Chapter 13 Prized Piglets
PRIZED PIGLETS
CEDRIC
The sounds of clashing steel rang through the training yard, sharp and clean in the cool morning air.
Cedric reveled in it. Compared to the echoes of the incessant political drivel he had been forced to listen to for days on end, finally being out here was a much-needed balm.
He could barely remember the last time he—
The flat edge of Tristan’s practice blade slapped against Cedric’s shoulder with a thwack.
“Gaia’s tits, Thorne,” Tristan muttered, lowering the weapon. “That’s the third time this morning. Are you here with me or not?”
“Sorry.” Cedric blinked, rubbing at the spot where the hit had landed. “I’m here. I’m focusing.”
Tristan shook his head, loosing an exasperated breath.
“ ‘Gaia’s tits,’ eh?” said Cedric, flipping the hilt of his practice sword in his hand. “Been spending a lot of time with our dwarven friend these days, have you?”
“Well, as you’ve been rather preoccupied lately, I’ve had to widen my social circle.” Tristan grinned. “And Thraigg’s a damn good drinking companion. Better than you, I daresay.”
“Mmm, I don’t doubt it.”
“Oh, jealousy isn’t your color, Ric.” He moved one foot back, shifting his weight as he lifted his sword. “Fear not, Lord Victor, you’ll always be first in my heart.”
Cedric laughed, digging his boots into the dirt of the training ring, readying his own blade once more. “We both know that to be a grievous lie, sir. Your first and truest love will always be yourself.”
He lunged at his friend, who spun fluidly to avoid the blow. Cedric thrust his blade forward, but his strikes were sluggish, and it was all too easy for Tristan to dodge and parry each and every one.
There was a sudden pang in Cedric’s chest, a tug that pulled his attention entirely to the palace at the top of the hill. Though he’d only looked away for a second, it was long enough for Tristan to get a boot behind Cedric’s foot and sweep it forward, tipping him off-balance.
His armor sang an embarrassing chorus when his ass hit the ground.
“Stars above,” Tristan said, tossing his sword aside with a roll of his blue eyes before extending a hand to Cedric. “It’s not even satisfying when you’re like this.”
Cedric let Tristan haul him back to his feet, then rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck to one side. “It’s been a long week.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Tristan muttered, stretching one arm over his head. “Strategy meetings with no strategy. Diplomacy without action. I don’t know how you put up with it, Ric.”
Cedric scoffed. “It’s not me you have to be worried about putting up with anything.
Every single day, I sit in that council chamber and watch Kit and Dentarius choke back their protestations.
” He saw the way every renewed attempt to stall, every reminder that the rest of the Arcanian delegation was still en route, fed the anger in their eyes.
“Eventually, their patience will run out.”
“We’re all running out of patience.” Tristan unstrapped his vambraces as he stalked toward a water basin set up to one side. “How long does Lord Church and His Majesty expect them to wait—expect us all to wait—while Malchior is fuck knows where with half the damned crown?”
What Cedric wanted to say was, “Until they run out of sycophantic excuses to parade Elyria and me about.” Or, perhaps, “Until we’re all so exhausted from this circus that we forget about Malchior entirely.”
But even though no one was close enough to be listening, even though it was just Tristan and him, Cedric still couldn’t quite bring himself to be so openly—so brazenly—insolent. So he said nothing, only moved to place his training sword back on the weapons rack with a heavy sigh.
“You’ve another ceremony to attend this morning, haven’t you?” Tristan asked as he followed Cedric.
“Two,” Cedric replied, resisting the urge to physically grimace.
He hadn’t even known it was possible to cram so many events into each day.
The king had certainly made good on his brilliant idea to offer both Cedric and Elyria as beacons of unity to the city.
They’d made appearances at three additional welcome receptions, two formal luncheons, and a royal commendation ceremony that Cedric was almost positive had been invented entirely this very week.
He was, to be fair, used to it by now. This was hardly the first time he’d been paraded around as the Victor of Havensreach. But there was a difference in the sheer amount of parading happening now. And the most bizarre part of it was the fact that Elyria was going along with it.
She showed up on time, every time, wings hidden from view, a pleasant mask already in place.
She graciously smiled and waved and greeted and laughed .
. . and damn it all if it wasn’t working.
In the week that had passed since the ball, she had managed to foster more goodwill with the people of Kingshelm than Cedric honestly thought possible, given the shared history of Havensreach and Nyrundelle—and given Elyria’s personal reputation.
It was a testament to her ability to tame that wildness he knew simmered just under her skin, roared in her veins. Truly impressive.
And so, so regrettable.
Because this obsequious, diplomatic creature was not Elyria Lightbreaker. Cedric suspected she was even permitting the palace staff to dress her, having swapped out her typical tight-fitting leathers for floaty gowns in a rainbow of pastels.
They were, of course, beautiful—she was beautiful, always.
They just weren’t her.
He wanted to understand. Wanted to know where her fire had gone. Had it truly been snuffed out so easily? Or was she simply burying it beneath layers of placating acquiescence, all for the sake of this strange diplomacy?
It wasn’t all bad. Wasn’t all stoic indifference and placid, agreeable cordiality. Sometimes, she looked at him, and it was as though he saw straight through to the center of her when he looked back.
And something was different. Was shifting between them. He felt it. Like that tether tugging at his chest was vibrating, shimmering, refining itself. Until it was less like a thick rope tying Cedric to this world and more like . . . a thread.
Sometimes, he thought he caught her smiling at him.
But just as quickly, the smile would disappear, leaving him to wonder whether all of it was simply in his head.
That’s what killed him most.
Alas, it wasn’t as though he could ask. Though the two of them were being constantly shuffled in and out of rooms together, being presented as a duo, ornaments to the king, rarely did Cedric have the chance to say more than five words to her at a time.
They were never alone. Always surrounded by guards and attendants and Kit and Dentarius and Lord Church and His Majesty.
Barely given the chance to breathe, let alone actually speak.
No chance to ask her what that kiss meant.
No chance for it to happen again.
And Cedric didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, because while his entire being ached at the memory of her soft lips, the feel of her body pressed against his, the guilt over his loss of control gnawed at him, a snarling beast in his gut.
He’d burned her.
It was an accident, yes. A small injury, something Cedric knew Elyria capable of healing with barely more than the flick of her finger.
But still. He hadn’t been able to control it.
The instant their lips met, there was no containing that surge of heat in his chest, the way it flared through his veins, raw, unfiltered.
It sought her. And what if next time, it did much worse?
“I know something of having a power inside you that you don’t know how to control.” Elyria’s words from after the Trial of Magic were a soft refrain in Cedric’s mind. “I know what it’s like . . . to carry that ever-present weight of guilt. Of blame. To feel like something inside you is wrong.”
She did know. She did understand. And wouldn’t it be nice, he thought, if he could actually talk about this with her? If he could sit down with her, have a real conversation without the threat of looming death or political pretension?
Just him. Just her.
Unfortunately, that would require him actually being able to locate her. And that, it turned out, was proving an impossible feat.
When she wasn’t fulfilling her role as the Victor of Nyrundelle, Elyria Lightbreaker was absolutely nowhere to be found.
It wasn’t as though Cedric hadn’t looked.
Oh, how he had looked.
But it was as if Elyria only existed when called to perform her victor’s duties.
As soon as they were done, she would disappear into the ether.
She wasn’t in her chambers during the day, nor in the training yard or the library or the council room.
She was just gone. Until the next time that she wasn’t.
Kit had been irritatingly tight-lipped about Elyria’s whereabouts. Tenebris Nox and Thraigg were both equally unhelpful—mostly because they only seemed amused by the fact that Cedric kept asking. Meanwhile, the fae king’s counselor, Dentarius, barely deigned to acknowledge Cedric’s existence.
It . . . concerned him. He just wanted to see her, wanted to make sure she was all right.
And selfishly, maybe he needed her too. Needed the grounding that only her presence seemed to provide these days.
His chest felt sore from the constant push and pull of the tether—the thread—there, a constant reminder of just how intricately they were woven together, even if he still did not understand why.
Just last night, his mind had been so abuzz with worry that Cedric had to physically restrain himself from going to her room in the middle of the night, pounding down the door, and demanding she finally look him in the eye.
Demanding she admit that she felt this too.
“Have you had a chance to speak with Ten yet?” Tristan’s voice pulled Cedric back.
Tenny.