Chapter Seventeen
Chapter
seventeen
Steadfastly ignoring the weight of many curious eyes aimed at me across the bar, I take a fortifying sip from my mug. The mulled wine is a fragrant and flavorful varietal made from sea grapes. It tingles a fiery path down my throat, then spreads slowly outward, warming me from the inside out.
I keep my gaze trained out over the maze of blue rooftops, but no matter where I look I see the same thing.
Those floating bodies. Those splintered ships.
I am alone in my horrified reflections, for no one else is the least bit upset about my wanton disregard for Frostlander lives.
In fact, the massacre has earned me a certain amount of esteem among the soldiers.
I was clapped on the back more times than I could count as I made my way through the crowd atop the ramparts.
It’s been several hours since the battle ended, but the celebrations show no signs of waning. The crowd at my back is boisterous, and growing more so as the night creeps on and drinks flow freely. I just hope no one falls over the rail. It is a long drop down to the canals.
Aptly named Ledge for its unique location, the open-air veranda juts out from the inner wall below the ramparts in the shadow of the Westerly Beacon.
Not far from the barracks, it is frequented mostly by Hylian Guard and Paexyrian riders.
It offers a variety of unusual libations and unparalleled views of the rest of the city—which, currently, is in an equal state of frivolity.
All up and down the canals, cafés are bursting with patrons, sidewalks spilling over with revelers.
The floating market is even more crowded than usual.
Music thumps from somewhere below, a driving beat of drums accompanied by a lively fiddle.
If there was room, I’m certain the crowd behind me would be dancing to it.
But there is hardly space to stand; spinning is out of the question.
Every table is jammed with men and women in the navy standard of Hylios, along with the lighter blue-gray of Daggerpoint.
Their laughter and chatter spills through the twilight, the graceful extension of their vowels a fluid contrast to the more clipped Dyvedi accent.
I’d spotted Ledge several times during my nightly strolls along the walls, and wondered how one got in.
My answer came in the form of a trapdoor entry embedded in the stone floor in the corner.
A near constant stream of newcomers scamper through it, undaunted by the precipitous ladder climb from canal level.
Those rungs are hard enough to ascend sober; I doubt the descent is easier after copious mugs of mead.
But the arrivals never cease as the sky streaks with the telltale shades of sunset.
How many more can possibly squeeze up here before the whole place comes crashing down?
It is not a particularly large bar. Despite the crush, the rest of my bench remains unoccupied.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I might be casting an unconscious air shield to keep everyone at arm’s length.
Then again, my introspective disposition alone is likely enough to ward off approach.
The thud of a mug hitting the table makes me flinch violently. Warm wine sloshes over my fingertips and I curse.
“Jumpy one, aren’t you?”
I glance over at the chuckling woman as she drops beside me on the bench.
Her frame is petite, but every inch of it is packed with corded muscle.
Her flaming red hair is shorn at the sides and braided in the back in the battle-ready fashion the Paexyrian favor.
I wonder if it is because their heads are so often strapped into goggles.
She smiles wider when our eyes meet, seeming oblivious to my unapproachable attitude as she settles back in her seat.
“I’m Yara,” she greets. Her chin jerks to my other side, where another rider is hopping up to sit on the railing, long legs dangling in front of her. “That’s Bretiax. Don’t be offended she doesn’t speak to you. She lost the ability as a young girl.”
The second woman winks at me over the rim of her mug as she takes a long sip. She has warm tawny skin and the glossiest hair I’ve ever seen, flowing in wild waves down her back.
I give a small wave. “I’m Rhya.”
“Oh, we know who you are.” Yara leans in conspiratorially. “Everyone does. The whole city is talking about what you did with that water cannon.”
My lips press together. “I wish they wouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?” She sounds genuinely baffled. “Frostlanders have been a thorn in our backsides for ages. Do you know how many villages we’ve seen on the mainland torn to shreds by their night raids?”
Bretiax signs something in agreement.
Yara snorts and signs back at her.
I watch their silent volley of curious gestures.
The few times I’ve seen them in flight, I’ve noticed them communicating with similar hand signals from their saddles.
I imagine it is the only way to pass messages in the sky, for even a shout likely could not be heard over the roar of the wind while on the back of a soaring Paexyri steed.
Yara glances back at me. “Don’t let the deaths of a few scavengers spoil your evening.”
My brows lift. A few? I singlehandedly took out half the fleet. Some two hundred souls.
“Okay. More than a few.” Yara grins. “My point stands. Getting blasted out of the water was no more than they deserved. They should’ve known better than to attack us so brazenly.
Taking an anchorage a stone’s throw from the capital…
” She shakes her head. “I knew they lacked all morals; I didn’t think they lacked all logic. ”
“Have they tried to attack Hylios before?”
“Why do you think we have so many cannons?” She chuckles softly.
“The raids were more frequent when I was a girl. In recent years, they have not been so bold. Not until today, in any case.” Yara leans back against the bench and takes a sip from her mug.
“I have to say, when Bretiax and I were flying back earlier, we had no idea what we were seeing at first. Took a few low loops over the surface before we realized where all that driftwood had come from. Isn’t that right, Bre? ”
The other rider nods.
“Could hardly believe my eyes when I looked up and saw you were the one responsible for such carnage.” Yara’s distinctive almond-shaped eyes are tinkling at the memory.
I swallow hard, not sharing her amusement. It is a memory I am working to forget, not reminisce over.
Yara and Bretiax returned to Hylios on the heels of the battle, their winged mounts descending on the ramparts before we’d even had a chance to disperse. I was emotionally numb, still processing my own actions, when they clattered to a halt beside Atyr.
Arwen’s large white beast may dwarf every other Paexyri in size, but certainly not in beauty.
Yara rides a chestnut bay with red-tipped wing feathers the same scarlet hue as her own hair; Bretiax favors a piebald mount with feathered white hooves.
Had I not been so caught up in my own inner turmoil at the time, I would not have squandered the rare opportunity to get a look at them up close.
Their arrival was quickly overshadowed by that of Alaric’s fleet.
The crowd, still buzzing from the aftermath of the battle, pitched up to a dizzying decibel of excitement as five double-masted brigs made their approach, traversing waters that only moments before had been filled with our enemies.
Cheers went up as Daggerpoint horns blew from the bows.
The wedding party had arrived.
Double the reason for celebration, as far as the Hylians saw it.
Soldiers streamed from the battlements, headed down into the city in search of libations.
Soren ferried me along with them, his hand firm on mine to keep me from getting lost in the crush.
We did not wait for Arwen. She remained pressed against the balustrade, fighting a smile as she watched her fiancé drop anchor and row ashore.
It was strange to see her like that, her rough edges softened by anticipation, her sharp features almost… sweet.
Even now, after several hours of watching them from the corner of my eye across the bar, I have not quite grown accustomed to the sight of her standing close to the tall blond man’s side as they converse with Soren and several of the broad-shouldered men from Hollywell.
Every few minutes, my gaze moves that way of its own accord, noting the way Alaric’s hand skims over her hip, the way Arwen’s head falls onto his shoulder when she forgets to act indifferent, the wordless looks they trade when they think no one is watching.
He is not what I’d pictured for Arwen. She is such a natural warrior, so fearsome and bold.
I’d expected the man she loves to be similar in both stature and disposition.
But with his neatly trimmed facial hair, light coloring, and refined features, Alaric reminds me a bit of Cadogan—albeit, much less somber.
He smiles often, laughs frequently, and moves with a refined elegance totally opposite Arwen’s volatile energy.
“Attached at the hip, those two,” Yara remarks, noticing the direction of my gaze. “Wasn’t always the case. When they first met and Alaric proposed marriage, I thought Arwen would gut him for daring to ask.”
Bretiax signs something that makes Yara giggle.
Kicking her feet up to rest on the railing, she drains her mug in one long sip.
Her boots, like the rest of her uniform, are designed with flight in mind.
The soles are tapered to fit seamlessly into stirrups.
When she crosses her legs, I see padding runs up the inside of her thighs where the saddle chafes.
Her abdomen is cinched tight with an armored corset.