Chapter 2 Tristan Hale, Academic #3
He could only pray the truth of it would stay hidden a little while longer.
Cedric closed the tome in front of him with a weary sigh. Another day had passed, and still they’d found nothing useful. There was no point in delaying any longer. It was time to return to Kingshelm.
Still, he hesitated. He was not eager to return to the pomp, the circumstance, the watchful eyes of all those with expectations of the Victor of Havensreach. The celebration and stares of a kingdom that saw Cedric as something he wasn’t.
He sighed, setting the book he’d been loosely perusing aside. “I suppose we really have just about reached the end of our options here.”
Tristan had the decency to look disappointed, at least. “I’m sorry, Ric. I truly thought we would find something.”
“As did I.” Cedric stood, stretching his arms over his head, easing the stiffness from his limbs as Tristan began gathering their scattered notes.
“Think the magisters will miss us when we’re gone?” Tristan asked, one side of his mouth tipping up.
“Doubtful,” Cedric replied, offering a wan smile in return.
He appreciated Tristan’s attempts at levity, but the reality of their imminent return to Kingshelm made maintaining humor difficult.
He was not looking forward to whatever the king had in store for him when the delegation from Nyrundelle arrived.
He shuddered at the thought of the myriad of events he would surely be required to attend, the displays of unity he would need to participate in.
Aside from the welcome ball, Cedric didn’t know exactly what to expect, but he knew it would be a lot.
Arcanians were being granted permission to set foot in Havensreach for the first time in two centuries.
It was a monumental occasion, he supposed.
Though he didn’t know what good a few fancy balls and public displays would really do to alleviate the unrest the people felt regarding this new, tenuous peace.
Tensions in the streets of Kingshelm were still high, its citizens unhappy.
Despite the parts of the Midlands the Arcanian king had ceded to Havensreach in exchange for this official access, space was limited and resources scarce.
Cedric dropped his gaze to the token hanging against his chest, tracing the streaks of white in the blue stone, the glowing emerald embedded in its center.
Even for those who could afford the skyrocketing prices to get their tokens regularly refilled, there still never seemed to be enough mana to go around.
It was easy for the citizens of Havensreach to turn their blame westward—to Nyrundelle and all the peoples of Old Arcanis. Cedric knew that firsthand—not so long ago, he was among the most vocal of them. And he doubted very much that a few fancy parties would do much to change popular sentiment.
Not my concern, Cedric thought. The Arcanians were coming either way. He only wished he knew if one particular Arcanian would be among them.
Cedric clenched and unclenched his jaw as Elyria’s name whispered through his thoughts—a lyric on a soft melody he could never get out of his head.
He knew there was little chance she’d be part of the delegation.
He laughed inwardly at the absurdity of the notion—that Elyria would be willingly paraded around as the Victor of Nyrundelle, would allow herself to be propped up the same way Cedric was, used as some supposed symbol of unity.
No, she was much stronger than him.
The thought pulled the faintest hint of a smile to Cedric’s lips, and was made broader when he considered that while he might not get to see her, there was at least someone coming that Cedric didn’t mind reuniting with one bit.
Lord Church had dropped the Ravenswing name when discussing the incoming delegation party, and Cedric’s heart had leapt at the thought of seeing Kit again.
The two of them had hardly bonded during the Crucible the way he had with some of the others, but Kit was Elyria’s closest friend—the very reason she entered the Sanctum at all.
Perhaps Kit would at least be willing to tell him how Elyria had been faring these long months.
It was the not knowing that killed him. Not knowing where she was or what she was doing or if she was well or, four hells, if she was even still alive, had taken more of a toll on Cedric than he’d ever admit.
He understood he had no right to know. Recognized it was pointless to dwell on it.
It didn’t stop him from dwelling anyway.
And this is why it is better not to think about these stars-damned things in the first place, he thought bitterly. He slammed his palm down on the book he’d just finished with, eliciting one final, harsh, “Shh!” from somewhere within the library stacks.
Tristan eyed him with a curious arch of his blond eyebrows.
Cedric just shook his head, gathering up the doublet he’d slung over the back of his chair. Then, Tristan following behind, Cedric headed toward the stairs that would lead them out of the library and back on the path home.