Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter
twenty-one
My final week in Hylios passes with twice the speed of the two that came before.
There is never a spare moment. Vaughn’s larger-than-life presence infuses the once quiet royal grounds with so much energy, it is difficult to believe I once spent evenings on the ocean-facing terrace with a book and a glass of wine, only Soren’s occasional presence to interrupt my serenity.
As the wedding creeps closer, each evening inevitably dissolves into an impromptu celebration—one every soul in the city seems more than eager to partake in, though none so enthusiastically as Vaughn.
Yara is a close second.
From that first day onward, when he declared his intentions to corrupt me, the half-Titan has kept his promise, thoroughly enjoying his role as rowdy ringleader.
He is always spearheading something, whether it is an evening at Ledge for a sampling of every concoction on the menu or a late afternoon at Vintners’ Cove in which he bribes the barge operators to bring up several treasured casks for private consumption.
His own villa, a quainter version of Soren’s on the lower half of the royal grounds, is too small, he argues.
Too isolated. He prefers the palatial elegance of his brother’s home.
And so, more often than not, that’s where he can be found—splashing in the spring, bathing in the crystal bathhouse, and eating everything in the cupboards.
On the rare occasion you cannot find him in the crowd, towering heads above all others, his near constant laughter makes it easy to pinpoint him. It booms like a cannon across the city no matter the hour or occasion.
When he is not using his elephantine frame to stir up trouble, he is exercising it—chopping wood in the olive grove or lifting boulders repetitively overhead or throwing axes at the targets I use for projectile practice.
Usually, he prefers the built-in weapons of his powerful fists, but a few times I see him swinging a broadsword so sharp it could cut me clean in half, using a series of wild moves the men of the Ember Guild would undoubtedly be interested in adopting for their own training regimens.
I can envision Jac, in particular, enjoying Vaughn’s company—both at the sparring pits and at the local breweries. Height differences aside, there is something mirrored in the two men’s dispositions that makes me miss my old friend.
Friends.
All of them.
Mabon, Cadogan, Jac, Farley.
I harbor a tiny sliver of hope that a favored few will be relieved from duty at Dyved’s front lines long enough to accompany Pendefyre to the wedding—assuming he is still coming to the wedding.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have dared even that sliver, given the state of things in their kingdom.
But with the Frostlanders’ attention turned toward Ll?r—and half their fleet decaying at the bottom of the Bay of Blood, thanks to my efforts with the water cannon—perhaps the western side of the Northlands can take a much-needed breath.
I suppose I will find out in short order.
The wedding will be upon us before we know it. I cannot decide whether I am more excited or nervous to reach what once seemed a very far-off deadline. Whenever I think about it too much, my gut swarms with so many nervous butterflies it becomes difficult to breathe.
Thankfully, Vaughn is highly qualified at keeping me distracted.
He stocks his daylight hours with healthy activities, if only so he can counteract them with drink and questionable decisions come nightfall, be it at the Kettle until he is chased out by incoming tides or in the low lighting of the pleasure clubs, where the pounding music and sumptuous decor provide a backdrop for the darkest desires Hylios has to offer.
My one and only visit to the clubs—the night I’d been dragged by Yara, Bretiax, Harpina, and Thisobei after an afternoon at the stables—I saw things that made the influence of Melité’s siren song appear positively tame by comparison.
I fled home almost as soon as we arrived, with burning cheeks, a fluttering pulse, and a heat in my veins that did not subside until I was alone in my bed, seeking release with my fingers between my legs.
I was ever so grateful that Soren and Vaughn chose to skip that particular venture, spending time with Alaric and Arwen at their villa instead. My mortification was deep enough without additional witnesses.
Though his house has never been so full of life, I see less of Soren than I have since my arrival in his city.
Even our daily lessons fall somewhat by the wayside, for he is constantly in demand.
Between his half-siblings, visiting dignitaries from every corner of the kingdom, Daggerpoint soldiers, and the Paexyrian squad, he has precious little time to offer me even in the rare moments we find ourselves alone to discuss my maegical progress.
I keep up on my own, of course, but it is not the same. There is no more escape to the Vale for rides on Zephyr; no more afternoons on the skiff or mornings at the cove. This makes me puzzlingly restless, no matter how I fill my schedule with activity.
Yara brings me along for several patrols on Umyr, taking it upon herself to teach me about high-altitude flight.
She finds a spare uniform for me, crafted of supple pale gray leather with a fitted corset that cinches in my waist, padding at the thighs, and boots that lace up beyond my knees.
She even provides me with a pair of goggles that are slightly too large, but better than nothing, given her fondness for speed.
Bretiax often flanks us on Isyr, her piebald Paexyri, communicating with signs as we soar over the craggy Ll?rian coastline. I’ve grown comfortable enough to release Umyr’s mane for short spans to sign back at her, using the simple symbols they’re teaching me day by day.
Ascend.
Descend.
Bank left.
Bank right.
Look back.
Return home.
Sometimes, our flights are the only times I can hear myself think.
For the villa is a constant parade of people eating and chattering and laughing on every available surface, from the kitchens to the terrace to the lush garden pathways to the now fully occupied suites that line the back hallway between mine and Soren’s.
They are everywhere, touching priceless artifacts in the gallery like they’re meaningless trinkets, flipping casually through books with pages so old they’ve gone translucent.
On more than one occasion, I catch myself biting back words of chastisement.
This is not my home.
These are not my guests.
It is not my place to interfere.
At first, I assume Soren is enjoying the festivities as much as his brother is.
As the days slip by, however, the constant company begins to chafe at his deep reserve of self-control.
He never says a word about it, but I watch a vein appear at his temple, pulsing with increasing frustration each time he returns to his once tranquil refuge and finds it stuffed floor to ceiling with strangers Vaughn has dragged in with him.
I, too, grow to miss the peace and quiet once the shine of new connections dulls to a pervasive intrusion.
When at last the day before the wedding rolls around, I grit my teeth when I return from my morning flight to find a kitchen littered with empty bottles and food tins, the terrace crowded with unfamiliar Hylians eating lunch.
Boots crunching on crumbs no amount of sweeping can keep up with, I retreat to the library.
But even in that tranquil sanctum I can hardly hear myself think over the ruckus that echoes down the halls.
I collapse onto a chaise by the fireplace, then send out several tendrils of wind toward the desk in the corner.
In seconds, I’ve whisked a stack of blank parchment across the room.
I use a bit more care when transporting the inkpot—Soren will be peeved if I desecrate his beloved handwoven rugs with black spatters.
I settle back against the cushioned seat with the stack of parchment braced against my knees and contemplate what I want to say.
My grip on the quill is so tight, I’m surprised it does not bend in half as I begin to scratch out my message.
A futile endeavor, I know. But that knowledge does not stop the flood of forlorn words.
Dear Carys,
I know you will likely not reply to this letter, as you have not replied to any of the previous three I have sent.
Hell, I am not even certain you are reading them.
For all I know, you are tossing them straight into the fire, watching my words burn to ash.
But I will keep writing, my dear friend, for the thought of you holding my scribbled missives in your hands—even if it is only to crumple them into balls and cast them into the flames—somehow brings me solace.
I miss you.
There it is, plain and simple. I miss your teasing jokes and your summery laugh and your words of wisdom. Even if you do not miss me, I have decided you cannot stop me missing you. You cannot stop me worrying about you, either.
In his letters, Lestyn assures me that you are well enough whenever he looks in on you. He says you and baby Nevin are both enjoying the spring weather that has finally descended on the crater—a long overdue thaw for Caeldera.
Apparently, the abundant sunshine has allowed the herb garden in your courtyard to flourish? Lestyn was thrilled when he wrote of it, though he did complain he can hardly keep up with the weeding. I know you’ve been helping him tend it…and, if I know you the way I presume to, tending him as well.
Thank you for that.
It is surely brazen of me to ask you for anything, but I hope you will continue to keep an eye on him, for he has no one else to do it and, though he acts the sage adult, he is after all only thirteen.
Without intervention, I fear Osain, that old crone, will beat the intuitive spirit out of the boy altogether.
He could use a friend.
(And, I think, so could you.)