Chapter Twenty-Three #2
He looks at me as though I am speaking a foreign tongue, as though he cannot begin to understand what I am trying to convey to him. Each second I spend waiting for a response drives the blade a bit deeper into my heart.
“What is it you want me to say to you?” he asks finally. “Tell me the words, I will speak them. Hand me a script, I will read it. Whatever assurances you need, I will give them to you…So long as it means you are with me on my ship in two days’ time, charting a course back to my city.”
A fissure of pain splits through my chest as the blade strikes clean through. I do not want to tell him how to win me. I do not want to hand him the cipher he needs to crack the secrets coded into the subtext of my soul.
I want him to know, in one look across a room, how I am feeling.
I want him to catch my gaze in a thick crowd and make me feel as though we are the only two in existence, so connected there is no question of it.
I want the gentle caring I’d seen between Uther and Carys; the bone-deep sense of knowing that radiates between Alaric and Arwen.
They seem to move in the same orbit, like two tethered stars, Soren told me once.
That is what I want—and I will accept no less.
Not ever again.
Years ago, Tomas kept me like a secret. His hidden shame. Now Penn keeps me like treasure. A dragon safeguarding gold. And yet, neither of them has ever kept me the way I truly desire.
Like a vow.
Like a promise.
Not hidden away, nor sequestered in an airless vault. A love that feels like the wind. Wild and free. Infinite as the aether.
“Say something,” Penn begs, voice gruff.
“My head is spinning,” I admit truthfully. “It’s been a long night already. I need a bit of time to wrap my thoughts around this.”
“This?”
“Returning to Caeldera. Returning to…you.”
A muscle leaps in his cheek. “You’ve had weeks of time.”
I did not use it pining over you, I think but do not say, for I know it will only hurt him. “Penn…”
“You love me,” he whispers, head shaking slowly back and forth. His eyes are an inferno of devastation. “I know you do.”
I do.
I do love him.
There is a part of me that will always love him, until I am naught but ashes, my soul returned to the skies. But as I stare at him now, I cannot help wondering if love alone is enough to last a lifetime.
Can you call it love if it only comes in a half measure?
He was right to say that I’m changing. I hardly know who I am anymore. I cannot predict the woman I will one day become. How can I expect him to know me, truly, when I do not know myself? How can I demand he unravel the mysteries of my psyche when, even to me, they are a storm of unknowns?
It is not fair.
Not to me, not to him.
I haul in a breath and force myself to take a step back. “Pendefyre—”
“No. Don’t.”
My brows rise. “What?”
“Whatever you are about to say, don’t.” He speaks through clenched teeth.
“I realize now, looking at you, that I have rushed this. Words are not my forte. Expressing my emotions is not a strength. I can admit that. I meant to do this slowly. Properly. I had a speech prepared, had a million points to make…But the moment I saw you…” His hands are tight fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry. Take all the time you require, Rhya.
When next we speak of this, I promise I will do a better job at articulating the depth of my feelings for you. ”
Something about Penn’s halting vulnerability makes my eyes burn with unshed tears.
It is so unlike him to lay himself bare, I can hardly believe I’m about to walk away.
Still, I know I must—for both our sakes.
If I stay, we will end up right back where we began, allowing our bodies to make promises our hearts cannot uphold.
A momentary solution for a perpetual problem.
Arching up onto my tiptoes, I press a kiss to his warm cheek. It lasts no longer than the length of a heartbeat.
“Good night, Penn. I will see you tomorrow at the wedding.”
I wait for him to say something else. For him to do something else.
To catch me by the arm, to call me back.
To pull me in and tell me, without an ounce of hesitation, that our future will be more than a tightrope walk between repression and release.
That he has learned in our time apart that some risks are worth taking, for the rewards are beyond compare.
That Caeldera will be my kingdom as much as his if I come back—to protect, to rule, to safeguard in every way.
My home, with my king.
But he merely stands there, hands balled into tight fists at his sides as he watches me turn and walk away from him, disappearing into the darkness like a ghost.
The Ll?rians consider midsummer a lucky day for a wedding. The luckiest of the year, in fact, for it has more hours of sunlight than any other and thus, any couple whose union is forged on the solstice will forever walk together bathed in the light of the gods.
Arwen and Alaric are married at high noon, when the sun is at its peak in the skies, on top of the sea gate, with the whole city gathered to watch them exchange vows.
Vaughn officiates, his massive form clad in a rich teal tunic threaded with gold, his voice loud enough to carry the solemn rites outward across the ramparts to the farthest canals and bridges for all to hear.
Even the squadrons posted at battlements within the walls can surely make out his deep boom.
The Paexyrian fly overhead, whooping their support from above, shooting immolating arrows in choreographed arcs that explode into dazzling fireworks over the harbor. Soren is up there somewhere, too, though Zephyr soars on the wind so fast, he is no more than a black smudge against the azure.
Everyone cheers as Alaric bends his bride deeply over one arm, the other arm punching skyward in pure victory as he kisses the woman he’s waited so many years to call his own.
Before the cheers have faded, the couple climb onto Atyr’s back and ride off together, their hair rippling in the wind, the train of Arwen’s long dress a pale flag flying out behind them as they disappear from view.
It is the most beautiful ceremony I’ve ever seen.
But my heart feels hollow as I add my voice to the chorus of cheers, my mind blank as I lift my hands to join the thunderous applause.
I did not sleep last night. After my heated discussion with Pendefyre, I’d wound my way up the many steps of the royal grounds, a silent shadow in a city of revelers.
Soren’s villa was a crush of strangers, the terrace crowded with guests drinking Daggerpoint lager and dining under the starlight.
For once, the expansive kitchen was fully staffed, hearth ablaze as delicacies were prepared to feed the masses.
Well-muscled porters trekked back and forth across the sloping lawns, ferrying furniture.
They’ve spent days setting up long tables throughout the gardens for the elaborate feast that is to take place after today’s ceremony.
No one noticed as I slipped into my suite and shut the door. Curled into a ball, I sat on my balcony, staring out at Hylios’s midnight beauty, unmoving. Penn’s taste lingered on my lips; his words played on a loop in my head.
There is no peace without you.
I cannot be without you.
Please, please, come back to me.
I hoped, if I sat there long enough, some of my uncertainties would crystallize into a solid decision.
But I was still sitting there when the sun crept up over the horizon, with no more answers in either my head or my heart.
I felt more confused than ever as I dressed for the wedding, pulling on the gown I’d spotted a fortnight past in the window of one of the many boutiques that line the canals.
We were meant to be buying me another set of flight leathers, but Bretiax had pulled me inside when she saw my lingering gaze and insisted I try it on, with Harpina’s gentle encouragement.
It is nearly identical in style to the one Soren once gave me, plunging deeply at the bodice to expose my Remnant, then flowing to my ankles in a frothy sea of sapphire and silver fabric.
I’d thought it was too scandalous for a midday wedding, but both women assured me it was perfect.
Now, as I look around at the crowd, I’m glad I listened. Everyone is dressed in their finest despite the bright sun that beats down overhead. Even the Ember Guild looks quite dashing in their maroon dress uniforms, with embroidered sashes across their chests and boots polished to a shine.
“Say what you will about the Ll?rians,” Jac says, grinning at me. “They know how to celebrate.”
“Thought it was called the Water Court because of the canals.” Cadogan shakes his head. “It’s because the citizens drink like fish.”
Farley presses a hand to his temple. “Not so loud, for the love of the gods.”
“You have no one to blame but yourself for that hangover.” Mabon cracks a grin. “Tried to drink Yara under the table, the fool.”
I grimace. I’d seen Yara down her body weight in Titan gin and remain standing. “If I had some herbs on hand, I would mix you a tonic for the headache. There is a hospital ward near the barracks; I’m sure the healers there have something that will help.”
Farley waves away my words. “It’ll pass as soon as I start drinking again. Hair of the hound that bit, as they say. Hopefully, they’ll serve something strong at the feast.” He pauses. “Will Yara be there, do you think? I am entitled to a rematch. My dignity depends on it.”
My lips twist. “I’m sure she and the other Paexyrian will be in attendance.”
When I left the villa this morning, it was in the full swing of final preparations—flowers being carefully arranged, candles being positioned just so, fine silver being set out beside bone china.
The tables in the gardens are set with fifty places, enough to accommodate Alaric and Arwen’s closest friends and family members—a group that, surprisingly, includes me.