Chapter Seven #3
Once before, I visited another Ll?rian estate.
The Acrine Hold, a sterile stone fort at the base of the Cimmerian Mountains.
The two dwellings have precious little in common when it comes to structure or design, yet they do share one attribute: a strange lack of staff.
No guards are posted at exterior doors, no soft-footed pages carry parchment scrolls down corridors.
Even the kitchen is empty of the usual chatter of cooks and clatter of ladles in pots.
Admittedly, my experience with royal households is limited…
but certainly a king’s home would have a whole fleet of footmen and scullery maids?
Before Fyremas reduced the castle to ruins, Vanora’s court deployed an invisible army that moved through the keep, prepared to fulfill her every whim at a moment’s notice.
If Soren has a similar legion, they do not reveal themselves.
The only sound that disturbs the quiet is the patter of my boots on the polished marble as I walk across the vacant kitchen.
Like many of the rooms, it is open to the air at one end with a vast columned archway that allows a crisp breeze to blow in, carrying currents of jasmine and sea salt.
As I wander out onto the terrace, my eyes sweep the inner courtyard, following the slate paths that lead down into the lush gardens encircling a spring-fed pool.
At the center sits the bathhouse, connected by a curved stone bridge.
I study it from afar, allowing the pulse of pure power it emits to wash over my skin.
The mark at my chest prickles in response.
The portal there is highly concentrated. I assume that’s why I was pulled here, instead of to Pendefyre.
“If you’re hoping to catch me in the nude again, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”
I spin around at the sound of Soren’s liquid lilt. He’s appeared behind me without any warning at all. As though he’s materialized out of thin air.
“I wish you’d stop doing that.”
“Bathing?”
“Sneaking up on me.”
“Your inability to sense me has less to do with the skills I possess and more to do with those you lack.” His eyes dance with humor as he watches my lips flatten into a frown. “Did you get any rest?”
“More than I’ve had in a month.”
His humor vanishes. “You’ve been wearing yourself down to the bone. Not eating, not sleeping. I fear if I let you return to Caeldera, you’ll desiccate entirely.”
“If you let me? It’s not your decision.”
“My, my, you’re cranky in the morning.”
“I am not cranky.”
“That statement might be more convincing if it weren’t coming at me through clenched teeth.”
I forcibly relax my jaw and smooth the glower from my face. “I’m sorry. I am merely eager to get back to Dyved. I’ve been away too long already, and sent no word about my abrupt disappearance—”
“I sent word.”
My eyes widen. “You…What?”
“To Pendefyre,” he explains, unperturbed by my shocked reaction. “I sent a raven to Caeldera late last night, informing him of your rather…serendipitous…arrival during my bath. I’m sure, once the firestorm of temper subsides, he’ll be relieved.”
“Firestorm? What else did you say to him, exactly?” Gods, I can only imagine. The man takes every given opportunity to goad Penn…
“Don’t fret. I left out the more salacious details.” Soren appears to be fighting a grin. “Wouldn’t want to incite any international incidents, would we?”
My eyes press closed for a long moment as I attempt to summon a sense of calm. “I appreciate you sending word that I have not been lost forever in the leylines. That said, it changes nothing. I still need to return as soon as possible. So if you would take me through the portal, as you agreed—”
“Tell me…” He cuts me off, folding his arms across his broad chest. His shirt is rolled to the elbows and crafted of a pure white linen that accentuates the deep golden tan of his skin. “What is it you are so eager to get back to?”
“It’s—Well—I—”
His dark brows arch as I struggle.
“There are people there who count on me.”
“Pendefyre?”
I try not to flinch, but I cannot quite conceal my reaction. A sharp pain vaults through me.
No.
Not Pendefyre.
He does not allow himself to count on me for anything.
Soren easily reads the truth from my silence. “Mmm. I thought not.”
“Feel free to keep your thoughts to yourself.”
He promptly disregards that suggestion. “If it is not the new king calling you back, whyever the rush to return?”
“Have you so easily forgotten the damage wrought on Fyremas? Even now, the city sits in ruins. There is much to rebuild.”
“And they require you to clear the rubble yourself, piece by piece?” He answers his own question. “No. Dyved has a large army capable of setting the court to rights without the aid of the Remnant of Air.”
Blood rushes into my cheeks. “I have other responsibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say stiffly, “but I’ve been working with the Life Guild. Healing those wounded in the battle.”
“I suppose that explains the drab attire.”
I make a vulgar hand gesture to illustrate precisely how little I care about his opinions of my threadbare uniform.
Soren chuckles, more amused than offended. “While healing is a valiant pursuit, it’s been months since the battle. Most of the wounded have either vacated your infirmary or fled to the skies by now.”
“Regular illnesses and injuries still occur every day.”
“And you are the only one in Dyved with healing skills?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then your responsibilities are not, perhaps, as restrictive as you would have me believe.”
“You may presume to know everything about my life, but presumptions are only as strong as the actualities behind them.”
His fingertips dig into the fabric of his shirtsleeves, a reflexive indication of annoyance that does not show in his expression. “The only thing that can turn presumption into actuality is time,” he rebuts softly. “Something I rarely have with you.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, until the air grows charged with a thick tension that makes me look away.
My eyes skate across the inner courtyard, tracing the twisting vines of jasmine, the sloping grace of the palm trees, the dizzying blue of the spring.
The quartz bathing chamber at its heart is a striking sight in the light of day, though nothing can compare to its luminous beauty in the cast of the moon.
“Your home is beautiful,” I murmur, not certain why I feel so compelled to share that with him but unable to resist the urge all the same.
There is a pause. “I’m glad you think so. Though it pales in comparison to the rest of the capital.”
“Yes, from my balcony it looked…” Hearing the dreamy quality of my own voice, I swallow hard and clear my throat. “Anyway. I’m sure I’ll see more of it at midsummer when I return for Arwen’s wedding.”
To this, Soren does not reply.
I continue staring at the bathhouse. “You should take me through now.”
He says nothing.
When I finally glance back at him, he is standing there staring at me like I am a puzzle for which he cannot quite work out a solution. A lock of dark hair falls over his forehead, where a furrow mars his perfect brow. His eyes are the same shade as the sapphire spring water.
“Well?” I prompt. “Will you?”
“No.”
“No?” It is a struggle to keep my voice even. “I’ve rested, as we agreed. It’s time to go.”
“I believe our terms included a good meal in addition to a good night’s sleep.”
My teeth grind together. “Are you joking?”
“I never jest about breakfast.”
“Soren, I mean it.”
“As do I. You must be hungry. Admit it.”
As it happens, I am hungry. I haven’t eaten for…Actually, I’ve lost track of my last meal. I only know it was far too long ago.
“Don’t make me beg, skylark,” he cajoles. “Come now. Wipe that frown off your face and follow me.”
My lips press together, deepening my frown, but the sight only makes his own tug up into a half smile. I cast my eyes heavenward, seeking divine intervention. When none arrives, I heave a sigh. “Fine. Feed me if you must.”
He laughs at my undisguised annoyance. Then he turns on his heel and walks back into the villa.
I have no choice but to scurry in his wake, resigned to my fate.
Frankly, I am tired of arguing—with him, with Penn, with Yale, with Osain…
with everyone in my life. On this one thing, I will yield. It is only a meal, after all.
What can one meal change in the grand trajectory of my existence?
I catch up to Soren in the kitchens. He does not slow his pace to accommodate my shorter strides, nor does he pause when we pass beyond the cold hearth into a wide hall littered with more art and artifacts.
An impossibly beautiful runner rug stretches the length of the corridor.
It is soft even through the soles of my boots.
“Um…Soren?”
“Mmm?”
“The kitchens are back there.”
“Astute observation. Gods, you’re sharp.”
My hands curl into fists. “How do you plan to cook my breakfast without making use of your gargantuan range?”
“I don’t plan to make your breakfast at all. Not when there are so many skilled vendors down in the city eager to do it instead.”
“But—What—” I shake my head as though that might clear it. “I never agreed to traipse through Hylios.”
“You agreed to let me feed you. You never specified where said meal was to take place, or that I was the one who’d prepare it.”
“That’s a technicality and you know it.”
“Then let this be a lesson. Your first of many. Next time you strike a bargain—with me or anyone else—be more specific on the terms.”
My eyes narrow at his back. “What do you mean by that? My first lesson of many?”
He does not answer except to slow his pace somewhat, so we are side by side as we exit the villa through another wide archway onto yet another terrace.
This one does not face the interior courtyard but the city itself.
A near identical vantage to that offered by my balcony, perched high above a swath of rooftops and canals.
Soren hears my breath catch as I take in the view and smirks at the sound, but blessedly refrains from comment.
Perhaps he knows I have reached my limit for teasing for the day.
As it is not yet noon, this does not bode well.