Chapter Thirteen
Chapter
thirteen
I lean against the feather-strewn desk in the corner of the aviary, eyeing the scarlet-plumed raven.
He eyes me back, shrewd gaze all-seeing in the dull midday light.
His talons are longer than my fingers, curled around the scarred wood perch like black blades.
I take a calming breath before I summon the nerve to approach, imagining how easily he could scratch out my eyes, but he obediently lifts his leg, where a leather cord is affixed, for my use.
I work methodically, hyperaware of the sharp beak a handspan from my face as I bend in to attach the scroll. It is slightly crinkled—the parchment I found in the desk is old and curling at the corners. I think back over the message I scrawled inside as I slowly tie it in place.
Pendefyre,
I am safe. And, for now, I am staying.
I will see you at midsummer.
Rhya
A handful of words that had taken me hours to compose.
I’d tossed and turned all night, agonizing over how best to respond to him.
In the end, I went with bare facts, excising my feelings from the missive.
It’s better that way. My feelings are too tangled to sort into rational sentences, an unruly knot of regret and remorse and rage, all of which is threaded through with irrevocable longing.
I miss him.
I miss his heat and his fire, his burning eyes and that way he looks at me—like I am the spark that sets his very soul aflame.
But I learned the hard way that a fiery passion can sear the heart from your chest if you are not careful.
I got too close, and it burned me out. Something inside me singed into ashes that day at Blister Bight.
I fear I cannot rebuild it, even if I were brave enough to try.
Perhaps time away will lend me the clarity I need. Perhaps some space from the flames that flare so brightly between us will be enough to soothe the scorch—aloe on a wound that will never heal in his presence, for seeing him rips it open again and again and again.
Arriving in Ll?r was an accident…
But it could also be my salvation.
Though it would be foolish to mistake Soren’s presence for a balm to one’s damaged soul.
He pushed me last night—mentally, physically, elementally—crossing boundaries I am still furious about, overstepping in ways I will not soon forgive.
He seems to enjoy meddling in my life, as well as testing my capabilities.
And while a part of me chafes against that, another part, deep down inside, knows he is right.
If you go back to Caeldera, you go back to your cage.
I made more progress with my power in a single day in Ll?r with him than in all the days I spent in Dyved combined.
I am not so pigheaded as to pretend otherwise.
Nor am I able to deny that I have a lot further to go before I begin to approach mastery.
And I desperately need to master my powers. There is no more time to waste.
For a war is coming, of that I have no doubt.
The Midlands are poised on the brink of utter carnage.
The Southlands are in worse straits. And then there is the not-so-insignificant problem of Efnysien.
There is no telling how long it will take for the weasel to pop his head out of his den again so we might lop it off.
Before Fyremas, he had not been spotted for nearly a decade, Soren told me.
Pendefyre will not wait a decade. His need for revenge is insatiable. His anger is inextinguishable. It is only a matter of time before he launches a campaign into the black sands of the Husk Desert with his broadsword aimed at the Symmetria Keep.
The only question is: will Soren march with him?
Ll?r and Dyved are allies in war, pledged to defend the Northlands against invasion. But this is untested territory. To seek out the enemy, to invade the most inhospitable stretch of Anwyvnian soil…
Soren himself said it is nearly impossible.
Where his stepbrother is concerned, his motivations are murky at best. He wants revenge, that is clear enough. But for what? How deep does his animosity run? Deep enough to take up arms with Pendefyre? Deep enough to set aside all previous failed attempts at conquest and try again?
I suppose we will find out in three weeks, at midsummer, when Pendefyre arrives here. I know him well enough to realize his upcoming visit to Hylios is about far more than attendance at a royal wedding. He will not squander the opportunity to sit down with Soren and sketch out a strategy of attack.
I do not know the King of Ll?r half so well.
I cannot say whether he will be willing to wade into war.
For now, I do not care. His willingness to teach me to wield my maegic is a far more immediate bridge to cross.
Despite my initial resistance to the idea, long hours of restless contemplation in bed last night ultimately led me to a conclusion Soren no doubt reached the moment I tumbled out of his portal.
I have to stay.
Moreover…I want to stay. To train my skills, to improve my control. To learn from him any way I can. Only a fool would walk away from such an opportunity.
I am many things, but I am not a fool.
So, for the time being, I will remain in Hylios. I will soak up Soren’s knowledge like a sponge. And come midsummer I…I will…
I shake my head.
That bridge is one I am not going to even think about crossing.
Not yet, in any case.
Scroll affixed, I step back and watch as the scarlet raven takes flight, spreading its dark wings against the gray skies and swooping up into the heavy cloud cover.
I try not to imagine Pendefyre’s reaction when he receives my message.
I have a feeling the paper will burst into flames the second his eyes spot my handwriting.
When the bird is out of sight, I leave the aviary, brushing at the downy feathers that cling to my fitted navy tunic and trousers.
I found a pile of fresh clothing waiting for me outside my bedroom door at noon when I finally dared to poke my head outside my suite.
They fit perfectly, as do the soft leather boots that lace up to my knees.
The trousers are similar to the ones I saw the Paexyrian riders wearing yesterday, with built-in sheaths for weaponry, though lacking the inner thigh padding.
I was surprised to find one of the sheaths contained a dagger.
My dagger.
Soren must’ve retrieved it from the water sometime in the night.
I cannot fathom why he went to such effort, nor how long it had taken him to locate it at the bottom of the harbor.
I traced its familiar glyphs, wondering what sort of man mercilessly invades your mind, then swims to the depths of a shipwreck to retrieve one of your lost possessions.
A man I do not understand in the slightest, that is certain.
I make my way back through the gardens toward the villa. I am nearly there when I hear the sound of raised voices spilling from the terrace. Slamming to a halt, I duck behind a large palm frond before I am spotted.
“—subjected to yet another day of this miserable weather! How long will you allow her to pollute our skies unchecked?” a female voice snarls.
“The earthquakes and tsunamis are bad enough. Now we must contend with pervasive cloud cover courtesy of that temperamental airhead, who shows no aptitude for—”
A heavy male sigh cuts her off. “Arwen, your Paexyrian can fly through the pitch-black night and gale-force winds. I doubt your training schedule will be interrupted by a smattering of clouds.”
“It’s not the Paexyrian I’m concerned with.
Are you so wrapped up in her you’ve forgotten I’m to be married in under a month’s time?
Half the bloody kingdom is coming, if my bridegroom has his way.
And by the looks of it we won’t be celebrating out of doors!
Not when the heavens threaten to pour buckets whenever Miss Misery twists her nose out of joint or, gods forbid, gets a hangnail! ”
“I wouldn’t think you’d be concerned about the wedding at all. You put up such a fuss about the ceremony, I assumed you’d be thrilled the day was spoiled.”
Clearly, he’s struck a familiar nerve. Arwen’s voice goes glacial. “You know how important this alliance is. I will not jeopardize our relationship with Daggerpoint. If I have to put on a frilly dress and spout vows before every lord and lady in Ll?r, so be it.”
“I’m certain Alaric won’t mind if you get married in your flight leathers. The man worships the ground you walk on.”
“As he should.”
Soren sighs again. “Arwen—”
“Look, brother, I understand your head’s been turned by the stormy-eyed chit, but is it too much to ask you to speak with her about the weather that is poised to ruin a day that has been in the making for longer than she has walked this earth?”
“Ask her yourself” is Soren’s reply.
I go stone-still.
“What?” Arwen asks.
“You can come out, skylark.” He sounds amused. “I promise my sister won’t bite. Hard.”
Attempting to smother the blush that is overtaking my cheeks, I slink from behind the palm tree and step back onto the path.
Not a dozen paces away, Arwen and Soren are standing by the top of the stairs, gazing down at me from the terrace.
They look almost like twins, with their blue eyes and dark hair and identical poses—arms crossed over chests, feet planted wide.
They possess the same vicious beauty. Those cutting cheekbones, those elegant jawlines.
There is not much softness in either of them, though Arwen’s expression holds none of her brother’s warm amusement.
She studies me like a cockroach as I approach, her angular features pinched in blatant dislike.
“Hello,” I say tentatively, ascending toward them. “You must be Princess Arwen. We didn’t have a chance to officially meet yesterday on the docks.”
“What, no curtsy?”
I freeze at her tart question. I thought Ll?r did not practice the traditional royal protocols. My eyes shoot to Soren for confirmation.