Chapter Fifteen
Chapter
fifteen
“Today’s lesson is about trusting your instincts.”
I tilt my head to one side, confused by Soren’s announcement. “My instincts?”
He smiles mysteriously.
We’re on a pebbled spit of beach just outside the city walls, accessible via a narrow cut-through at the base of the Westerly Beacon. A set of salt-crusted steps hewn directly into the foundation lead down to a cove so tiny, it is hardly more than a tidal pool even at high tide.
Too shallow for ships, the Hylians use it as an underwater vineyard of sorts.
Not far offshore, vintners on flat-bottomed barges use rope-and-pulley rigs to haul sealed casks from the sandy bottom, where they have spent several months fermenting, then lower fresh ones down with heavy anchors for next year’s vintage.
After spending some time in Ll?r, I’m learning that the sea touches every facet of life here.
Every industry, every livelihood. Even winemaking.
And I must confess, however foreign the means of production seem to my eyes, the wine inside those barnacled casks is beyond reproach.
It has become a nightly indulgence after long days of training.
Sometimes, when he is not occupied by his kingly duties, Soren is there to drink with me.
Other nights I sit alone on the inner terrace or my private balcony, sipping slowly as I flip through one of the books he has taken to leaving out for me, savoring the fruity bouquet as I scribble letters to Lestyn.
Our correspondence began on my third day in Hylios.
The first raven I sent was merely to inform the boy not to worry when I do not show up at the infirmary these next few weeks.
To my surprise, a scarlet raven was waiting for me with a response the very next morning in the aviary.
He’d written me back—and continued to do so throughout the following week, his messy, boyish scrawl a perfect suit for his boundless energy, whether he was chastising me for abandoning him or complaining about Osain’s overbearing dominion.
Don’t let the old badger boss you around too much, I wrote to him last night in response to a long-winded missive that detailed their latest clashing of minds over leg-cast preparation. And please don’t forget to check in on Carys…
The letters are my one true touchstone to Caeldera. For Penn does not write again.
At first, I wondered about him constantly, worrying about his reaction to my absence, his fixation on the wards, his tendency to push himself too far…
But as time slipped by, the days lengthening into a week, then stretching toward two, I grew less preoccupied by the life I left behind and more consumed by the new one I am carving out in Hylios.
I am too busy to mark the days as they pass and too tired to second-guess my decisions by the time I crawl into bed at night.
My daily lessons have progressed from levitating feathers in the aviary to swirling fallen branches from the olive trees to juggling the heavy lemons that pepper the grove outside Arwen’s villa.
The last, in particular, won me no favors with Soren’s snarling sister, who, when she caught me decimating her produce, made it clear I am not welcome in her section of the royal grounds, no matter what her brother says.
I have not gone back to the lemon grove since.
Eventually, I graduated to flinging smooth stones from the spring against the targets Soren set up for me in his courtyard—my favorite of the lessons so far, even if it did disturb the phosphorescent frogs that dwell in the still waters around the crystalline bathhouse.
I am finally beginning to grasp what he meant during our battle against the arachnida.
I do not need a weapon to fire a projectile.
I am the weapon.
Yesterday, after another eclectic breakfast at the floating market, Soren took me out sailing in the Bay of Blood aboard a trim skiff.
I had never been sailing before, and found myself undeniably nervous as we passed beyond the towering sea gate.
But with Deke at the helm, steering us capably into open waters, I did not panic.
Not until Soren positioned me at the bow and ordered me to fill our square-rigged mainsail with currents of wind, commanding changes in our speed and direction every few moments like the most incorrigible of admirals.
This was unquestionably the most challenging training exercise I have yet attempted.
Several times, I miscalculated my own strength, nearly tearing our sails and sending our shallow-keeled vessel careening into the rocks, boom swinging precariously, water spilling in over the gunwales.
I swallowed down bouts of nausea each time we pitched riotously amid the swells, trying to keep a handle on my errant tendrils of power despite the distractions.
Not an easy task.
Even Deke, seasoned seaman that he is, grew a bit green around the gills after we nearly capsized the second time, thanks to my use of a bit too much force when we tacked rapidly around a sandy shoal halfway between Hylios and the mainland where dozens of sea lions were basking in the midday heat.
Of the three of us, only Soren appeared to truly be enjoying himself. He’d lain back against the cushions along the starboard rail, arms folded across his chest, face angled up to the sky, eyes closed. Soaking in the sunshine like another lazing sea creature.
I could hardly fault him for it. Fair weather has been something of a rarity in Hylios of late.
In recent days, though, it does seem to be creeping more boldly between the clouds.
Today, in fact, the sun is only partially obscured by hazy mist. Visibility across the water is clearer than I’ve witnessed since my arrival in the city.
From Vintners’ Cove, I can make out a good stretch of the mainland in the distance.
A pitted strip of coast leads from Daggerpoint in the south up to Titan’s Way, the heavily traversed channel that runs along the northern length of the kingdom between Ll?r and Prydain Isle.
Connecting the North Sea to the Bay of Blood, it is one of the most important passages in all the Northlands, for without it one would have to sail all the way around the large island the Titans call home.
No sailor would risk such a journey if it could be avoided. The Titans’ hostility toward strangers is almost as notorious as their immense size.
Eyes narrowed in a squint, I watch several ships chart a course toward the high walls of the capital.
Their progress is slow in the light wind, barely enough to push their heavy cargo across the turquoise waters of the bay.
They are the latest in a long string of arrivals, with berths full of guests for the wedding and holds laden with foodstuffs and decorations.
Not to mention the gifts from Ll?rians who cannot attend in person.
There has not been a royal wedding for several decades.
Excitement is high, and the generous tithes reflect it, with folks from all across the kingdom lavishing their warrior princess with tribute.
Each evening, I watch more ships appear on the horizon as I walk the ramparts, tiny from that vantage, their masts like matchsticks, their crews ants scurrying about as they douse sails and drop anchor outside the sea gate, where a temporary mooring field has popped up seemingly overnight.
There is no room for them in the harbor.
Every slip and tie-up is occupied, along with every inn and canal-side café.
The city feels near to bursting already, and the wedding is not quite a fortnight away. I can only imagine what it will be like when the groom’s party arrives from Daggerpoint. They are due in later this afternoon, according to Soren.
I catch myself wondering when the Dyvedi contingent will put in their own appearance. Probably not until the very last opportunity, given Penn’s reluctance to leave Caeldera unprotected.
I cannot say whether the thought of several more weeks of separation from him inspires trepidation or impatience within me. Somehow, both in tandem. My heart, like the rest of my world, feels ever so slightly out of sync. As though time is moving simultaneously too fast and too slow for my liking.
I tell myself that when Pendefyre finally does arrive, so will clarity of thought. And yet, the mere prospect of him in Hylios makes my breath shorten and my mind spin.
It seems incongruous.
I cannot properly picture it.
Penn, here.
A spark amid the sea.
A sputtering flame against endless blue.
A crab scuttles over my foot, startling my focus back to the cove.
I nudge it away with the tip of my boot, avoiding its clacking claws.
It is a beautiful spot, secluded from the frenetic energy of the canals.
The waters are calm today, the waves a gentle lull in lieu of their typical violent crash against the walls.
Schools of colorful minnows dart around in the shallows.
Mossy orange algae cling to the rocks where exposed beds of black mussels await harvesting before the tide sweeps back in.
It’s quite warm in the sunshine. Sweat slicks down the back of my neck, drips into the collar of my close-fitted cotton shirt, beads beneath the supple gray leather of my pants.
I’m hit with a fierce urge to strip off my clothes and jump into the shimmering sea.
I have not been swimming since I fled Seahaven last autumn.
Gods, was that only last autumn?
I feel I have lived several lifetimes since then.
Above the quiet slosh of waves, my ears pick up the strains of music nearby. It sounds almost like wind chimes, but deeper in pitch and not perfectly rhythmic.
An organ?
“Soren, what is that sou—”