Chapter Eleven
Chapter
eleven
Soren’s hand is a steady weight at the small of my back as he guides me through the endless maze that is Hylios.
I’m too exhausted to ask where we are going, or even to take much notice of my surroundings with any real attention to detail.
All my strength is used to keep my legs beneath me and my eyes from slipping closed.
I blink hard to clear the haze from my mind, trying to get my bearings.
We’ve long since left the harbor behind, skirting the congested center of the city in favor of narrower alleys on the outskirts, in the long shadow of the perimeter walls.
I spot the unmistakable sprawl of soldiers’ barracks along with some industrial buildings—a smithy, an armory, a sailmaker, a brewery.
This part of town is less populated, its civilians shut away indoors.
Those we do pass on the streets clutch their colorful cloaks tighter, casting worried looks at the sky as they hurry home to escape the dreary weather.
My dreary weather.
I chew my bottom lip, wishing I knew how to dispel it.
It is not yet twilight, but the sky is dark.
Thick black clouds billow in on the heels of an all-too-familiar misty haze.
The palm trees look out of place without a vibrant blue backdrop, the sandstone buildings around us no longer white but ashen gray.
Even the waterways have dulled, from radiant turquoise to a darker teal.
Surprisingly, Soren makes not a single snarky comment on the subject. He seems content with our silent stroll. His gait is leisurely, his expression relaxed. He does not even look at me—something I find shockingly irritating.
An hour ago, he was inside my head, his intentions so interwoven there was no untangling them from my own. Now, from the bond, there is resolute silence. More than silence. A void. I can sense nothing at all. Normally, that would not bother me in the slightest. After today…
Nothing feels normal.
This muted censor is such a stark contrast to the intimacy of channeling, it gives me whiplash. Curiosity claws at me. I want to crack open his skull and peer inside, if only to cast some illumination on his thoughts.
Are they back at the docks?
Back with Arwen?
As introductions go, ours could have gone better.
I have no real explanation for her instant dislike.
So far as I can tell, I did nothing to inspire her wrath.
Yet the mere sight of me standing there beside her brother, dripping wet from the harbor, hair a sticky mess of webs and snarls, made her bristle like a guard dog scenting an imminent threat to its master.
She’d taken one long look at me—evidently finding me lacking—then turned on a booted heel and stalked back to her magnificent white winged steed without a word of farewell.
Her squad instantly fell into step, leaving Soren and me staring after them.
“She never can resist a dramatic exit,” he muttered, watching the five riders mount and, with a swift press of knees to flanks, take off at a gallop down the docks, then launch into the sky.
“Exit? What about her entrance?”
He glanced over at my incredulous comment, lips twitching as he read the clear awe on my face.
His eyes slid to my sodden, snarled hair for a long beat.
With a sudden flick of his fingers, a wave of maegic washed over me.
When it receded, I found my clothing completely dry, as though every particle of water had been sucked out of it.
I was still reeling when Soren further stunned me by reaching up and pulling a thick, sticky web from where it was fused near my temple.
My muscles locked, rendered utterly immobile as he worked it free of my skin, his fingers moving with a gentleness I had not known him capable of, slowly peeling the adhesive spider silk off my face, my neck, my collarbone.
It was a task I easily could have done myself, but I did not tell him that.
I could not seem to find the powers of speech.
My lungs were paralyzed, my throat lodged.
I did not take a breath until his hand dropped back to his side and he turned away to speak to the dockhands.
And, even when I did manage to inhale, the air felt paltry in my lungs.
Aftereffects of the seawater I choked down.
Or so I told myself.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I jerk out of my memories at the sound of Soren’s voice.
In my dazed state, I failed to notice he stopped walking several paces back.
I look around, startled to see we are at the base of the Easterly Beacon.
The lighthouse is embedded in the city walls, but double their height.
Even with my neck craned back, I cannot make out the roving beam affixed to its top.
“Erm…” I shuffle from one foot to the other. “Back to the villa?”
“Not that way, you’re not. You’ll never make it up all the stairs, and I for one don’t fancy carrying you. Might pull a muscle.”
My eyes narrow at his teasing tone.
“Glaring at me, when I’m about to show you a shortcut home?” He tsks, head shaking.
Before I can retort, he turns away and steps through a doorway at the base of the tower.
With no other option, I trail after him into the dark, circular space.
It takes my vision a moment to adjust to the shadows.
When it does, I see Soren standing beside a thick wooden ladder bolted to the far wall.
My gaze tracks its rungs endlessly upward, until I lose sight of them at the very top of the monolith, where a weak ring of daylight marks the exit to the lightkeeper’s quarters.
“You expect me to climb all the way up there?”
“Not all the way to the top.” There is a brief pause. “Halfway.”
That is hardly better. Halfway is still an unappealing distance.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to fly instead?”
I scoff. “Amusing.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
My head swivels his way. He does not, in fact, appear to be joking. “But—”
“Or, I could call Arwen back,” he continues, bemused. “She might give you a lift to the royal grounds on Atyr. No assurances she won’t dump you into the sea on the way there, though, if the mood strikes her. The Paexyrian riders are as high-strung as their mounts.”
The climb, however daunting, suddenly seems the safest option.
Lips pursed, I shove past Soren and grab the first rung.
His chuckles follow after me as I haul my aching body upward, rung by rung, cursing him with each minute gain in elevation.
My thin soles feel dangerously slippery on the wood.
I keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead, not chancing even the tiniest of glances up or down.
It is a long climb.
“How…much…” I wheeze. “Farther?”
“We’re about a third of the way there,” Soren returns from below, sounding not at all winded.
Only a third?
Skies.
“I must say, I’m enjoying the view. Those shapeless breeches of yours are much more flattering from this angle.”
I ignore his commentary, along with the resulting heat in my cheeks. We are getting closer. The light grows brighter as we approach the midpoint of the tower. I hear a torch crackling somewhere nearby, smell the faint whiff of smoke over the scent of damp stone.
“At least,” I pant, lungs burning as I grab another rung, “if I lose my grip”—I haul in a gulp of air—“you’ll break my fall.”
“Glad to know you find me good for something.”
By the time we reach the middle of the beacon, where the ladder splices at a landing, the last of my energy has whittled away into nothingness.
Kicking off the final rung, I heave myself onto the stone platform and promptly collapse in a heap, my muscles screaming for reprieve.
For a few moments, I lie there with my eyes closed, wheezing audibly.
A shadow moves over my face. My eyes sliver open to see Soren standing directly over me, his tall form blocking out the scant light.
“We need to work on your stamina,” he says lightly. “I’ll add wind sprints to our training program.”
I can only glare at him in response.
He gives me a few more seconds to catch my breath before he drags me to my feet. There are two doors at opposite ends of the landing, each bracketed by wall-mounted torches. Soren leads me through one, and we step out of the beacon onto a wide rampart.
We are atop the towering city walls, I realize with a lurch.
To my right, beyond the waist-high parapet, is a precipitous drop straight down to the sea.
To my left, the canals coil below us with serpentine grace.
My eyes follow the gradual curve of the wall from our position all the way to the northern end of the city, where Soren’s villa sits like a white diamond atop the terraced rise.
“See? What did I tell you?” He winks at me. “Shortcut. Leads straight to the royal grounds. No stairs required.”
My eyes continue their sweep along the curve, following the walls to the other side of the city, where the Westerly Beacon spears up into the sky directly opposite our position. If I squint, I can make out several shadowy forms moving behind the parapets.
“Can you walk around the whole city this way?”
Soren nods. “All the way to the sea gate. Comes in handy when you’re in a rush. The canals are beautiful, but they get unbelievably congested at times.”
I do not doubt that.
It takes about a half hour to make the journey along the top of the walls, a time we pass mostly in companionable silence.
I am distracted by the sheer beauty coming at me from every direction, incapable of keeping my eyes from roving over every proffered angle of Hylios.
Soren seems amused by my undisguised fascination, studying me as I study the bird’s-eye view.