Chapter Fourteen
Chapter
fourteen
After the chaos of my first day in Hylios, my second is rather dull by comparison. No monster attacks—assuming one does not categorize Arwen as such—or tsunamis or mind invasions. I spend most of my afternoon in the aviary, annoying the ravens as I attempt to float feathers.
“Now that you know what finesse feels like,” Soren tells me at the start of our lesson, “it’s time for you to find some of your own.”
Standing at my back with his fingers interlaced with mine, he allows me to borrow a bit of his proficiency as I direct thin streams of air to steer molted feathers into the sky.
They orbit around us, a tornado of maegic moving faster and slower at my command.
Sometimes just hovering there, like dandelion wisps in the wind.
Soren gives occasional instructions, mind to mind.
“That one there, on your left. Float it higher. Flip it on its end. Spin it twice clockwise.” For the most part, though, he allows me to play at will.
After a while, I actually begin to enjoy myself.
I lean back against his chest, relaxing as tendrils weave from my fingers with an elegance I never thought I’d achieve.
“You’re getting the hang of it now,” he says after nearly an hour.
I nod absently, most of my focus caught up in my task.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I spin a vortex faster, elongating the pillar of feathers until they reach through the open ceiling.
I’m so intent, I don’t realize Soren’s stopped channeling until my tiny tornado sputters suddenly into stillness.
The feathers flutter back to the earth, scattering before my boots.
The lack of his power is a dull void beneath my ribs.
“Hey!” I half yell, whirling to face him. “You disconnected!”
He looks amused by my accusation. “You don’t need my maegic for this anymore. You’ve had enough practice that you should easily be able to achieve the same kind of control on your own.”
“Easily?” Historically speaking, nothing about using my powers has ever come easy.
He flashes an unconcerned grin. “Just remember to focus on your breathing, like I told you. The air that moves in and out of your lungs is the same air you manipulate with your hands. Shaping it to your will should feel as effortless as an exhale.”
“But that’s impossi—Hey! Where are you going? We aren’t finished!”
To my dismay, he’s already turned and started walking away. “You’re not; I am. I’m late to meet Arwen. Keep at it while I’m gone, skylark.” Over his shoulder he calls back, “And do try not to murder any of my ravens. My correspondence is tardy enough without the need for a newly trained flock.”
I glare at his back until he disappears around a bend in the garden path.
Without him there to channel, I am not nearly so successful, nor half as graceful in my efforts.
It takes far more energy to isolate the vastness of the wind into maneuverable streams. Several times, I accidentally disturb the ravens with rogue blasts of air, which results in them retreating up into the wisteria to plot my demise. And yet, I am not a total lost cause.
Now that I know how control feels, I can mimic it.
It is a bit like retracing steps through a city you’ve been led through blindfolded.
My feet know the way even if my eyes do not.
While my feathers do not dance and flutter in perfect sync, as they had with Soren, I do manage to levitate them one by one, up and down, side to side.
A headache gathers at my temples as I repeat the moves again and again and again, until they are fluid as the breath in my lungs.
By the time I quit for the day, I am physically exhausted yet my mind is uncannily energized. The successful use of my maegic puts a spring in my step as I make my way back to the villa. It is abandoned, no signs of Soren or the staff he has supposedly enlisted.
Stomach growling with hunger, I raid his larders, helping myself to an apple, freshly sliced bread, soft cheese, and some more of the crisp wine I sampled last night. It’s barely sunset; far too early to go to sleep. Instead of heading to my suite, I wander the villa.
Without Soren there to oversee me, I snoop freely through his galleries.
His home is like a museum, stocked with artifacts and intriguing baubles, many of which look old enough to predate the Cull.
Vases and statues and masks, varying widely in color and craftsmanship.
Some are from distant places I’ve never even seen on maps.
The shelves are stocked with strange things—vials of gritty black silt from the Shadow Steppes, tattoo pots from the famed ink mavens of Carvage, fist-sized Dyvedi rubies, a luminous bottle of liquid starlight that can only be from Lake Lumen.
He even has a gold-leafed branch from the mythical Aurea Tree in Seahaven.
Seeing it makes my heart ache for my childhood.
The artwork on the walls is extensive and extraordinary. I could easily spend hours walking with my gaze cast upward in awe, captivated by the collection.
How surprising, then, that the piece that stops me in my tracks looks, at first glance, rather mundane.
It is a portrait. Not particularly large nor particularly vibrant.
In fact, its paint is faded with age, its gilded frame dulled and cloudy.
Nothing special in the midst of so many grander works.
Still, it holds me captive, as though the woman depicted within has reached straight from the canvas and seized me by the soul.
I cannot tear my eyes away from her. An angelic figure, backlit by a blazing sky.
She is in the heat of battle—arm cocked back, coiled whip held aloft—but her expression is one of total serenity.
She wears golden armor, sculpted to her body like liquid.
It is nearly the same shade as the mane that streaks out behind her as she flies.
Not a leap off the ground, nor a jump from great heights.
She is flying.
My heart lodges in my throat as I bend close to read the etching at the corner of the frame.
“The Golden Goddess”
Queen Arianrhod
House of Taranis
I’d read of her before. The famed sovereign of the Sky Court, struck down defending her kingdom when mortals sacked the stronghold and slew everyone within. Judging by the smile on her face in this painting, I think she would not have chosen an easier end. For this was a woman born for battle.
What would it be like to fight in flight, I wonder? To take to the sky like a bird, so in command of your own power you do not question it as the earth falls away, as the heavens press close? The mere idea is equal parts exhilarating and terror inducing.
Arwen and the other Paexyrian riders seem fearless as they ascend atop their winged mounts, but this…
This is another feat entirely.
My thoughts remain distracted as I finally tear myself away from the gallery and resume my wandering.
I determine to learn more about Arianrhod of the Sky Court.
The little I know about her—the strongest sylph ever to weave the wind, from one of the oldest fae bloodlines ever to rule—only increases my curiosity about her grim demise.
How had one so powerful fallen so fast? What happened to her court after her soul returned to the skies? Was her maegic like mine, or somehow different? Was she a distant ancestor, some severed branch of my unknown family tree?
I stack those questions atop the growing mountain of others in the back of my mind about Soren’s homeland, his family dynamics, his history…
It is growing rather cluttered in there.
My feet subconsciously steer me toward a solution to my curiosity.
The library. It’s dark when I enter, no fire in the grate or signs of life amid the many shelves.
After lighting a handful of sconces, I peruse the books for a long time.
There are more than I could read in a lifetime, many written in foreign tongues I do not recognize.
Despite the vastness of Soren’s literary trove, my search for material related to the Sky Court turns up empty.
Instead, I select a thin tome that chronicles the history of the Water Court and its ruling family, and settle in on a chaise lounge to read.
I make it through approximately five pages about the geothermal springs that heat the turquoise waters of Hylios before my eyes slip shut and I tumble into dreams.
The luxurious weight of a down duvet settles over my prone form. I jolt into consciousness, my sluggish eyes adjusting to the darkness of my bedchamber. As the cobwebs of sleep clear, I see a shadow sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“Soren?”
“Shh, skylark. Go back to sleep.”
Oh, gods, he must’ve found me asleep in the library, book askew on my chest, and carried me here. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Sorry. I was reading. I must’ve nodded off…”
“Mmm. Probably something to do with your choice of material. Not the most enthralling historical account, as I recall. It would have even the most disciplined scholar slack-jawed and drooling by the second chapter.”
I push up into a seated position against the headboard. “I was not drooling!”
“On my favorite pillow, no less.” There is a teasing note in his voice. “I’ll set out some better books for you tomorrow, ones that won’t bore you into slumber. We can’t have you ruining the furnishings.”
“I thought I was not to be trusted with your books after the castle incident.”
“Thank you for reminding me.” His eyes gleam, inquisitive. “What were you hoping to learn, anyway?”
My blush intensifies. I hope he cannot see it in the dark. “Oh, nothing in particular.”
“Skylark.”
Sighing, I hurry on, “I was curious about Hylios. How things function here.”
“Things?”
“The royals. The armies. The citizens.” I clear my throat. “You.”
There is a loaded silence. “Me.”