Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Araya made it two more days before she broke.
It was boredom that finally wore her down, driving her to seek Thorne out in the skeletal remains of the garden. She found him sitting on a bench under a bower of gnarled vines, his head bowed over a sheaf of papers filled with flowing Valenya script.
“You made it,” he said. “I’m so glad you found the time—”
“Don’t patronize me.” Araya crossed her arms, glaring at him. “Just tell me what you expect me to do out here.”
“Well, I think it makes the most sense to start by walking the wall.” Thorne stood, tucking his papers away. “It never hurts to check the wards.”
“The wall isn’t warded.” Araya stared at him, frowning. “There aren’t any runes.”
“You might be surprised.” Thorne grinned. “Come on—this will be fun.”
Thorne had an interesting definition of fun, Araya decided when they were halfway around the wall. As far as she could tell, checking the wards involved nothing but running a hand along the stones.
“It’s ancient magic,” Thorne said when they stopped for water. “Designed to protect the castle from intruders. The intention was set a long time ago, but sometimes the stones have to be reminded.”
“So it doesn’t need any sort of anchor or focus?” Araya studied the stones, intrigued despite herself. “But how does it get power? I thought this place was abandoned?”
“Oh, it absorbs aether from the world around it,” Thorne capped the waterskin, passing it back to her. “That’s why the zal’vorr aren’t breaking down our doors every night.”
“That’s not how magic works,” Araya protested. “You can’t just tell things what to do and expect it to hold.”
“You’d be surprised,” was all Thorne said, his lips twitching like he was hiding a smile.
The next day he had her hauling water. She pulled bucket after bucket up from a tucked away well, her palms burning from the rough rope and her arms and shoulders screaming from the effort. Her hair escaped its braid, sweat plastering it to her face and neck.
“You know there are easier ways to do this,” she grumbled, groaning as she pulled up the next bucket. “There’s running water inside. I don’t see why this is even necessary—”
“It’s not.” Thorne laughed, taking the bucket from her and walking off toward the cistern as she gaped after him.
By the end of the week he’d had her drag all the old tapestries outside and beat years of dust from them until her throat burned, sweeping out hearths that hadn’t seen a flame in years until her entire body was blackened and exhausted—he’d even tasked her with cleaning out some of the unused rooms, like someone might come back and need them.
There was no rhyme or reason to it that she could see. But every night, Araya collapsed into bed aching and exhausted, falling quickly into a dreamless sleep free of nightmares and shadows and lost fae princes.
“I think it makes the most sense to start by clearing out the deadfall,” Thorne said the next day, frowning at the ruined garden. “After that I imagine we’ll have to clear out all the moss and mushrooms—we’ll have to see.”
“Is this another one of your pointless tasks?” Araya demanded. “This garden is dead—nothing is ever going to grow here again. There’s no light.”
“Maybe not.” Thorne shrugged, crouching to pry a root loose from between the paving stones. “But I thought it might make Loren happy to see it cleaned up. Did you know this was his mother’s garden? She loved it here.”
The comment lodged like a thorn in her chest, that ache she’d managed to bury under sore muscles and exhaustion springing to life like a flame from the ashes.
He claimed you against your will, she reminded herself. Drugged you and stole you across the Shadowed Sea. Then he made you hold a knife to your throat and abandoned you here. Alone.
“Is that who you’ve been writing to?” she asked. “Loren?”
“No—” for the first time, Thorne hesitated. “Those letters are from Finn, back in the New Dominion.”
“You get mail from the New Dominion?” Araya straightened, the armful of branches she’d just gathered crashing to the ground. “What’s happening there?”
“Nothing good.” Thorne turned away to dump his own load of debris on the growing pile, but not quite fast enough to hide his fading smile. “I’m sure you can imagine how they reacted to losing their prize prisoner.”
She could. All too well.
“What about Serafina?” Araya pressed. “Have they heard from her? Is she safe?”
“Our internal assets aren’t supposed to contact us directly.” Thorne still didn’t look at her. “I’m sure—”
“You’re lying,” Araya stared at him. “I saw Serafina with Finn at the Crust & Kettle. They looked very cozy.”
“Araya—”
“Is she dead?” Araya demanded. If Jaxon even thought she was involved—
“She’s missing.” Thorne watched her carefully, his expression pinched. “Eloria has her spymaster looking into it—Loren insisted.”
“The male he almost killed?” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. “Somehow I doubt he’s making it a priority. If she’s missing she’s dead, Thorne. Or worse.”
Thorne closed his mouth, his lips firming into a thin line. “I won’t insult you by saying that’s not probably the case,” he said quietly. “But I truly hope it’s not. She’s saved a lot of people. We all like her, and Finn…” he shook his head. “If she can be found, he’ll find her, Araya.”
Araya jerked her chin in a stiff nod, her eyes stinging. “I think I’m done for today,” she said, her voice thick.
“Araya—” Thorne took a step forward, reaching for her.
But she spun away before he could touch her, branches snapping beneath her boots as she fled.
Araya stormed blindly through the castle, taking turns at random down halls she barely recognized.
She didn’t care where she was going, only that it was away—away from the courtyard and Thorne and his letters and his kind lies.
But she couldn’t outrun the pounding certainty that it was all her fault.
Whatever was happening to Serafina right now—it was because of her.
She skidded to a stop, sucking in fast, shallow breaths.
The narrow halls that surrounded her were unfamiliar, no doubt meant to allow servants to move quickly throughout the castle without being seen.
Thorne must have skipped them in his tour, assuming she’d have no reason to venture into them—with any luck, that meant he wouldn’t come looking for her here, either.
She followed them down, letting her hand trail along the cool stone wall as the silence pressed in.
The air shifted, turning warmer and and filling her nose with the rich, yeasty smell of the dense brown bread that appeared with every meal here.
Her stomach twisted in response, reminding her that lunch had been hours ago, before she’d spent the afternoon doing manual labor.
The scent led her around another bend, where a wide wooden door stood propped open to let the heat of the kitchen spill into the corridor like a beckoning hand.
Inside, the older fae female from that disastrous dinner stood with her back half-turned, humming as she draped a fresh cloth over the steaming loaves of bread.
Araya froze on the threshold, the warmth brushing against her skin like an invitation she didn’t trust. This was the same female she’d spent the past week refusing to help—the one who had embraced Loren like a son. What would she think of her prince’s disappointing mate?
“Goodness.” Veria turned before Araya could make her retreat, startling. “Do you need something?”
“I just—” Araya fumbled for a suitable explanation, her tongue tangling over her excuses. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impose. I was just…trying to find somewhere no one would come looking for me.”
The older fae female wiped her hands on a towel, studying Araya with sharp blue eyes that seemed to read everything she’d left unsaid.
“Well, you’ve certainly found it,” she said finally. “No one comes down here unless they’re lost or hungry.”
Without waiting for a response, Veria turned back to the hearth, pouring a steaming cup of dark, fragrant tea into a chipped clay mug. She slid it across the table, adding a small plate with slivers of dried fruit and a thick heel of that dark bread.
“Sit,” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument when she saw Araya still hovering in the doorway. “A cup of tea always helps.”
Warily, Araya slid into the chair. She wrapped her fingers around the mug, the warmth of the tea seeping into her numb fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Veria only hummed in acknowledgment, turning back to fuss over the pot of stew hanging over the fire. She muttered to herself in Valenya, flicking her fingers toward the workstation.
The knife rose into the air, setting to work chopping root vegetables. The neat cubes floated across the kitchen, bobbing gently before dropping into the rich brown stew. Veria tasted it, considering, but when she turned away the wooden spoon kept stirring the pot of its own accord.
Araya watched it all with wide eyes. No one in the New Dominion had magic to spare on something as simple as cooking. Humans hoarded their power, and food was something most fae were lucky to have at all. But this—this was magic.
“How are you doing that?” she asked, the question tumbling from her mouth before she could think better of it.
Veria paused, arching a brow. “It’s easier to show than explain,” she said. “Grab and apron and wash your hands. I hope you don’t mind a little hard work.”