Chapter Fourteen #3
I tense at the thought of such an upbringing.
While my own childhood had hardly been one of privilege, it was safe enough until, at last, war overtook us.
But for twenty years, Eli had carved out a quiet life for us in Seahaven.
Like Soren said, the peninsula’s shelter gave me a chance never afforded to my fellow wind weavers.
I was lucky to have experienced relative peace, away from the brutality encompassing other stretches of the Midlands.
Soren crosses his arms over his chest. “Ll?r lost so many of our strongest fighters in those first years of battle. My father proved formidable enough to hold off the encroaching mortal armies…but only just. Much of our population was lost even before the oldest bloodlines began to falter.”
I nod, for this is not new knowledge. I had read of the slow erosion of maegic.
How our strongest fae families began to produce maegicless children, how the divine gifts of our people slowly died out.
Advanced healing, long life, enhanced eyesight, attuned hearing…
all of it, lost within the space of a few generations.
And Soren had lived through it all; had watched so many perish, as he remained. He and Arwen and a handful of others from the oldest bloodlines are all that is left of a bygone era.
“The Northlands were different then. Pendefyre’s predecessor, King Vorath, was not interested in an alliance.
He closed the borders of Dyved, would not discuss trade or combine forces in battle.
” A shadow of irony creeps into his tone.
“It would be another half century before change arrived in the form of a young boy at the city gates, demanding to see the king.”
Pendefyre.
“A warrior from the start,” I say without thinking.
“And yet,” he counters, “so rarely fighting for the things that truly matter.”
A thick silence descends as we both contemplate the King of Dyved. We are now traipsing on unsteady ground. I suddenly find it difficult to breathe around the tension in the air.
Clearing my throat, I look around the dim chamber and ask, “What time is it, anyway?”
“Moving on midnight.”
“Were you at the barracks all this time?”
He nods. “Yes. A long day, and not a particularly pleasant one, as I spent the majority of it buried under a mountain of correspondence. There is much to sort out, with Arwen leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“After the wedding she’ll be moving to Hollywell with Alaric. Ruling with him from Daggerpoint. Raising her family there, assuming they decide to have one.”
“Oh. I did not realize.”
“She’ll still command my armies and serve as flight leader for the Paexyrian riders.
But she’ll be doing it from a portal away, instead of a few stairs.
It will be an adjustment for both of us.
” His voice pitches lower, as though his next words are not meant for me.
“After two centuries, you grow accustomed to doing things a certain way.”
Skies, he sounds almost…vulnerable. I have never heard that from him before. But then, I’ve never had a sibling. I cannot begin to understand how it would feel to lose one. Certainly not one I’d lived with, fought with, laughed with, for hundreds of years.
The faint shaft of moonlight on Soren’s face is enough to highlight the frown at his lips, the furrow of his brow.
“You will miss her.”
His eyes find mine in the darkness. “Yes,” he says simply.
“Can you not ask her to stay?”
“If I asked, she would. But I cannot. I will not. Not when I know she wants to go. Asking her to choose between me and Alaric would be like asking her to cleave the heart from her chest for the sake of duty.” His fingers rake through the hair that has fallen into his face.
“When you see them together…how they look at each other, how even across a room they seem to move in the same orbit, like two tethered stars…you will see what I mean. I would never deny her that chance at happiness. She has waited nearly as long as I have for it.”
I digest his forlorn confession in silence, my thoughts spiraling in directions they have never dared before.
If Soren was a friend, I would attempt to comfort him in a moment like this.
If he were Jac or Farley, I might crack a joke to lighten the mood.
If he were Carys or Lestyn, I would wrap my arms around him in a warm embrace until the shadows retreated from his eyes. But Soren is…
I do not know what he is. I do not know how to comfort him, or how he would react if I tried. My fingers unconsciously clutch the duvet. With effort, I force them to relax their death grip. The air between us has grown markedly heavy.
“You said it was a long day. Did something happen? Do you…” I am out of my depth, but bluster on anyway. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He stares at me, saying nothing. Just studying me intently, his gaze roving over my features. The silence stretches on and on, until I begin to long for powers of invisibility rather than endure one more moment of scrutiny.
“What is it?” I scrub at my cheek with one sleeve. “Do I have dried drool on my face or something?”
His chuckle is subdued. “No. It’s just been a long time since someone was in a position to ask me about my day.”
My stomach flips. Surely that cannot be true. He is a king. Beloved by all. Revered by his people.
And yet…
He lives in this big house all alone, looking down over his city like some distant god. Never quite connected, never fully a part of the fabric, even when he takes the time to rub shoulders with those at sea level.
Only last night, he spoke of my deep loneliness. As I look at him now, for the first time I consider the fact that Soren might be deeply lonely, too.
“And how was your day?” he asks, skillfully shifting the conversation around the awkward tension.
“I am a master of feather levitation,” I inform him, tone glib.
“Is that so?”
“You don’t believe me?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll have to prove it, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not going to the aviary right now. It’s the middle of the night and, besides, I think the ravens are angry at me for—Hey!
” My words cut off in a squawk of alarm as Soren’s arm darts behind me and extracts one of my pillows so fast, I barely see it happen.
A low tearing sound precedes an explosion of downy white feathers as he rips the plush cushion clean in half.
They rain down in a cloud that covers everything—the bed, the marble floor, Soren’s white linen shirt.
They have no sooner settled than he reaches down, grabs two fistfuls, and tosses them straight back into the air.
“Soren!” A shocked sound—half laugh, half gasp—explodes out of my lips. “What is wrong with you?”
“Show me.” He’s grinning, tossing more feathers. “Come on, levitation master. Let’s see those much-lauded skills of yours in action.”
The stilted atmosphere is swept out of the room by a chorus of chaos and laughter.
I set about demonstrating my newly minted skill set, manipulating several streams of air at once in a slow spiral that lifts all the fluffy white feathers into the air.
Soren’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his gaze tracks the vortex that swirls through the suite, from the veined marble floor to the richly coffered ceiling.
“See?” I, too, am grinning like an idiot. “I told you. Master of levitation.”
He looks at me for a long beat. There are feathers stuck in his hair, clinging to his shoulders, smattered across his shirtsleeves. He does not brush them away or even seem to notice them. The lonely look is long gone from his eyes; they now hold only amusement. And, perhaps, a hint of pride.
“There may be hope for you yet, little wind weaver,” he murmurs. Then, pushing to his feet, he walks through the floating sea of feathers to the door. “Tomorrow, we shall test what else you excel at manipulating.”
After the door clicks shut behind him, I release my hold on the feathers.
They flutter to the floor, a blanket of white settling over everything.
In the morning when I awaken, it looks like snowfall on a cold winter’s day.
But outside my windows, shafts of warm spring sunshine are creeping through the dense clouds.