Chapter Seven
Chapter
seven
The drugging scent of jasmine drenches the darkness.
Beneath it, I taste a kiss of salt on the breeze.
I haul gulps into my lungs as we ascend a set of stone steps from the round bathing chamber.
Soren is close on my heels as I climb, for the way is narrow and there are no railings to speak of.
Not far below, I hear the gentle slosh of water against rock.
Not a stairway, then, but a bridge.
The water is a dark spill of ink all around us, indecipherable to my eyes, which are slowly adjusting to the dimness.
When we reach the top, I glance back at the bathhouse.
It is a tiny island unto itself, aglow at the center of a large natural spring.
In the shallows, dozens of phosphorescent frogs sit upon lily pads, their croaks a throaty chorus.
Soren says nothing as he moves ahead, leading the way down a path that rounds the edge of the spring.
His bare feet make no sound on the smooth slate.
Lanterns hang interspersed in the darkness, illuminating a lush garden of night-blooming white flowers.
Phlox, jasmine, wisteria. A few more I do not recognize.
Palm trees sway overhead, their fronds thwacking melodically.
Fyrewisps flit everywhere, some weaving lazily while others zoom at speeds I am unable to track.
I have only ever before seen the vibrant red variety that populates Dyved’s deep forests, and the even more muted kind that inhabit rare stretches of the Midlands.
These are a strain I have never encountered—not one shade but many, changing color as fast as they change flight direction. Yellow, blue, green, purple.
Like fireworks.
The instant the thought crosses my mind, I am thrown back in time. Back to Fyremas, back to Caeldera. Back at the top of the crater, watching fireworks explode over the city. Back with Pendefyre—
I banish the memories with a firm headshake.
I have no desire to relive that moment, nor anything else that followed that terrible night.
If I have learned anything during these past months of bleak survival, it is that I cannot reshape my past by dwelling on it.
Reliving my losses will not dull them. Endlessly replaying past darkness does nothing to ensure a brighter future.
Better to live in the now. One day at a time. One breath at a time. Until, someday, I no longer have to remind myself to breathe.
The path slopes upward to a large terrace, and an impressive building comes into view.
More than a mere house, yet not quite a castle.
It sprawls with palatial grace around the gardens, all white walls and stately columns, with a pagoda roof of silver tiles that curves up at the corners in a way that is reminiscent of the floating lotus flowers I’ve seen sketched in some of the apothecary’s oldest botany texts.
Torches burn bright in welcome along the terrace, casting a luminous glow across the impressive facade.
There is no door; the main entry is an archway wide as a wagon and twice as high, completely open to the night.
“This is my villa,” Soren announces, walking between two marble columns thick as wine barrels. They are covered in intricate carvings I wish I had the leisure to examine.
“Yours alone?” It is big enough for fifty.
“I enjoy my space.” He pauses a beat. “When you’ve met Arwen, you may understand why.”
“She lives in Hylios?”
“She does, along with a few of my other siblings. There are several villas scattered around the royal grounds for visitors and family members. It will be easier to show you in the light of day.”
I nearly trip on the threshold, not watching my feet with my head tipped back to take in the soaring ceilings of the atrium.
The gardens have followed us indoors. Potted palms tower along the perimeters in vases large as I am tall.
Vines of a variety I do not recognize creep up interior columns and bloom with glowing blue flowers.
“You have other siblings?” I manage to ask once I’ve stopped reeling.
“Arwen is technically my only full-blooded sibling, resulting from my parents’ marriage.
The rest are a result of my father’s many dalliances.
” There is a smile in his voice. “I gained a handful of stepsiblings from his subsequent marriages, along with a whole brood of bastard half-siblings. And those are just the ones we know about. The only pastime King Manawydan enjoyed more than bedding his wives was bedding women who weren’t his wives. ”
I swallow a startled laugh.
“Of course, many of his progeny are long gone now. Old age, illness, what have you. The handful who remain—those of strong maegical lineage—are elderly and ill-tempered despite their age-resistant appearances. Keep that in mind when you inevitably cross their paths.”
My stomach clenches uncomfortably at the thought of meeting Soren’s siblings. The last time I was introduced to a Remnant’s kin, it did not go well. If they are anything like the late Queen Vanora…
“They tend to come and go as they please,” Soren continues. “Especially Vaughn. But the doors of Hylios are always open to my siblings, should they desire a visit.” The smile disappears from his voice. “Most of them, anyway.”
“Efnysien, you mean.”
“Yes. But even he was welcome, once. A long time ago.”
He slows his pace, falling into step beside me.
The lofted ceilings are cut with skylights, allowing shafts of moonlight to slice down around us.
A beautiful fountain gurgles at the center of the atrium—two mythical merpeople locked together in a passionate embrace, mouths fused, hair flowing.
Their naked forms are so realistically chiseled, it is difficult to believe they are not flesh and blood.
Their scales possess the luster of abalone shells, shining bright despite the shadows.
Water spouts from the tips of their intertwined tails and the length of the merman’s trident, showering them in a constant waterfall.
I can hardly tear my eyes away, but Soren pays the fountain no notice as we pass by, seemingly immune to its beauty.
“What did he do?” I ask softly, almost afraid to know the answer after wondering for so long. “To warrant banishment?”
Soren sighs. “That is a story for another night. One bolstered by copious intake of Titan gin.”
We pass beyond the atrium into a wide corridor that runs the length of the villa, splitting off into darkened rooms we do not pause to explore.
Eventually, we reach a separate wing that houses a half dozen doors.
They are all crafted of the same pale wood—bamboo, I think, or teak—but unique in their designs.
Some are carved with feathers, others seashells.
The one on my left looks like a setting sun; the one on my right captures the crest of a perfect wave.
My eyes move over them as we walk, studying the ornate craftsmanship, until we reach the very end of the hall.
There sits another door, set quite a distance away from the rest. A grander entryway, double the width of the others.
Not wood. It is a solid slab of crystal—cleaved, like the bathing chamber, out of pure, opaque quartz.
It glows faintly. I sense the unique signature of Soren’s power rolling off it and know, even at ten paces, that it is warded shut.
Soren stops at the center of the corridor, finally pausing to look at me.
“Feel free to choose any of the bedrooms that most appeals to you. They are all vacant and well maintained. That one”—he gestures toward the door with the sun—“the Sunset Suite, has a particularly nice view of the Westerly Beacon. The Gull Suite”—he points two doors down, to the one with feather elements—“faces the interior gardens.”
I jerk my chin toward the crystalline threshold. “And that one?”
“My bedroom.” He pauses a beat, head canting sideways as he stares at me. “You are welcome to wander wherever you please for however long you are here—with the exception of that door. No one enters but me.”
I scoff. “I have no desire to spy on you.”
“Says the woman who interrupted my bath.”
“Spare me your belated—and, might I add, false—modesty.”
His lips twitch. His fingers lightly graze the fabric of his low-slung towel. “Oh, I think you know I have nothing to be modest about.”
Color hits my cheeks. I ignore it. “Trust me, even if I wanted to see inside your personal chambers—which I do not—I can tell just standing here that the door is heavily warded. I doubt I could get through it if I tried.”
“Let’s not test that theory, shall we? We don’t yet know what you are capable of, little wind weaver.”
“As always, you overestimate my powers.”
“And you, as always, underestimate them.” His eyes flash, sudden flecks of silver striating the blue. “How long will you deny your own abilities? How long will you run from who you are? From what you are capable of?”
I blink, startled. His furl of temper is unexpected, a rogue wave lashing out of calm waters.
But as quickly as it arose, it is gone again.
The silver fades from his irises. His voice drops to a mutter I am not sure is meant for my ears.
“Just as well you’ve come on your own. Spares me the unpleasant task of dragging you out of Dyved by force. ”
Surely I have misheard him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s past time we began. Well past.”
“Began what?”
He does not answer, merely turns on his heel and walks to his door. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
“I’m leaving in the morning,” I remind him. “You’re to bring me back to Caeldera at first light.”
“Like I said, we’ll discuss it in the morning.”
“Soren!”
“Good night, skylark.”
“Wait—”