Chapter Six #2
“I am not a prude. I simply have no wish to witness such an unattractive form at this proximity.”
He chuckles at my bluster. For it is, in fact, bluster. His form looks as though it has been personally carved by the gods themselves to torture womankind.
“Please,” I repeat, hand still tight over my eyes.
I hear a heavy sigh. Then, the sound of a large form disturbing the lapping water as he stalks to the edge of the bathing pool.
Then…nothing at all. The silence is so complete, I can hear only my own pulse roaring between my ears and the occasional sputter of flame as a warm night breeze disturbs the wall sconces.
If he moves, he does so in total stealth.
I very nearly jump out of my skin when he speaks again. His voice comes from less than a pace away. “You can open your eyes now.”
I do not move; I do not trust him.
A large hand manacles my wrist and pulls it from my face.
I find myself looking directly into the broad column of Soren’s throat.
The golden skin is damp, as is the dark hair that curls around it, the ends nearly kissing his shoulders.
It has grown long since I last saw him. My eyes flicker down to examine the thick bath towel slung low on his hips—a meager concession to my request.
“Big of you,” I snap.
His mouth twists. “So I’ve been told.”
“The towel,” I clarify, cheeks flaming even redder. “You could’ve put on some breeches, at the very least.”
“People who storm into my private chambers unannounced do not get a say in what I choose to wear—or, more often, not wear.”
I roll my eyes to cover my deep embarrassment.
And for a momentary respite from looking at his face.
I had somehow forgotten how arresting his features are, how startling he looks up close.
On anyone else, such beauty might have a softening effect.
Make them more approachable. Somehow, on Soren, it does the opposite.
Makes him all the more lethal. Beauty is another weapon in his vast arsenal, each line of his chiseled features designed to ensnare and bewilder his opponents.
But then, the loveliest flowers are often the most poisonous.
“Rhya.” All traces of amusement are gone from his voice. “Delighted as I am to see you here…would you care to explain your rather abrupt arrival through my personal portal?” His pause is intent. “A portal, I might add, only a handful of living souls even know exists?”
Truly? I suck in a soft gasp as I meet his gaze.
He is still holding my wrist. The bones feel very breakable in his grip. “Is an explanation forthcoming, or must I strip to the skin to get you to speak again?”
“I got lost,” I blurt when he starts reaching toward his towel.
He stills. “You got lost.”
“Yes. In the leylines. I was…” I shake my head. “It was foolish. I thought I could take a portal back to Caeldera by myself. I should’ve just gotten on the godsdamned horse like Penn told me to, but I was so angry and—”
I break off before I can spill too many unnecessary details. Soren’s eyes sharpen with curiosity nonetheless—two ocean-blue blades, cutting into me with lethal perception.
“You and Pendefyre are not, perchance, fighting, are you?”
“That is not, perchance, your business, is it?”
His mouth twitches. “Fair enough. But you still have not answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“How did you find yourself here? Even if you were lost in the leylines, as you claim, I find it hard to believe you chose this particular portal at random.”
“I never said it was random.” I glower up at him. “Like I told you, I was lost. I was starting to panic, thinking I’d never find my way out. Some of the exit points looked…sick. Some looked dead. But this one looked different—felt different—than the rest.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try anyway.” It is not a request.
“It was…It felt…” I hedge. “Alive.”
“Alive?”
“Brighter. Almost…beckoning me in, like a torch in the darkness.” I shrug. “I thought it was Caeldera. Obviously I never would’ve selected it if I’d known it was going to spit me out on your bathhouse floor.”
I look around, taking in the full scope of the chamber for the first time.
Spherical in shape and exquisitely designed, with few furnishings to detract from the natural beauty of the moonlit quartz.
The domed ceiling is open to the night sky, a perfect circle cut out of the center.
Through it, I can see a waxing moon and a phenomenal spread of stars.
If one were to lie back in the bathwater, the constellations would be directly overhead, a glorious tapestry for viewing.
“Are we in Ll?r?”
“Yes.” Soren’s voice warms a shade. “Hylios welcomes you, little wind weaver—even if you are several weeks ahead of schedule. I did not expect to see you until Arwen’s wedding at midsummer.”
“As I told you before, coming here was not my intention.”
“And yet, here you are.” He pauses. “Your timing is fortunate. I myself only returned earlier this very night.”
Night.
I jolt in realization. It is full dark outside. That means I was in the portal network not seconds, not minutes, but hours, for it was not even midafternoon when I departed Dyved.
Time passes differently in the leylines—something to keep in mind for my next journey.
I tear my attention away from the stars and find Soren studying my face in the candlelight. His casual expression belies the intensity of his eyes.
“And how did you find the southern kingdoms?” I ask, forcing a light tone.
He scoffs. “The Midlands remain a misery. The Southlands fester like a sour wound, ripe for lancing.”
“How delightfully descriptive.” I grimace. Given his attitude, I assume the mission to hunt down Efnysien was unsuccessful. I ask anyway. “And what of your…” My brow furrows as I attempt to recall the twisted familial ties that once made the sorcerer his relation. “Your brother-in-law, is it?”
“Stepbrother,” he corrects, voice losing some of its levity. “Former stepbrother. For the past century. Ever since I cast him out of my kingdom.”
“Ah.” I gulp delicately, sensing this topic is a sensitive one. “Right.”
Soren blows out a short breath. “Regrettably, Efnysien is elusive as ever. We chased the coward southward beyond the Cimmerians, cut a path clear through the realm. In Eastwood, the woods are so thick there is no possibility of speedy pursuit. In Nythia, the woods may not be thick, but the fighting is. Their king has dragged his people into yet another bloody skirmish with Carvage. Let’s just say, it is difficult to cover much ground when said ground is littered with freshly slain bodies. ”
I shudder. I do not miss the Midlands, with its endless bloody wars and power-hungry kings.
“Glamoured uniforms may conceal fae features, but that matters little when traversing indiscriminate killing fields,” he mutters.
“The mortals swing their swords at anything that moves. We were lucky to make it through at all. By the time we crossed into the Reaches, Efnysien and his army had already disappeared into the Shadow Steppes.”
The name is unfamiliar. “Shadow Steppes?”
“A region of near-constant sandstorms, stirred by violent winds that whip through malformed rock formations.” Soren shakes his head.
“A shroud of darkness blankets that place. The air is thick with sand and ash. Even with a face-covering, after a few hours there your lungs feel gritty with debris, your eyes caked shut, your skin cracked and raw. Still, we pushed on, pursuing them all the way to the edge of Dymmeria.”
My brows lift. “But no farther?”
“I will not lead my soldiers into the Husk Desert. No valor awaits there. Only slaughter.”
“You have tried before,” I surmise.
His nod is tight. “Many times over the years, we have attempted to infiltrate that dark dominion. I have sent scouts, spies, full squadrons. No matter the approach, the results are always the same. None ever return. There is no breaching even the outskirts of the drifts that surround Efnysien’s keep.
There are no roads to follow, no landmarks to orient oneself.
Even if you make some headway without dying of thirst, the creatures who burrow beneath those black sands are more effective than any archers or infantry. ”
“No wonder Efnysien feels so at home there. A monster among other monsters.”
“Mmm. Though I think his selection of the desert had more to do with me than any arachnidae lair or abyss pit.”
I make a mental note to ask about the unfamiliar terms later. “You?”
“Of all the locations my stepbrother could have chosen to build his empire, do you think it is a coincidence he selected the one place in the realm my powers are at their weakest?”
“Water has no place in a desert,” I murmur, following his logic.
I think of my own clawing claustrophobia each time I am suppressed beneath deep earth, and wonder if Soren’s physical reaction is similar when he steps foot in the parched sands of the Southlands.
“He hides from you where you cannot follow.”
“Rare are the occasions he leaves his own borderlands. Before Fyremas, he had not been spotted beyond the Symmetria Keep for nearly a decade. I cannot begin to express my frustration that I failed when given such an opportunity.”
“I’m sorry.”
His head cants to one side. “Whyever are you sorry?”
“I know how badly you wanted to catch him. To make him pay for all he did to us at Fyremas.”
“My issue with my stepbrother long predates what happened in Caeldera. I should’ve killed him a century ago, when I had the chance.
At the time, banishment seemed a more humane option.
” His voice is light; his eyes are not. “In the years since, whatever merciful instincts I possessed back then have been whittled away. When next I find occasion to wrap my hands around his throat, I will not squander it.”
“Are you very different, then?” I cannot help asking. “From who you once were?”
“Far more handsome.”