Splintered Kingdom (Shattered Crown #2)

Chapter 1 Crowns and Gowns

CROWNS AND GOWNS

ELYRIA

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

Elyria pawed at the soft layers of gossamer fabric trailing away from her hips. Each one rippled, forming golden petals that skimmed down the skirt of the dress that she would have admitted was rather pretty, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances surrounding why she was wearing it.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” Kit grinned, silver-white hair falling into her face.

Eyes fixed on the gilded mirror before her, Elyria watched Kit pull the two long ribbons on either side of Elyria’s waist taut, tying them in a small bow. It sat at the lowest point of her back, perfectly centered between the shimmering purple-and-green wings folded there.

Kit clucked her tongue, eyeing her handiwork with appreciation. “Now, allow Madam Agness to finish her final adjustments, then you can relegate this thing to your trunk with the rest of your wardrobe. You won’t even have to think about it again until we unpack in Kingshelm.”

“Absolutely not,” scolded Agness. The seamstress peered around Elyria’s legs to glower at Kit.

“You will not be leaving one of the finest pieces I have ever made to be crushed and crumpled beneath smelly fighting leathers, stray daggers, and Solaris knows what else.” Her ochre eyes drifted across the room, her expression tight.

Elyria grimaced as her own gaze fell to the unmade bed, the messy piles of clothing and stacks of papers littering the floor.

She had never been comfortable with the Ravenswing staff picking up after her, but now she wondered if she should have taken one of the housemaids up on her earlier offer to tidy up her bedroom before the seamstress arrived for this final fitting.

“I will have Dentarius arrange to transport this with the rest of the group’s formal attire—separately,” Agness continued, refocusing on the hem of the gown once more.

“Mm, I’m sure he’ll just love receiving that order,” Kit said, her gold-and-silver wings quivering with silent laughter.

Elyria grinned, picking at one of the many periwinkle braids that comprised the ornate coronet woven around her head. “From royal advisor to luggage handler. Don’t be surprised if our formal attire goes missing en route to Havensreach out of spite.”

“Do not even joke about that,” Agness said with a frown. “And would you stop squirming?” A tuft of pink hair fell out of the elegant bun centered atop her head as she stuck a pin in the folds of delicate fabric.

“Ow!” Elyria hissed, wincing as the sting of the needle traveled up her leg. “You did that on purpose, you old bat.” She scowled at the unmistakable snort of Kit’s poorly stifled laugh.

Agness gave Elyria a wan smile, tucking the stray lock behind her pointed ear. “My sincerest apologies, Lady Victor.”

Elyria’s scowl deepened. “Yes, you seem very sincere. I’ve told you a dozen times now not to call me that.” Her lip curled with displeasure at being addressed by her most recent honorific.

The seamstress gave an innocent shrug before continuing to mark any necessary alterations across the hem of the gown. Elyria stretched her neck from side to side, avoiding her reflection in the mirror until blessedly—and with only two additional pricks of her needle—Agness was finished.

Vanishing her wings with a wisp of magic, Elyria peeled the garment from her shoulders, gilt fabric pooling around her feet as she stepped out of the gown.

Agness reached for the dress, her golden eyes stalling over Elyria’s naked legs—and the hatched scars that decorated them.

Though she was hardly the type to typically care about modesty, Elyria found herself feeling very bare indeed in the scant undergarments she wore.

She crossed her arms over her chest as Agness made a pointed effort not to openly stare at the lines Raefe had burned into each of Elyria’s thighs.

Of course, thinking about that fateful encounter in The Sweltering Pig last summer brought a whole swell of other thoughts to the surface, and suddenly Elyria’s nakedness was the least of that which had her feeling exposed.

There was a pregnant pause wherein Elyria thought Agness might say something, but the seamstress simply draped the gown gently over one arm and left the room without another word.

“If she thinks they’re bad now, imagine the look on her face had she seen your scars during the Crucible,” Kit quipped, a forced lightness in her voice. She ran a tawny hand through her moonlight-colored hair, brushing the shaggy strands off her forehead.

Elyria pursed her lips and reached for her clothing, her brow creased.

She knew Kit was only trying to dissolve some of the tension Agness had left in her wake.

Unfortunately, all she managed to do was remind Elyria not only of how gruesome the marks had truly been, but of the person who was responsible for helping reduce the impact of them.

Zephyr.

The sylvan healer had been more than a fellow champion to Elyria and Kit during the Crucible—she’d become their friend.

The way she had treated Elyria’s wounds after the first trial, the worry and tenderness with which she’d cared for all the champions.

They’d fallen for her ruse hook, line, and sinker.

And Zephyr’s betrayal had cut deeper even than the gash she had sliced into Elyria’s hand when the sylvan stole the hard-won Crown of Concord—or half of it, at least—right out of Elyria’s grasp.

Not just any sylvan.

A changeling. A shapeshifter.

A hot mixture of anger and shame swelled in Elyria’s gut as a brilliant burst of green light swept across her memory—feathers bursting from Zephyr’s skin, her form shifting and shimmering and changing with the ancient ability she’d kept hidden from them all.

“The crown does belong to someone. And I have no choice but to bring it to him.”

Him.

Varyth Malchior, leader of the Cult of Malakar, descendant of the Great Betrayer himself. The reason so much went wrong within the Celestial Sanctum. Why so much could still go wrong now.

Images continued washing across Elyria’s mind—unbidden, unwelcome.

The same ones that plagued her days and haunted her sleepless nights.

Evander’s vein-stricken face, his shredded, ashen wings.

The sound Kit had made when that dark, twisted, corrupted version of her beloved brother had shoved his darksteel blade into her back.

Then, the sound that came from Evander when Elyria had pierced his heart with her own shadowblade.

Another memory surfaced. One she couldn’t stop, could never keep out. One she never consciously permitted herself to think about, but that consumed far too much of her daily mind anyway. A scorching kiss under an aurora-filled sky. A different blade piercing a different heart.

A thread snapping.

Elyria blinked—once, twice. Steeling herself, she pushed the thoughts aside, relegating the memories to the depths of her mind where they belonged.

This wasn’t productive. Dwelling on all that had happened during the Crucible, and her immense failure to keep the crown at the end of it, only ever ended one way—in a pool of self-pity so deep there wasn’t enough cider in all Nyrundelle for her to drink her way out of it.

Unproductive. Pointless.

She could still fix this.

Elyria dared a look at Kit, only to find her mismatched blue and green eyes narrowed, probing. As though she knew exactly where Elyria’s thoughts had gone.

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Elyria placed a purposeful pout on her lips as she slipped a light chemise over her head, one of the thin straps catching on the pointed tip of her ear.

Kit’s suspicious gaze broke as she rolled her eyes. She retreated to a nearby settee, flopping down onto it with a sigh. “Because without my uncle’s official sanction, your dreams of hunting down Varyth Malchior and recovering your half of the crown will be over before they can begin.”

“It’s not my half of the crown,” Elyria protested, stamping out the urge to smash something at the sound of Malchior’s name. “And I am aware. It still doesn’t explain why King Lachlandris requires I be trussed up like a prized pig in order to be granted said sanction.”

“Because the Victor of Nyrundelle is indeed the biggest prize”—Kit’s lips twitched at Elyria’s obvious displeasure—“and you make such a pretty pig.” She plucked a handful of grapes from a nearby bowl, popping a few into her mouth.

A thoughtful expression furrowed her brow as she chewed.

“And because my uncle is not a stupid king, despite what you might wish to believe about him.”

Elyria smirked at her friend before pulling on a pair of tight-fitting leather breeches.

“Not stupid, maybe. But not the smartest either. Look at how he lets Tartanis and his criminal rats run amuck in Coralith.” She ran a hand over the scars on her right thigh.

“You’d think Lord Corlyn had all but ceded complete control of the city to the bastard. ”

“The king has his sights set much farther from home these days,” Kit said with a shrug, “and he wants to put our best foot forward with the humans, so to speak. Make the right kind of impression after so long. This delegation is a rather big deal, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Exactly. The fae are setting foot in Havensreach for the first time—”

“Officially speaking,” interjected Kit.

“—in over two hundred years. This is a momentous occasion in and of itself. I cannot imagine that my appearance will be the thing to make or break this visit.”

“You clearly have no idea what you look like in that dress, then.”

Elyria gave Kit a pointed look before sinking onto the settee beside her.

Her eyes fell to the intricately embellished staff leaning against the opposite wall.

With appreciation, she took in the intermixed metal and wood that comprised her new weapon, a much fancier replacement for the one she lost during the Crucible.

She still had yet to properly thank Duchess Laeliana for the gift.