Chapter Seventeen #2
Bretiax is in a near identical uniform, though the glyphs stitched at her collar are slightly different. I want to ask about the mysterious symbols, but Yara is stuck on the topic of their ornery flight leader.
“The two of them are about as different in temperament as they are in looks,” she tells me, staring unabashedly at the lovesick couple.
“Thankfully, that means he’s got all the patience in the world.
He waited almost a decade for her to finally look his way.
The moment she did, that was it. She fell head over heels.
Surprised the hell out of all of us. Though, I suspect, not as much as it surprised her. ”
“When she moves to Hollywell, what will happen to the Paexyrian? Will you all go with her?”
“We riders would follow Arwen anywhere in this world. But it’s not only our decision. Our mounts have minds of their own, and tenets of steel. If Umyr will not stay in Daggerpoint, I cannot force her. She goes where she will, when she will.”
Umyr is her chestnut bay Paexyri.
“But they stay here,” I point out, brow furrowing. “In Hylios.”
I have seen the stables myself, several times now.
They encompass a large section of the royal grounds not far from Arwen’s villa.
I sometimes wander there in the evenings, eager to steal a glimpse of the winged horses who graze on the lush seagrass, wings tucked in close to their bodies, manes blowing in the breeze.
No saddles to diminish their magnificence.
Something about them captivates me in a way I cannot quite explain.
“The Paexyri stay here by their own leave,” Yara tells me. “They are not captives, nor pets. The moment I lost her respect, Umyr would fly back to the highest reaches of the mountains she calls home and never return.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Is she not yours? Could you not stop her?”
“The Paexyri do not belong to us. We belong to them.” Yara taps the unique glyph stitched at her collar.
“This sigil means I was chosen to ride her. To do so is the greatest privilege of my life. A life, I might add, that will end long before hers ever does. She will have another rider someday when I am a shriveled old crone and my hands are too arthritic to grip the reins.”
I contemplate that for a time, somewhat stunned by the deep reverence with which she speaks of her winged companion. It is hardly uncommon for soldiers to feel a kinship with the horses that carry them into battle, but this is something else. Something beyond simple loyalty or affection.
“It is difficult to explain with words alone. Next time you come to the stables, don’t spy from the shadows of the lemon grove. I will introduce you to Umyr.” Yara quirks a brow at my surprised jolt. “What? Shocked to learn your furtive surveillance was not as discreet as you believed?”
“Hardly. I simply wasn’t expecting an invitation to anything involving the Paexyrian. Your flight leader has been somewhat less than welcoming.”
Yara merely waves away my worries. “Don’t take Arwen to heart. She’s not a big fan of change, whether it’s in the form of a midsummer wedding or a new wind weaver. Not to mention, she’s overprotective of her brother.”
“You don’t say.”
My sarcasm is not lost on Yara. Chuckling, she signs something to Bretiax that makes the other woman grin.
“Why she thinks her brother needs protection from me, I can’t imagine,” I mutter mostly to myself. “I’m not exactly a threat to the King of Lly?r.”
Yara’s eyes drift back to me. Her voice softens. “There are many ways to hurt someone, Rhya. Not all of them physical.”
What is that supposed to mean? I could not wound Soren if I tried.
I take a large sip of my wine, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The mug is nearly empty. I will need a refill soon.
Bretiax signs something, her fingers moving rapidly in the air.
“You’re right, Bre.” Yara nods, then looks back at me. “She says to remind you that Arwen hated Alaric at first, too. The longer you stick around, the better your chances at winning her over.”
“Maybe I don’t want to win her over.”
Her lips twitch. “Word of advice?”
“If you insist.”
“You may not want to win her over, but you need to. After Soren, Arwen is the most powerful person in all of Ll?r. As your ally, she will save your life a thousand times over. As your enemy, however…”
My temper flares despite my attempts to tamp it down. “I didn’t do anything to earn her wrath besides exist.”
“When it comes to Arwen, sometimes that’s enough.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Glare at me all you want. I’m just trying to be a friend because…Well, frankly, you seem like you need one. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. Arwen is not someone you want on your bad side.”
I lean forward a few inches and hold her eyes. “Neither am I.”
At that, Yara throws back her head and roars.
I think she’s laughing at me until she slings an arm around my shoulders.
“Gods, maybe we should try you out for the Paexyrian. You’re scrawny, but so long as you can keep your saddle seat, you’ll fit in with the rest of the riders perfectly.
” Her arm squeezes affectionately. “A certain amount of blatant disregard for reality is encouraged in our ranks.”
I shove her off, acting annoyed, but am forced to hide my smile behind my mug. Something about Yara reminds me of Farley. Not only the red hair, but the playful temperament and tendency toward teasing comments.
I wish suddenly that my old friend was here with me instead of a whole kingdom away.
Farley would love everything about Ledge, from its intriguing method of entry to the strong ale to the abundant supply of fit soldiers to flirt with.
If he were here, he’d have half the establishment in stitches of laughter by the end of the night—and, more than likely, the other half trying to drag him into bed.
My smile slips as longing sweeps through me. I do my best to banish it, draining my last sip of wine in one large gulp.
Time for a refill, unquestionably.
I open my mouth to ask if Yara or Bretiax needs a fresh pour, but never get the question out. A sudden silence descends over the boisterous bar, lively chatter ceasing without warning as mouths snap closed and minds clear of thought.
Instantly alert, I jump out of my seat and turn to confront whatever new threat has materialized. What will it be this time? More arachnidae? Giant wharf rats? Mutated seagulls? Another fleet of Frostlanders, out for vengeance?
But no.
It is only a woman.
She weaves through the crowd like a needle through fabric, footsteps smooth and sure.
She is clad in a scandalously sheer gown made of a unique Ll?rian fabric finer than the smoothest Midland silks.
It flows around her legs in panels of many different hues, dips low between her breasts to display her generous cleavage.
Her hair is the inky blue-black of a midnight sea, cascading down her spine in a riot of lush curls.
Her pale skin shimmers in the fading sun, like the light catching the scales of a fish in the shallows.
I cannot tear my eyes from her. Nor can any other living soul in the bar. Her magnetism is absolute, unwavering. I swallow hard, mouth parched.
“Melité,” Yara says tightly. She is standing at my side; I did not even hear her rise from the bench.
The name is familiar to me. It takes a long moment for it to surface from the back of my foggy mind. “Soren’s half-sister?”
Yara nods. Her eyes are locked on the woman, her cheeks flushed red as her hair. “And half-siren.”
Half-siren.
That explains her allure. No one at Ledge seems entirely immune to her presence, but some are clearly more affected than others.
Men are tugging at their collars and curling their hands into fists; women are crossing and uncrossing their legs, shifting in their seats.
A few reach out toward her as she drifts by, desperate for the whisper-soft caress of a curl against their fingertips, the fleeting slide of silken skirts brushing against their own legs.
Those not close enough to reach for her reach for one another instead.
In a shadowy corner by the taps, a couple presses against each other—hands sliding up skirt hems and slipping under waistbands.
One table over, I watch two Hylian soldiers join eager mouths, their tongues dancing together with delirious abandon.
Alaric’s hand is no longer at Arwen’s hip but sliding up her rib cage to cup her breast through the sculpted leather of her uniform.
Gods, what is happening here?
A drowsy, damp heat begins to gather between my own thighs.
My nipples harden through the fitted fabric of my shirt.
I tell myself to look away, but I cannot quite manage it.
The more I stare at the half-siren, the more my blood sings in my veins, an escalating need I cannot explain, cannot deny, cannot—
“Melité, that’s enough.”
My eyes tear away from the siren at the sudden boom of Soren’s voice. He has not moved from the barstool where he’s been camped out all evening, conversing with Arwen, Alaric, and a rotating parade of soldiers.
Our gazes lock instantly, and I suck in a sharp breath at the thick silver maegic churning through the blue of his irises. Even he is affected by the siren’s thrall. I have never seen that look before—not on him, not on anyone.
Dark lust.
Driving need.
It is there in the tightness of his grip on his glass, the sharp set of his shoulders beneath the linen. In the line of strong white teeth sinking hard into a full bottom lip. More still, it is there in the bond.
His hunger, flooding into me.
Mine, whispering back to him.
His teeth sink harder into his lip.