3
Meront closed the door and leaned against it. “I’ve upset you.”
I couldn’t refute that.
I still tried to. “Not you.” Setting my hairbrush on the nightstand, I said, “Not entirely, anyway.” I rose from the bed to stand before the window.
Below, the shrubs surrounding the courtyard shivered.
I’d been alone for maybe ten minutes. Hardly long enough to untangle my own emotions, let alone know what to do with the concern pinching the prince’s lips. Any other time, I might have been glad to see it.
“He won’t touch you.” Sincerity dripped from Meront’s rough voice. “We’ll make sure of it.”
I almost laughed. “I don’t need guarding, Meront.” Hollow words. “It’s not me King Raxon wants.”
“Right.” Dryly, he said, “Just your kingdom.”
Denying that when it was why we were all here—when the Scale Crown and the wyvern spawning grounds resided in Cloverleaf—was futile.
King Raxon claimed this war was to avenge his brother, who was found in pieces on those very grounds. Raxon blamed my father, and he’d told all that Tolvos had been killed for attempting to steal a wyvern egg.
Except my father hadn’t known anything about it until word of the late alpha’s death had reached him. And King Tolvos, Prince Voran’s father, had been murdered eighteen years ago.
We all knew why he’d chosen to seek retribution now.
King Raxon had accrued enough force to take the title of high king from my father.
All those years ago, he’d used his brother’s death to claim that lone egg and even a young wyvern. In the years since, he’d incited hatred among the wolves who’d been unflinchingly loyal to their late alpha, turning the kingdom of Valadorn against their high king.
When I’d grown old enough to learn that King Raxon had ceased paying his half-yearly tithes to my father, and that he’d been raising the wyverns we’d surrendered to him for war, it had all seemed utterly absurd.
By attempting to make amends for something he hadn’t done, my father had increased Raxon’s power, and when he’d already had plenty. Too much, many had often said, being that Valadorn was home to thousands of Unseelie who could shapeshift, and they were mostly wolves.
Cloverleaf had always held the Scale Crown because the wyverns had chosen our lands for spawning.
That didn’t mean the wyverns belonged to us. No one owned the guardians of Avyshla’s mystical continent.
After each breeding season, we would search the spawning grounds for eggs, learn which wyvern had sired them by scent and color of the scales, and make sure hatchlings were given to their rightful kingdoms to be reared.
Where the wyverns wished to roam after that was entirely up to them.
Some, if reared respectfully, took to guarding their kingdom.
But in the past centuries, numbers had dwindled. We were fortunate to find one egg every two decades. If any were found, it was celebrated by all four realms.
Stealing a wyvern egg was indeed a death sentence or a declaration of war.
And several moons ago, before the scales could even color, Valadorn stole the first egg spawned since their late king’s death.
Should the babe somehow manage to develop in the wintry realm of Valadorn, I couldn’t bear imagining what would become of it when it hatched. For the wyverns Raxon had taken in exchange for peace had been reared to destroy Avyshla’s remaining wyverns.
To destroy everything.
I’d overheard Father telling his council that Raxon’s plans had been inspired by tales of mortal realms across the sea, where kings and queens were frequently overthrown.
But we were not human.
Faeries didn’t disrespect their deity’s chosen systems. We didn’t change rulers every other decade because someone perished. We lived for many hundreds of years. Far too long for these ancient kingdoms to fall into Raxon’s cruel and greedy hands.
“I doubt Prince Voran is here to assassinate me,” I finally said. “His uncle probably wants his heir protected, just like our parents.” That led me to wonder aloud, “But what of the prince’s younger sister?” Apparently, she hadn’t been seen in over a decade. “Do you think her absence could mean…?”
When people spoke about the princess, it was of her unique beauty, her whereabouts, or that her birth killed her mother. Many believed she was dead. Others said King Raxon hid her because of his infatuation with her, and his refusal to allow her to wed.
“I think the rumors about her being long dead aren’t just rumors.” Gulls screeched in the trailing quiet. Then Meront said, “Maybe you should spar with us. You haven’t had any training.”
That wasn’t true. Before I was sent here, I’d had some self-defense lessons. Of course, that didn’t mean I’d gained any skill. So I didn’t bother telling him. “I don’t need training to know how to stab and kick something.”
Meront chuckled.
The rough melody was a comfort, however small.
Gazing at the trees lining the isle’s western edges, I caught a glimpse of the ocean and wished for the hundredth time to see the lands across it. Wished I knew what was happening there. Alas, letterleaves and rumors were all we had.
“Have you heard anything more from your father?” I asked.
“Nothing since last week’s update.” Meront’s tone softened, as if he were imagining the same as me—the devastation wrought to the seaside communities of my kingdom.
An attempt to divide our forces by luring them far from the spawning grounds and castle.
“Ayla,” he sighed more than said. “I don’t trust this. ”
“This?” I asked, though I knew what he’d meant, and I didn’t trust it either.
“The wolf prince being here,” he explained. “Write to your father. I’ll also write to mine. Maybe they can find another place for you to wait out the war.”
He knew my father hadn’t returned my letterleaves. I doubted informing him of the new ward would change that.
“Dealing with Prince Voran is nothing compared to what others are dealing with on the mainland. I’m not leaving.”
Besides, there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to hide from spies and those desperate for King Raxon’s favor—his mercy should he seize control of Avyshla.
“Ayla,” Meront said again.
“I’ll keep away from him.” I turned to face him. “Just as you should.”
Meront glared.
His tunic stitching protested when he crossed his giant arms over his equally giant chest. He still hadn’t washed. Most of the males waited until curfew because they were more comfortable in tunics and pants than in the scratchy evening robes.
The longer he stared, the more my rattled heart pounded. Not from fear but from a tingling sort of discomfort.
One that forced me to glance down at my bare toes and murmur, “You should bathe before curfew.”
“They won’t stick me on dish duty. I need only grin, and Priestess Mala sways like a tree before drifting away.”
Withholding a snort, I said, “You’ve become even more skilled at flirting.”
“Oh?” A thick brow arched. “Seems such talent is wasted on you.”
Flushing instantly, I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Go, Prince. You might not care about getting into trouble, but I do. I’m still getting used to making my own bed. I would cause a disaster on dish duty.”
“Actually, getting caught in a dormitory with the opposite sex results in far worse punish—”
“Meront,” I whined through a laugh.
He raised his hands. “Fine. Going.”
Before he shut the door, he leaned into the crack to say, “If he so much as breathes too close to you, you find me immediately.”
Tears pricked, but I nodded.
“Promise me.”
Heart still beating hard, I rasped, “Promise.”
He stared at me for a moment longer than necessary, then knocked his knuckles against the mildew-speckled wood. “Lock this whenever you’re in here.”
The door closed.
I waited until his booted steps faded, then hurriedly did as I was told.
Over the next few days, Meront and Darcen watched Voran Valadorn like a pair of mated fyrefowls guarding their young. But they weren’t the only ones.
Everyone watched the prince.
Well, everyone but me. Whispers filled aisles of books and flew across tables. Insults were jeered during training as if the enemy prince wasn’t mere stories above the courtyard with better hearing than the rest of us.
Among the rumors was the claim that he was strangely alluring. Too frightening to be called beautiful and too unique to be deemed classically handsome.
I wouldn’t know. I still hadn’t mustered the courage to look at his face.
Celestine had no such qualms. She found me whenever the Valadorn prince left his room—a rarity—and spoke of him prowling through the archives as if his inner wolf might shift free at any moment.
Aside from meals, I hadn’t been near him, which aided in taming the fears that caused my imagination to run wild. Last night, I’d even managed to sleep for more than a handful of hours.
A fyrefowl screeched as it soared from the sea toward the woods beyond the gardens.
Paphin gazed up at the clouds. “They’re back.”
The isle was home to the birds large enough to rival a half-grown wyvern in size.
“Where do you think they go?” asked Tyressa. Dirt smeared the youngling’s cheek.
I smiled at the soil shivering beneath my fingers. “All across the realms.”
Another shriek drew Tyressa’s gaze toward the woods. “Maybe they’ve been looking for the lost wyvern egg.”
Paphin snorted. “There is no lost egg. It was stolen to start the war.” The young lord was only two years older than Tyressa’s ten, but his auburn eyes held an aggression that hinted at many overheard conversations.
He shoved his fingers into the soil beside the parsley.
“That wyvern will be used to burn our forests and homes, too. The fowls are simply looking for clusters of fish.”
Though our homes had yet to burn, Paphin wasn’t entirely wrong.
But the fear watering Tyressa’s cinnamon eyes had me reaching over the herb garden to place my hand on hers. “They haven’t burned, little lady.” To Paphin, I said sternly, “Our wyverns and warriors are protecting our lands.”
“How would you know?” Paphin asked. “We’ve been stuck here.”