Chapter Thirteen #2
He shakes his head lightly. “Ignore her. The delightful princess here would sooner arm wrestle you than observe proper etiquette.”
“As if she could arm wrestle,” Arwen mutters. “Her limbs are like toothpicks.”
“Sister, you are about three biting comments away from me having the armorers fashion you a muzzle.”
Ignoring her brother, her eyes narrow further on me.
She is an intimidating sight, clad in leather top to toe.
I count a minimum of four lethal blades tucked at various places on her person, along with the set of silver throwing stars at her hips.
The shaved sections of hair at her temples lend her an additional air of menace, as do the inky tendrils of a tattoo that corkscrew up the side of her neck.
She is tall for a woman, with curves almost as ample as her muscles.
Besides the silver hoop in her septum, her only accessory is a pair of flight goggles that hang down around the sculpted leather bodice like a necklace.
She uses the opportunity to study me in turn. “So, this is the famed Remnant of Air. You do look like a gust of wind might blow you away, I’ll give you that.” She pauses, eyes flickering down my form. “That, and not much more.”
I grit my teeth and strive for calm. “I’m Rhya.”
She continues to stare at me in silence.
“Though you seem to have several other names for me already,” I go on, never breaking her gaze. “Quivering dock rat? Temperamental airhead? Stormy-eyed chit?”
“Don’t forget Miss Misery,” Soren adds, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the railing. “I quite liked that one.”
We both ignore him, still glaring at each other.
Eventually, Arwen shrugs. “That’s what you get for eavesdropping. Don’t listen in on other people’s conversations if you are not prepared to hear things you do not like.”
“Are you always this caustic toward strangers, or am I a special case?”
“That depends on how long you’re planning to stay in my city.”
“Don’t you mean my city?” Soren mutters.
“Why would I want to leave when my reception has been so warm?” I ask her, voice saccharine. “I wouldn’t want to miss a moment of your wedding festivities.” I pause, all sweetness draining from my tone. “A real shame about the weather. If only there was something I could do about it…”
Arwen’s blue eyes flash with annoyance. She turns to her brother as though I no longer exist. “I’ll be at the barracks. Harpina and Bretiax are due back from Windward Port with a briefing from Vaughn. Come find me when you’re ready to discuss it. And do me a favor? Leave the runt at home.”
With one last scathing look at me, she turns on a bootheel and trots down the steps, following the path that leads toward her villa. I watch her go, my expression pinched into a scowl.
“Who on earth would marry her? A bridge troll?”
Soren lets out an unbridled laugh. “You’ll meet Alaric soon enough. He and his fleet are due to arrive from Hollywell next week with half the wedding party and a metric ton of lager.”
Our eyes meet, and an unspoken understanding passes between us.
He does not ask if I will still be here in a week; I do not tell him I have decided to stay.
Admitting it aloud feels, somehow, like admitting he was right to do what he did last night—invading my mind, pushing my limits.
I would sooner choke on my words than make such an admission.
“Ll?rian garb suits you,” Soren says, shattering the silence. His eyes sweep me up and down. “Though you did look rather fetching in my robe.”
“Your robe?”
He nods, lips twitching.
My eyes widen. “I did not realize. I found it in the wardrobe in my suite…”
“That room was mine as a boy.”
I rock back on my heels in surprise.
His room.
As a boy.
I sometimes forget that Soren was raised here, in this very house.
Unlike Pendefyre, he is royal not only by birthright but by blood as well.
He and Arwen sprang from one of the strongest fae lineages in history, which dates back to the time of the emperor.
His father was a king long before he was born, and continued to rule for a long stretch after.
King Manawydan was reputedly even more fearsome in battle than his son.
He steered the Water Court through the bloody aftermath of the Cull, all while holding back the grasping Midlanders, Frostlanders, and Reavers who sought to eradicate his kind in the years that followed.
Not to mention raising a Remnant and a brood of other children.
Questions bloom inside me, a garden of curiosity. How old was Soren when his father died and passed on the crown? How old was Arwen? She must be nearly as old as Soren, though she looks not a day over thirty. Was she raised here as well? And what of their mother?
I will have to explore the library later in search of answers, for I do not feel quite brave enough to pry into Soren’s personal life by asking him directly.
Bad enough to learn my beloved bedchamber is, in fact, his.
I fear I cannot take any more earth-tilting information today without falling over.
“I didn’t know,” I say stiffly, “that it was your childhood room.”
“Really? I assumed that’s why you picked it.”
My mouth drops open. “It was not! I picked it because it’s the farthest away from yours, you self-obsessed—”
His laughter interrupts my diatribe. “Gods, you’re easily riled. I’m teasing you.”
I do not know whether to laugh with him or gut him with my dagger. Since I am rather grateful for the fresh clothing and unwilling to spatter it with blood, I decide to practice mercy.
“I can sleep in a different suite, if—” I break off. After an awkward swallow, I try again. “Now that I’ll be here for a longer stretch, I could find another place to sleep.”
He waves away my words. “Don’t be ridiculous. I meant it when I said the villa is yours to explore for however long you are here. Make yourself at home.”
“Right.” My throat feels oddly thick. “Thank you for the clothing. And…the dagger.” I finger its ornate handle. “It means a lot to me.”
There is a charged beat of silence. Soren’s mouth opens, then shuts again. As though he was about to say something, only to reconsider his words. When he does speak, his tone is deceptively light. “Yes, well. You’re lucky dark blue favors your coloring.”
“Your people wear many shades of color,” I point out.
Yesterday, the streets were a rainbow of skirts and cloaks, with both men and women in all manner of dress.
I saw everything from pale yellow breeches to a gauzy gown of aquamarine that reminded me ever so much of the one Soren gifted to me all those months ago at the Acrine Hold.
It, like so much else, was lost to me at Fyremas.
But I have not forgotten how it felt to wear it.
How the many shades of blue rippled with each stride, so I felt like a shore-bound sea creature.
“Those associated with the royal family or who work in an official capacity in the capital typically don the Ll?rian standard.” Soren shrugs.
“You are free to wear whatever you’d like.
There are plenty of shopkeepers down in the city who would be thrilled to outfit you.
There’s enough coin in your desk drawer to purchase anything your heart desires.
Or, if you’d rather not spend your days shopping, simply ask one of the staff. They’ll provide whatever you need.”
“I thought you did not keep a staff.”
“Typically, I don’t. But the upcoming wedding will require more than even my sublime cooking skills to keep everyone fed.”
I arch my brows. “Sublime seems a stretch.”
“Must we have another conversation about your penchant for lying?”
“No.” My eyes shoot daggers at him. “Though I would like to have a conversation about your behavior last night. If we are to do this—if you are to train me—it must be with the understanding that some things are off-limits.”
He considers this for a moment, then shakes his head.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
“No limits. No boundaries. And no more bloody restrictions.” His voice goes slightly rough. “I would think you’d had your fill of those in Caeldera.”
“So you are to…what? Invade my mind every time you please?”
“Hardly. Last night was a lesson. One I did not undertake lightly, and one I would not have resorted to unless I felt it was truly necessary. As you are now, you lack the strength to guard your mind against threats, as well as control your own power. We may channel, but I will not invade your thoughts again. Not until you invite me in.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He carries on as though I have not spoken.
“That said, for this to work, for you to make progress with your power, you must open yourself up to everything. Let go of this incorrectly ingrained idea that you ought to lock your thoughts inside your head and your emotions inside your heart. You must allow yourself to feel everything, without limit. Without recourse.”
My pulse picks up speed as I contemplate that. It is contrary to everything I have been taught to this point. “Penn says emotions are a liability.”
“Pendefyre is a bloody idiot.” Soren pushes off the terrace railing and crosses to stand before me.
“The king of restraint has no business giving lectures. Emotions are not a liability; they are a limitless resource. You want to wield your power like me? You need to feel it. All of it. Every damn bit of pain and passion and desire.” His eyes glitter as they hold mine.
“Repression never got anyone anywhere except dead.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. Eventually, I clear my throat. “Where do we start?”
My whole frame tenses as he reaches toward me, but he merely plucks a wispy raven feather from the sleeve of my tunic and holds it between us. His mouth tugs up at one side. “With something small.”