Chapter Twenty #3
I stand in the archway, frozen in place as Soren strides toward the fae man who is currently making his way through what appears to be every scrap of food raided from the larders.
The table is littered with several varieties of fruit, dried fish, olives, bread, cheese, and a whole roast waterfowl—the drumstick of which he is tearing into with a set of broad white teeth.
The thick bone looks like a toothpick between his fingers.
Man is not the correct word to describe him, I think as I watch the two brothers embrace, hands pounding backs with spine-snapping enthusiasm.
He is a man and a half, impossibly tall, towering three full heads above Soren.
His build makes the barrel-chested wheelmen of the Twins look frail, with hands that could crush a cantaloupe with one squeeze and shoulders so broad, I wonder how he ever fit inside the cramped pantry.
He does not resemble Soren or Arwen, with their piercing beauty.
His is a blunter visage with prominent features and a square jaw.
His hair is a shade between blond and brown, and quite long, though he’s tied it back from his face with a leather cord that matches the material of his vest, breeches, and fur-lined boots.
He is dressed for a hunt through wolf-infested woods, not the posh waterways of Hylios.
Soren pulls back, neck craned to grin up into the massive man’s face. It is an odd sight. Usually the King of Ll?r towers over everyone. “What the hell are you doing here, little brother?”
“You think I’d miss Arwen’s wedding?” Vaughn guffaws. “I know better than to piss her off after centuries of practice. Or have you forgotten the decade-long snit she nursed when I skipped her seventy-fifth naming day?”
“Fair enough.” Soren’s eyes move to the mess of foodstuffs piled all over the kitchen. “It’s been some time since you stepped foot in Hylios, but you do recall you have your own villa several levels down?”
“The one sandwiched between the scaly sisters of doom, you mean? Forgive me if I’m in no hurry to reacquaint myself with Melité and Tethys.”
Leaning back against the edge of the countertop, Soren shakes his head. “Be nice. They’re your half-sisters.”
“They’re also half the reason I stayed away so long.” His sigh is martyred. “Bloody sirens. You should hear the screams that echo from Melité’s bedchamber windows at night. I can’t decide if she’s delivering torture or pleasure to her victims.” He pauses. “Probably both, knowing her.”
Soren snorts softly.
“Besides”—Vaughn takes another huge bite of his drumstick, talking on despite the mouthful that muffles his words—“your pantry is always so much better stocked than mine.”
“And yet, you always seem to have more than enough Titan gin on hand.”
“I don’t recall you complaining, last time I brought over a cask from Prydain.”
“I’d be stunned to know you recalled anything, given the amount of it you guzzled on that occasion.”
Both men break into reminiscent laughter.
I venture hesitantly into the kitchen, making it only a handful of steps before two sets of eyes—Soren’s undiluted blue, Vaughn’s startling green—snap to me. I stop in my tracks.
“Erm…hello,” I say awkwardly.
Vaughn’s head whips from me to Soren and back, eyes widening. “Skies, brother, she looks just like—”
“Vaughn,” Soren clips, cutting him off.
My brows go up.
I look just like…
Who?
Not Enid, I hope. Soren told me that I bear only a passing resemblance to the previous wind weaver, who claimed not just his heart but Pendefyre’s as well.
Had he downplayed matters to spare my feelings?
It certainly would not be beyond the realm of possibility that we share certain characteristics and coloring.
Yet I confess, I do not much care for the thought of that.
Looking like a woman Soren once loved leaves me strangely uneasy, for reasons I do not mull too thoroughly.
It takes all my self-control to keep a glower off my face as I hold Vaughn’s surprised gaze.
The giant man sets down the drumstick bone with a thud. He recovers quickly enough, burying his shock beneath a broad grin of welcome. “You must be the wind weaver I’ve heard so much about.”
My brows rise even higher. I glance at Soren—who is pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache—then back at Vaughn. “Good things, I hope?”
“That depends entirely on who you ask.”
“Ah.” My mouth twists. “I’ve tried to tell her off, but Arwen just won’t stop singing my praises.”
Vaughn laughs uproariously, then crosses toward me without warning, closing the distance in two strides.
He moves with surprising speed for such a behemoth.
Before I know what is happening, he’s hauled me into his arms and lifted me clear off my feet in a hug that squeezes every particle of air from my lungs.
I fear my rib cage might crack under the strain.
When I expel an involuntary oof, Soren looses a low oath.
“You’re crushing her.”
“And? She’s a Remnant, isn’t she? Just because she looks fragile doesn’t mean she is.” With one last bone-crushing squeeze, he sets me back on my feet. His huge hands rest on my shoulders, each the size of a ham. “It’s good to finally meet you, Rhya.”
I drag in a desperate gulp of air that makes my bruised chest ache. “Nice to meet”—I wheeze—“you, too.”
“Gods,” Soren hisses.
Vaughn only chuckles, then retreats to grab an apple off the table. Half of it disappears in a single chomp. “So, Rhya, how are you enjoying your time in the Water Court? Puts a damper on the Fire Court, I’ll bet.”
“Vaughn.”
The half-Titan ignores his brother’s menacing warning. “Can’t imagine why you’d want to go back there.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. In lieu of an answer, I grab an apple of my own and take a bite. Luckily, Vaughn does not seem to notice he is carrying on a one-sided conversation.
“Couldn’t convince me to live in Caeldera, not for all the gemstones in those Dyvedi mines of theirs. I’d sooner winter over in Melité’s clammy cave or with the ice giants atop the Cimmerians.”
I choke on my apple.
He pounds me on the back so hard, I fly forward into the table—a collision Soren prevents at the last moment by throwing out an arm to stop me slamming against the edge.
“Though hoarfrost monsters aren’t a worry for you, are they, Rhya?” Vaughn goes on, oblivious. “Given the way you fried them on Fyremas. Soren described it in detail in one of his letters, but I still would’ve liked to see that for myself.”
I’m too busy catching my breath to do more than nod weakly.
Soren smoothly intervenes, drawing his brother’s attention away. “Where’s Wotek?”
“Left him on Prydain. You know he hates ship travel.” Vaughn’s strong features contort into a frown. “Don’t blame him, being crated in the hold for days on end…”
“Who is Wotek?” I ask, voice somewhat hoarse.
Vaughn glances at me. “My bear.”
“Your bear?” I blink, bewildered. “You have a bear?”
“I’m too big for a horse.” He shrugs. “Have to ride something into battle, don’t I?”
Reaching over, Soren uses two fingers beneath my chin to click my jaw—which has fallen open in shock—closed again.
“Of course, I wouldn’t need to ride at all if I weren’t so small.” Vaughn scratches at his thickly bearded jawline. “No one else on Prydain requires a mount to keep up.”
I stare at him. He is the farthest thing from small I’ve ever seen.
“I’m only half-Titan,” he explains, recognizing my confusion. “My mother was a true colossal. Makes one wonder how our father managed to bed her all those years ago, logistically speaking.”
Soren grimaces. “Some things are best left a mystery.”
“Alas, no amount of her blood could make up for his shortcomings.” Vaughn grins. “Emphasis on short. I’m the runt of Prydain. It’s why I’m called Vaughn. Means ‘little one.’ An inside joke among my kind.”
“How tall are the rest of the Titans?” I ask.
“The youngest are at least double Soren’s height. The oldest easily triple it.”
Skies, that’s on par with the ice giants.
“I heard stories about Titans when I was growing up,” I confess. “I did not realize they were anything beyond bedtime tales designed to scare children into behaving.”
“That’s no surprise. We don’t get many visitors on the Isle of the Mighty.
” Vaughn picks up an entire baguette and tears the end off in one clean bite.
“Titans are not the friendliest bunch, overall. But you can’t really blame them for craving isolation from the rest of the realm, given its history.
Fae problems tend to creep across the rough waters of Titan’s Way, dragging them into battles they’d rather watch from afar. ”
“But you’re half-fae…”
“That’s why I’m here, standing in my brother’s kitchen—”
“Eating all his food,” Soren mutters.
“—talking to you.” Vaughn takes another bite of bread.
Half the baguette is gone already. “I have a vested interest in what goes on here in Hylios, and in the rest of Anwyvn. But the other side of my family tree displays very little in the way of concern for those rooted on the mainland. If every last fae and mortal slaughtered one another on the field of battle, the Titans wouldn’t blink. ”
“But what of the blight?” My brows are arched nearly to my hairline. “Does it not concern them that the land is sickening year by year? That the birth rate is stagnant? That the crops are dying?”
He shrugs. “They have been around since the time before the Cull. They have seen empires rise and fall, have withstood famines and droughts and natural disasters. Our bloodiest wars do not seem to warrant any more attention than a game of sticks and stones played by the neighbor’s children. They set themselves above it.”
Soren scoffs. “Because they think themselves gods, directly descended from the blood of deities…despite no evidence to support that myth.”
Vaughn tosses a chunk of bread at his brother’s head. “How else do you explain our divine strength, if not as a gift from the skies?”
“By the same logic”—Soren dodges swiftly—“how do you explain such scarcity of brains paired with that overabundance of brawn?”
My eyes dart between them as they trade barbs, grinning at each other the entire time.
“You may enjoy talking in circles to dizzy your enemies, big brother, but as it turns out, you don’t need all that much brainpower to pummel people into submission one-fisted.”
“Ah yes,” Soren drawls. “Titan diplomacy tactics. Never without bloodshed.”
“Or gin. Speaking of…” Vaughn’s smiling face turns my way. I freeze with my apple halfway to my mouth. “Have you ever had Titan gin before, Rhya?”
I shake my head warily.
“Excellent.” He reaches down into the rucksack by his feet and produces a large bottle. The liquid inside is clear but swims with flecks of what looks like gold when he holds it to the light. “Tonight, it will be my honor to corrupt you.”
Soren’s groan is audible even over the pop of the cork being unstoppered.