Chapter Thirty-Seven
LIFE WENT ON.
The party went on.
After the ceremonies, a crowning and pledging of all the noble houses, Fyar had made a speech.
He’d stood in his finest clothes, and announced Lord Anders Aykal as the winner of the hunt before moving on to more somber topics.
He spoke gravely on the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Porthos’ death.
He spoke of who the prince had been to Netyere and her people. Of who he had been to Fyar.
Lies wrapped up and delivered as pretty words.
The lords and ladies of Netyere didn’t know Porthos, he hadn’t made much of an impression compared to his brother, but they honored him nonetheless.
They raised their glasses to the fallen prince and moved on. Porthos’ death a blip in time that would soon be forgotten.
The feast and the music and the drinking kicked off immediately. The hall filling with the sounds of laughter and life.
Killian stayed on the edges of the room, hiding in the shadows, instead of next to Fyar. For the first time in a century, he was unsure of his place there.
Killian had been tense the entire walk to Fyar’s quarters, he’d half expected to be sent away as soon as he was seen, told to go back to his room and stay there like a naughty child.
Instead, Fyar had simply turned up his nose, continued to allow his servants to dress him, and pretended Killian wasn’t there.
Loran and a few other guards were present as well.
Dantel looked starstruck to be in the king’s quarters, a flush across his cheeks at the skin left on display, his eyes bouncing every which way in an attempt to not linger on the king’s semi-nude form.
If Killian were in better spirits, it would have made him laugh.
Loran avoided him altogether. It stung. They had been friends for so long, but Killian understood. The lieutenant was right to stay away from him. He’d lost the trust of his right hand and Killian didn’t know if he would ever get it back.
Killian spotted Loran across the great hall, mingling with the guests when spoken to but otherwise focused and attentive.
The black haired healer’s apprentice—Taiga—sat at a table by the open doors. Alone. A goblet in clutched in both hands, a haunted expression on his face.
Lord Anders Aykal looked stunned as he was clapped on the back and congratulated for his win.
He had the most kills aside from Fyar, solo and assisted combined.
The young lord had handled himself well, considering the circumstances.
He stayed calm and steady, taking control of the scene and organizing the others after Lyra left with Porthos’ body.
There was no sign of Kade. Killian hadn’t caught a glimpse of him all night. Not with the other apprentices during the feast or after, as the real festivities started.
Killian was worried. He was tempted to try and slip away to go and find Kade, but he hadn’t been lying when he said his absence would be noticed.
Fyar’s searching gaze often found him in his little corner, there and away, over and over and over again, as if the king expected him to vanish into thin air in the three seconds he took his eyes off him.
All night, the king had been pretending there was nothing wrong, acting like nothing had happened, like there wasn’t a scheme afoot. Fyar was good at pretending. Too good. His mask fit firmly in place.
Killian hated him for it.
Kade wasn’t talking, and now Fyar. Killian hated the silence of it. He’d rather Fyar scream at him, rage at him, than shut him out like this.
But betrayal was betrayal.
Everyone scrambled to their feet as Fyar drifted around the hall, greeting and making small talk with his guests, thanking them for their support and their condolences.
Then, surprisingly, he joined Killian in his little corner. Fyar leaned close to speak into Killian’s ear, “Do you hate this as much as I do?”
“More.”
“Surely not. Hidden in the shadows over here I’m sure you hear all the juicy gossip.” Fyar bumped their shoulders lightly. “What’ve you heard? Tell me everything.”
It felt too normal. Too easy. Too much like how the formal functions played out, where they would spend the entire night learning what skeletons each lord and lady kept in their closets. To better know our enemy, Fyar had once said.
Lips twitching, Killian obliged and began to regale Fyar with the bits and pieces he’d picked up despite most of his attention being caught up elsewhere. Fyar listened with bright eyes.
They must have been quite the sight, huddled together, gossiping. No one dared to try and eavesdrop.
“I knew it,” Fyar hissed, interrupting Killian. “I knew Lady Fiora was trying to marry her daughter into a position closer to the capital. She’s been sending out feelers to every house in the surrounding lands. The retainers holding the lands seized from Lyra even received a message.”
“Her poor daughter. Who needs enemies with a mother like that?”
“Indeed. No doubt she’d sell her daughter off to you if it meant securing a place for herself in Ingara.”
“I can’t say she’s my type.”
Fyar snorted. “Yes. She neither has a cock nor is she a younger brother.”
Killian jerked, wondering if he heard that right. “What?”
“You like bratty, younger males.” Fyar stared him down, but cocked his head innocently. “What? Did you think I meant something else—someone else?”
Trapped under the king’s eyes, Killian felt exposed.
Fighting down panic, Killian tilted his chin higher. “As if you don’t have the same inclinations.”
“It’s a flaw,” Fyar said easily. “We both have bad taste.”
“We should work on that.”
“We should.”
Killian left it alone for all of one second. “Maybe you should marry Lady Fiora’s daughter. Save her from her mother. Finally pop out an heir.”
Fyar’s lip curled. “I know it must be surprising to you, but during the rare occasions I crave the company of a woman, I want them supple and soft.”
“Such strange tastes you have.”
“I don’t want to hear that from you.”
They eyed each other, lips pursed and judgement written all over their faces before they remembered where they were and who they were. Fighting back smiles they laughed. Fyar shoved Killian, shaking his head.
Suddenly, Fyar straightened and turned his head slowly. Killian followed his gaze. Across the hall, stood Lyra, swarmed by well-wishers and consoling touches. As if he felt them watching, Lyra looked up, meeting Fyar’s eyes head-on.
The prince’s face was hard, his jaw clenched tight. There was a finality in his eyes, the promise of an end.
Something incomprehensible to Killian passed between the two cousins. An understanding, perhaps.
Then, Fyar turned his back on the last living member of his family. He inclined his head towards the glass doors to their left, and spoke to Killian, a sad smile marring his face. “Join me?”
Fyar led them out onto the terrace overlooking the back of the estate, out of earshot and away from any prying eyes. The labyrinth groaned into the night as it shifted, ever alive and changing.
Stepping out into the open set Killian on edge. They were too exposed.
Taking a deep breath, Fyar leaned against the banister and turned his face towards the stars. He looked younger, more carefree. “It’s a beautiful night. Yes. It’s perfect.” Starting forward, he descended the steps that led out toward the looming labyrinth.
Their path was illuminated by the bright waxing moon aided by the torches that were lit along garden throughout the estate.
Killian followed more cautiously. “We shouldn’t be out here. You do remember there are elves that are actively trying to kill you?”
Fyar only grinned.
Every step they took across the grass needled at Killian. The shadows played tricks on him, making him see and hear things—elves—that weren’t there. One hand reached up behind his back to grip the hilt of one of the twin swords on his back. Just in case.
Fyar barely seemed to notice Killian’s concern, he just kept walking, not a care in the world. They were near the edge of the labyrinth now, and they could see the hedges moving, twisting and twisting and twisting to form endless passages and dead ends.
It felt like a lifetime ago, the last time they walked this path together, back when things were easy. No Lyra. No Porthos. No Kade. Just Killian and Fyar. While Killian wouldn’t trade his time with Kade for the world, he missed when things were simpler.
The fog that surrounded the labyrinth settled heavily around them, obscuring them from view. They were far enough from the palace they wouldn’t be seen.
A twig snapped in the distance and Killian ran out of patience. Surging forward, he grabbed Fyar tightly just above the elbow and tried to yank him back towards the palace hall. “That’s enough. Let’s go back inside. You’ll be missed.”
Fyar put a hand over Killian’s and squeezed his fingers. There was a minute shake of his head. “We’re exactly where we need to be.”
“Fyar…I don’t understand.” Was he trying to get himself killed?
A grim smile. “Do you remember the day we met?”
“How could I forget?” Killian croaked. Feeling wrong-footed and dizzy, like everything was spiraling out of control and he had no way to fix it, to get it back on course. “It was the worst day of my life.”
Fyar barked a laugh. “And mine. You were so young then. So innocent.”
“I was awaiting execution. For murder.”
“A punishment you thought you deserved, even after all he had done to you.” Fyar inclined his head.
Therefore, “Innocent. I was so intrigued by you, by what you had done.
I snuck into the dungeons because I needed to talk to you, to hear your story directly from your own mouth.
I had to ask how it felt, to kill the one you considered your father with your own hands.
Did you feel guilty? Did you feel justified?
Did it haunt you? Would it haunt me the same?