a glittering cloud of energy that enveloped the High Court—and Gwynira’s dais.
Arktikos started forward, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword, but Gwynira halted his advance with one sharp gesture.
“For the sake of privacy,” Sachi explained. “We can speak freely now. No one outside this field can hear us, though they can still see us.” She cast an almost mischievous look at Zanya. “At least, they think they can.”
Zanya grinned and stroked her fingers over Sachi’s hair with approving fondness. “You’re getting devious.”
“I prefer creative.”
“Mmm. And maybe a little wicked.”
The affectionate heat in Zanya’s eyes burned hot enough to singe anyone who stood too close, rivaled only by the look Sachi gave her in return.
Ballads might have been written about Einar’s sexual exploits, but one must give the Dragon his due.
It took a man with nerves forged from the strongest steel to climb into bed between the forces of Creation and Destruction.
Uncharacteristically, Aleksi seemed oblivious to the flirtation playing out next to him as he sighed heavily. “I told you all everything was fine. You couldn’t have taken me at my word?”
Dianthe’s smile was gentle—and still somehow terrifying, like the inviting surface of the ocean hiding jagged rocks just beneath to trap the unwary. “We did, darling. But even you must admit that your words were . . .”
“Alarming,” Ash finished gruffly.
Aleksi rubbed both hands over his face. “Some of the High Court you already know, and the rest were just announced. Everyone, this is Grand Duchess Gwynira and the Lady Isa.”
Sachi froze as her smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure shock. “Isa?”
“Yes,” Gwynira whispered. “My Isa.”
Sachi’s stunned bewilderment seemed to last an eternity, then broke on a soft laugh. She dropped a hand to one of the daggers hanging from her belt, hesitating. Then she pulled it free slowly, while arching one questioning eyebrow at Arktikos. “If I may?”
It was Gwynira who answered. “Please.”
Sachi stepped up and offered the blade, still sheathed, to Isa. If Zanya’s weapons exuded the dark menace of the Void, the knife Sachi held up was a whisper of sweetness wrapped in ominous shadows. Einar knew the story of that blade all too well—it was why Aleksi was here.
When Sachi had been held prisoner in Sorin’s court, Gwynira had been the one to show Sachi .
. . Well, kindness was undoubtedly too strong a word, given the woman’s frosty demeanor.
But the Ice Queen had proven a willing conspirator in Sachi’s plans to escape, and had provided the princess with a blade forged by her long-destroyed lover.
A blade imbued with the magic of the Everlasting Dream and the Endless Void.
A blade that could kill a god—or an Emperor.
In the end, Sachi had defeated Sorin through her own power, but that knife remained as hopeful proof that at least one member of the Imperial Court might be sympathetic to their cause.
It was on that fragile hope that they had sought to cement an alliance with Gwynira, one that could give them access to the knowledge and resources of a former member of Sorin’s court.
“I believe this belongs to you, Lady Isa,” Sachi said. She smiled once more, the expression bright with amazement. “It is so good to meet you.”
Isa stared at the knife, eyes wide. “I—” Her trembling hand darted out, fingers curling around the hilt as if she couldn’t quite believe it was real. Power rippled through the air as she cradled it against her chest, the silky shadows of the Void mixed with the bright shimmer of the Dream.
“Thank you,” Isa said softly. “This was special to me. It is . . . good to see it again.”
Gwynira laid a protective hand on the small of Isa’s back, steadying her.
Her gaze took in the glittering veil that still protected them from the avid curiosity of the court, and she actually smiled, if a little wryly.
“As much as I am enjoying the respite from noble chatter, I suppose it is time we finish this official welcome. If you would be so kind, Princess?”
Sachi returned the smile and gestured, and the veil burst like a popped bubble, tiny hints of rainbow magic dissipating into the air.
The excited murmur of court gossip surrounded them immediately, and Gwynira lifted her voice to be heard over the sound.
“The Crystal Palace is open to you, my friends. Rooms will be arranged for your comfort, and I bid my court do everything in their power to make you welcome.”
Einar let his gaze slide over the assembled nobles.
Some looked frightened. Some horrified. Plenty looked eager—either at the opportunities presented by guests of power, or simply at the horror and fear displayed by their enemies in the court.
Several had expressions so blank, Einar knew they were hiding their true feelings.
One was Gwynira’s infuriating seneschal Jaspar.
Another was Sir Balian, who must surely be wondering if Aleksi’s friends had heard that it was Balian’s poisoned sword that had nearly claimed the Lover’s life.
Klement hadn’t even looked up from his notes.
Politics might not be Einar’s game, but it was clear enough that the unexpected arrival of the High Court had upended the routines of Gwynira’s palace. Hopefully their enemy—or enemies—would be off balance and uncertain. If Einar was very lucky, one might make a mistake.
Einar didn’t care if Aleksi’s oldest friends thought they took precedence when it came to avenging a threat to one of their own. If Einar found the person who had conspired to kill Naia and kidnap Aleksi, he would deal with it. Personally.