Chapter 4 Unwelcome
UNWELCOME
ELYRIA
Descending from the carriage, Elyria tossed a glance to the palace gates. Onlookers crowded around them, craning their necks for a glimpse at the arriving delegation. At the Arcanians who now had both feet firmly planted on Havensreach soil.
Elyria wondered what the general populace thought about this entire affair—the accords, the delegation, the celebration.
A quick look at the crowd had her feeling as though there was a fairly equal split of curious stares and disdainful sneers, but she didn’t get the chance to examine it further.
Not when, just as she caught up to the rest of the party, the courtyard exploded in a cacophony of ceremony.
The large, ornate palace doors cracked open. A herald ran out, wearing a scarlet tabard that bore the symbol of Kingshelm—a three-spired crown set inside a circle, embroidered in bronze thread. He blasted two shockingly loud notes into a trumpet, making the gryphons at Elyria’s back bristle.
The cadre of knights she’d spotted before suddenly surged forward, forming two parallel lines on either side of the inlaid stone walkway that cut through the sunny courtyard. Scores of nobles emerged from the palace, smiling and clapping and issuing words of welcome.
It was a deeply unsettling reception, especially given that they had specifically chosen to arrive a full two days ahead of the planned welcome celebration.
They’d wanted some time to acclimate, to meet with the human king and his trusted advisors in privacy, to work out any potential issues and soothe unease without prying eyes and listening ears.
So much for that plan.
Instead, it was as if the entirety of King Callum’s court had gathered for the occasion.
Elyria’s emerald gaze swept over the gathered humans, taking in the polish of the knights’ ceremonial armor, the nobles’ pressed doublets and satin dresses, hair elegantly coiffed, hands clean.
Elyria glanced down at her wrinkled traveling clothes, smoothing the sleeve of her blouse out of reflex.
She had the sneaking suspicion this was all very much on purpose.
It also appeared as though the deceptively spirited welcome was getting harder to maintain the longer the Arcanians stood there.
After those first beckoning trumpet blares, the herald had disappeared.
Even Dentarius seemed unsure as to whether they were to proceed forward or if they were waiting for something, for someone.
Smiles became tight. Hands began wringing.
More than a few human nobles failed to school their faces as their attention narrowed in on Nox, Thraigg, and Young Shep—the most visually Arcanian members of their party.
Even with hoods drawn, there was no disguising the sylvan’s vine-tattooed green skin or Thraigg’s dwarven stature.
And there sure as all four hells was no hiding the towering everything that was Tenebris Nox.
A giggle bubbled up in the crowd, perhaps too quiet for anyone but those with fae ears to hear. Elyria stiffened. She could see it in the nobles’ eyes, could hear it in their whispers. It was subtle, hidden beneath layers of courtly manners and royally decreed diplomacy, but it was there.
Mockery. Disdain. Fear. Was this carefully curated display—this farce—what they had to look forward to for the next several weeks? Already, Elyria was exhausted.
“Ellie,” Kit whispered, nudging her gently.
Elyria blinked. She barely realized she’d removed the staff from her back, one end grinding into the stone at her feet, her knuckles white around the shaft. For support? In preparation? She didn’t quite know.
Forcing her fingers to relax, she took several deliberate steps forward, tapping the staff against the ground like a cane.
With a small, defiant smirk, she reached up and pulled back the hood of her cowl, simultaneously pulling the tie from her braid.
Periwinkle hair spilled down her back, and Elyria purposefully tucked it behind each of her pointed ears.
Dentarius let out a strangled noise, though it could barely be heard over the gasps and murmurs rippling through the humans as, with a flick of her wrist, Elyria unmasked her wings.
Shimmering swaths of purple and green burst from her back, glowing slightly in the sunlight, as if absorbing its very warmth.
“Subtle,” said Nox, their dark eyes glittering with amusement.
Elyria shrugged. “If they’re going to stare, might as well give them something worth staring at.”
Thraigg cleared his throat, his blue eyes blinking rapidly, as though trying to clear something stuck in them.
Shep’s nervous gaze flicked between Dentarius, Kit, and Elyria, his mouth opening as though he might speak, but he didn’t get the chance to say a word before the herald suddenly reappeared, another blare sounding from his trumpet.
The giant palace doors swung fully open, the sun’s rays falling on a trio of humans emerging from within.
One man, dressed in a sleek crimson doublet, walked with purposeful strides and quickly outpaced the other two.
Gold thread trimmed the edges of his sleeves, wove a pattern around each gilded button of the jacket.
His features were sharp, his hair a weathered gray that paired well with the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes as they swept over the Arcanian party.
His gaze stuttered over Elyria’s hair and ears and wings, though he was quick to recompose himself, smothering the emotions that flickered across his face—surprise, distaste . . . interest?—with a polished smile that showed too many white teeth.
“Lady Katerina,” he said, bypassing Elyria in all her fae glory and stopping in front of Kit and Dentarius.
“Tobin Barcroff, imperial steward, at your service.” He sketched a short bow.
“On behalf of King Callum the Virtuous, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Havensreach. We”—he gestured widely to the crowd of nobles surrounding them—“could not be more pleased you have arrived.”
Elyria’s lips quirked at the steward’s lie, and she cleared her throat to keep herself from laughing.
“The pleasure is ours, I assure you,” Kit said gracefully, ignoring Elyria’s reaction. A kernel of pride flared in Elyria’s chest at her friend’s regal comportment. “We thank you for welcoming us to your beautiful city with such open arms.”
Thraigg let out a choked cough, Tenebris Nox thumping him on the back three times as if doing so would hide the obvious mirth on the dwarf’s face.
Barcroff narrowed his eyes at the pair, then plastered that toothy smile back on his face. There was a spark in his hazel eyes as he turned toward Elyria. “Lady Lightbreaker, it is my utmost privilege to receive the Victor of Nyrundelle. You honor Kingshelm with your presence.”
“The honor is mine,” she managed to reply, feeling particularly proud of herself for halting the grinding of her teeth long enough to do so. Her gaze darted behind Barcroff to Kit, whose expression was nothing short of pure relief, and Dentarius, who gave Elyria a curt nod of approval.
“If I may,” Barcroff continued, his tone turning breathless, “I would just like to say how pleased I am—on a personal level—to have you here. Truly, I cannot overstate how remarkable it is to have the legendary Revenant standing among us.” His eyes roamed greedily over her wings, all pretense suddenly abandoned.
Elyria sensed the stiffening posture of nearly everyone in her party, as though they were bracing themselves for her reaction to whatever was about to come out of the steward’s mouth.
Barcroff’s polished grin widened. “There are many who may disagree with me, to be sure. When word finally crossed the Chasm as to the results of the Crucible—not one victor, but two—there were some who doubted it entirely. Most of us never thought we’d live to see the Crucible conquered at all.
And then to have it finally won, but for Havensreach and Nyrundelle both?
” Something uncomfortable was laced between his words.
“Many were loath to accept it—our Lord Victor is much beloved, you see.”
Elyria’s heart skipped a beat, her inner shadow rippling. From the corner of her eye, she thought she noticed Kit moving a fraction closer.
“But after all that nasty business with the crown . . . many within Havensreach are still resistant to the idea that he worked alongside an Arcanian to win it. They think it all some kind of fae trickery.”
From behind Kit, Jocelyn released what could only be described as a low growl. Barcroff blinked, as though suddenly remembering who he was talking to.
“Oh, not me, of course!” he added hastily, stepping closer to Elyria as if conspiring with her. “I’m certainly not one of them. But you must understand, my lady, some minds are slow to accept such things. If only more of my countrymen could see the value in such . . . diversity.”
Thraigg choked again, and this time Nox did nothing to try and cover the sound. They muttered something under their breath, in fact, that sounded a lot like, “For fuck’s sake.”
Elyria could feel Kit’s silent plea for patience vibrating off her. It took an inordinate amount of willpower to acquiesce.
“How progressive of you,” Elyria said drily.
“All that to say, I’m not sure seeing you like this”—Barcroff’s eyes darted to the citizens still clamoring around the front gates, then back to the tips of Elyria’s glittering wings—“would do much to convince the people that he was not, in fact, bewitched.”
Elyria let out a stunned laugh. “Six months ago, these same people would’ve tried to chain me up simply for being born with pointy ears.
Why would I care to convince them of anything?
Let them think whatever they want about me or your precious Lord Victor”—she cleared her throat, her wings fluttering with agitation—“or any of it. They are not why I am here.”
“Ellie.” Kit’s voice was a low warning.