Chapter 27
I t was dark. Had been dark for a while. A flickering lantern was the first thing Alora saw, dancing shadows across the canvas ceiling when her heavy eyelids half-opened. Although her body felt scorching like Firekeeper’s flames, relief quivered inside her.
Her starfire had returned, searing through her veins.
How long had darkness covered her? Had she been in the grasp of the Ravens? And if she felt her starfire now … was Arzen dead?
The last hours—days perhaps—replayed with a pounding ache behind her eyes. Every gruesome detail surfaced while her eyes narrowed on the flickering shadows above her.
Fearing movement, fearing sharp pain from her wounds, Alora raked her eyes over the ceiling with hanging lanterns lit. They traveled down the paneling of amethyst, emerald, teal, and onyx above her bed, over the gold-flecked stars, until she laid her eyes on the fluttering tent entrance. A soothing aroma of the campfire and pearlseas graced her senses.
Then she could only smile.
Lush shades of gray locks fanned across the sheets near her arm. So close, a mere drift of a delicate breeze could tickle them against her. She couldn’t see his face because it was buried in the center of his forearms. Caged in by mountainous biceps and broad shoulders under a black tunic.
In the forest, she’d mistaken Kyr for him. There was no mistaking him this time.
Garrik was there. Waiting for her.
Alora watched the tension in his back expand and contract. By the rhythm of breaths, he could be sleeping. But she knew it was highly unlikely.
She wanted to reach out. Lace her fingers in his hair to comfort him, knowing the fear and pain he’d been through as a result of her absence and reappearance. He couldn’t mask it in the valley—though he tried, but she knew. Could feel it in every brush of his hands that trembled. And unlike his soldiers, she heard it in his voice. Hidden deep within the orders he commanded. How panic thieved his body.
A pressure pinned her hand onto the silken sheets. Sapphire eyes followed his forearm, and his shackle-scarred wrist, until it connected with her porcelain skin and those incredible fingers that were laced between hers.
She couldn’t help but marvel at the feeling of it. His rings cold against her knuckles. The calluses resting against them. His hand entirely enveloping the back of hers while that icy chill soothed the bruises there. His knuckles?—
She drew in a sharp, painful breath.
A pallet of colors under split and bleeding skin.
When she pulled her gaze away, hollow bloodshot eyes waited.
“You look so tired,” she whispered, and Garrik blinked a few times.
He softly chuckled with relief and cupped her cheek. “Hello, clever girl.” Those bloodshot eyes briefly glazed over.
Then Garrik shifted in the chair, reached to the bedside table, and placed a cup to her lips.
Alora accepted it, allowing the cold water into her dry throat before she focused on his bloody hand and asked, “What happened?”
A muscle feathered in his cheek. He pulled the cup away and set it on the table. “I lost my temper.”
“Are they”—the words caught in her throat—“I killed them … didn’t I?”
Garrik sighed, stroking her cheek. “No. You gave them one hell of a shock.” He smiled at that. “The null blocked enough of your power that you could not burn them. I killed two. The others are needed for … other purposes.”
“I used my magic.” She turned her eyes down in shame. “If someone saw?—”
“I took care of it.”
“How?”
The chill of his hand drifted away, falling to her forehead. Frowning, Garrik stood as Smokeshadows whirled on top of the bedside table overflowing with a vase of pearlseas before dawning away to leave a metal basin behind.
“After the tavern in Alynthia.” He dipped his hand in the water, then rang out a cloth, splashing a steady stream inside. “I sent my shadows to intercept travelers into Galdheir. Anyone they detect, I will know their intentions … if they are seeking an audience with Magnelis.”
She groaned as Garrik carefully laid a freezing cloth against her forehead.
“You are fevered,” he cautioned.
She expected as much.
Garrik turned. Smokeshadows tendriled, producing more cloth as one by one he repeated the steps. Dropping them into the basin. Ringing them out before placing them on her neck, arms, chest.
A wicked shudder pebbled her skin at each touch, though she wouldn’t have protested any of it. It felt incredible. Almost as if his hands were laying on her again.
“Ozrin examined you.” He paused. Something like shame flickered on his features. “I … preserved your modesty and tended to your washing. I could not bear the thought of you awake. Of causing you pain from the wounds under a cloth.” Garrik ran his wet hand through his hair before brushing down the back of his neck.
Her eyes drifted to a bowl of red water on the bedside table, silhouetted by the white glow of her Blazebloom.
Garrik followed her gaze. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, face bleak.
Truth be told, she would’ve preferred it that way. Alora rasped, “Thank you.”
The entire night sky seemed to flicker in his eyes.
Surveying his face, how his tunic shifted as he sat on the edge of the chair and clasped her palm in his, revealing blood splattered on his chest and neck in the movement. Her finger smoothed over the split ridges of his knuckles, sending an ache to her heart. “Are you okay?”
With a sharp breathy laugh, “You are lying in a bed, bandaged and bruised, after making your best attempt to gain an audience with Maker of the Skies, and inquire if I am alright?” Gray locks tickled his forehead as he astonishingly shook his head.
“You’re right. Must be the fever.” She smiled, attempting to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
Garrik placed the chilled cup to her lips and watched with fine attention for when she finished and returned it beside them. He was silent for a moment. That astonished face fell to something brutal as Garrik dropped his voice to a shame-filled whisper. “I went out of my mind. I could not find you.”
The devastation plaguing his features forced a dagger through her heart. No. He wasn’t the one to blame. She wouldn’t let him shoulder this responsibility, too. “After I read your note, I went searching for you. Thinking you’d returned to the valley, I thought it was you at the tree line.” Alora shook her head. “I should’ve realized you wouldn’t lure me so far from camp.”
Garrik straightened, his expression unreadable. “My … note,” he repeated flatly. Eyes darkening. “Do you still have it?”
Alora scanned the room, finding her leggings pooled on the rugs near her bookshelves.
Registering her inclination, Garrik stood and collected them. He searched the pockets before pulling out the crumpled page. By the lantern on the reading table, he held it between his fingers, low in the light, to where she saw the words outlined from the other side.
For a moment, silver swirled with darkness, scanning the bloodstained parchment. Tracing the simple words smudged across it. His lips went taut, almost unnoticeably, and then loosened to a calm expression before he pocketed the note and returned to the chair beside her.
They sat in silence, allowing the crackling fires outside and voices from camp to cloud around them.
Garrik seemed lost in a distant world. His eyes, though they were on her, appeared dull, deep in thought.
“How is Deimon?” she broke the silence. “I can’t imagine he’s taking capturing me lightly.”
Blinking, Garrik returned, rolling his shoulders against the chair, and explained, “He inquired about your wellbeing. Sends his apologies,” and drew in a long breath as if to calm himself.
Alora shivered under the cloths and bandages, fighting off a sudden wave of nausea. But Garrik’s hands were instantly there, replacing the cloths with fresh ones almost too cold to bear.
“Don’t demote him,” she requested, shivering. “He should remain the Wingborne’s general. He was protecting camp. None of them knew it was me.”
Garrik reclined in the seat, furrowing his brows as if he’d heard a ridiculous notion. “Deimon is not General of the Wingborne.”
It was her turn for confusion.
“Thalon commands the Wingborne. Whatever made you think Deimon was general?”
Alora thought of the ride to Alynthia. After they’d returned from Maraz. After Garrik had flown her on Smokeshadow wings and they spent the night in the inn. Before Nevilier forced him to Galdheir…
“Thalon said the General of the Wingborne taught you to fly. I assumed…” Alora’s voice drifted away. Carrying a thought so bizarre, she was surprised when it left her lips. “Did you give Thalon his shadow? Can his shadow fly?”
A breathy laugh was his response.
“ What ?”
A grin he never let anyone but her see swelled his cheeks. “You know nothing about Tarrent-Garren Guardians, do you?”
That wasn’t an answer.
She shook her head, frowning. “I know they are bred as warriors and their duties are to protect nobility, cities, and kingdoms. Thalon was given to Magnelis?—”
“Thalon was ordered to me. The once shit-spoiled little High Prince.”
“You’re still a shit-spoiled little High Prince.”
Garrik barked a laugh. Leaning back, he crossed his arms. No doubt to flex his biceps and widened his knees with a wolfish smirk. “What vision of me makes you think any part is little?”
That irritating, irresistible smirk was dangerously close to being slapped from his stupidly annoying, enchanting face. But the pain wouldn’t be worth it. Alora simply rolled her eyes as her cheek scarleted and attempted to change the subject. “Teach me to fly?”
Silver gleamed impossibly brighter as if stars exploded in his eyes. With a hint of faeling delight, Garrik wondered, “You wish to go flying with me?”
“Yes,” she admitted. And added, “I—well. It’d be useful to have another skill. In case of war, or if I’m needed to fly up a mountain or something. I’ll likely fall. You’d probably have to catch me?—”
“I will always catch you.” His head drifted back; lips parted at his words. And he seemed just as inclined to move the conversation along as she had when he said, “When you recover, I would be delighted to.”
“So tomorrow then?” She grinned.
Garrik released a taunting laugh, flicked her nose, and shook his head. “Keep dreaming, clever girl. You are not leaving this bed for the foreseeable future.”
“But Kadamar. Blood?—”
“Can wait.”
“No.”
“Alora, you need rest?—”
“I said no ,” she insisted, unyielding. Maybe she imagined it, but Garrik smiled at that too. Even so, she wouldn’t leave a moment for him to argue. “Every moment resting is another day Magnelis can kill someone. We stick to the plan. You said two Ravens still live? That you needed them for…” She raised a brow in question.
Disgust captured Garrik’s features, and she knew it wasn’t about her. It was evident he wasn’t pleased with the outcome of what had happened. Regardless, he pulled the emerald reading chair even closer. “Two were magic-washed. The null”—a vicious growl covered the words—“and the blue-skinned male.” His fists clenched, causing a trickle of blood to seep from a wound.
Alora tried to sit up but was met with the sharp reminder of that branch once in her side. Garrik cupped between her shoulders, lowering her to the pillow with a frown and a silent look of disapproval.
The fact dawned on her like a rockslide; it was going to be incredibly difficult to remain in this bed for even one day.
“What did you do with them?” she asked.
“They were removed from Elysian,” Garrik said as if it was a simple thing. Like something of common knowledge with no need for further answers. Only she didn’t think it was so simple. Garrik leaned forward. Cratering his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers as he rested his lips against his fingertips and went on, “I have hidden refuges for different circumstances. I dawned them to one of those locations.”
That made … little sense.
Despite the confusion, Alora blurted, “What do you do with them?”
There was that silence again. Heavy, unsettled.
Silver dulled as Garrik deeply sighed, and she knew whatever his answer was wouldn’t be good. “The only thing we can do.” Garrik dropped his scarred wrists to his knees. Then said, “Keep them prisoner but alive. Eldacar and others have worked to discover a cure for magic-washing since before I returned to myself. With no luck, I’m afraid. For now, they live with as much kindness as a hostile prisoner can expect. They are fed, clothed, and given comfortable accommodation under guard. An unfortunate few require constant restraints but ample medical care to prevent injury. It is the best I can offer until we wake them.”
Alora shook her aching head. “I don’t understand. Where are they?”
Again, silence.
He pulled away, twisting a ring on his right hand. The words were like an echo in time. A sweet memory that could only be spoken in the tenderest tone. “One of my mother’s worlds.” The corners of his mouth twitched as his eyes brightened. But that was short-lived when his chin dropped, staring at the silver ring he twisted as his voice roughened. “With no escape.”
Alora’s eyebrows creased as Garrik pulled the only dark ring from his hand and handed it to her.
“It is a key,” he simply stated. “Many of the rings I wear are as such. Just as you laid your starfire in Jade’s ring, Thalon created portals to my mother’s worlds that we know of. Easily accessible without requiring his presence to open them. I wear these at all times and only a designated few can remove them from my fingers.” He flipped to his palms, wiggling his fingers so the rings glistened in the lantern light. “Some I keep locked away. And like Jade’s ring, only a few can use them. Only Thalon or I can change their access.”
She twirled the ring between her fingers, surveying the intricate details laid within the metal. Twisted wire with sharpened points like dragon’s teeth were engraved around it. Like a prison for beasts. “How many worlds are there?” she asked. Curiosity teemed within her mind when she gazed at his hands.
A joyous smile was enough of an answer, but still, he remarked, “Too many to count. My mother’s powers were remarkable . Even before Zyllyryon’s magic was hers by birthright, it only added to the spectacular abilities and love she gave to create each one.”
So many worlds. Too many to count.
Alora pressed her head into the pillows, picturing worlds of incredible views, colors, life?—
Safety. Her head shot up. The sapphire glow of her eyes embered.
Before she could speak, he registered that look. Saw the silent, excited question and confessed, “None are substantial enough to house the population of Elysian.”
Those embers threatening to ignite in her eyes were snuffed out to ash.
The answer seemed to wound him as much as it wounded her. “We have searched. Most are too diminutive for a city of even limited society to be relocated. Elysian would be broken apart. Families would not be permitted to reproduce at risk of overpopulation. It is not possible. Most are only worlds of escape. Like Aiden’s, the sea only yields so far until there is simply nothing more.”
At least Aiden was able to escape. If Elysian ever fell further into the hands of Magnelis, he’d be able to endure the rest of his days in an oasis of his own.
“Would you like an escape? I am sure there is one that would be pleasing to you.”
Her heart stopped dead. “You … want to give me an entire world?”
He stared. Didn’t blink as an unreadable expression crossed his face. “How about we start with a ring?” There was something in those words, something she couldn’t place. His attention flashed to his ring in her hand, then to her face. “I will create one for you, then we can go exploring. Any particular design you wish for?”
Rolling her lips between her teeth, Alora paused. Noticing Garrik’s eyes track the movement. But he sat patiently waiting for a response she was uncertain she could give him.
Jewelry was never something she desired. Not even when Kaine proposed and didn’t offer a ring to display them as vowed. He didn’t lavish her with fine jewels, but she didn’t mind. She had watched nobility, lords’ wives—betrotheds—and courtiers practically snapping their spines from the ridiculous amount of gold and gems hanging from their necks and ears.
Besides, a necklace or a ring from Kaine would’ve felt more like a collar.
Alora’s focus trailed to her bedside table—to where one of Garrik’s first gifts sat—and she smiled as the Blazebloom’s petals still danced with ethereal white flames. Her eyes met his face, which followed her gaze to the flower, then trailed to the vase overfilled with pearlseas.
Garrik’s knowing stare met hers.
“Flowers,” she decided, and that smile that was so un-High-Prince-like lifted on his face, sending burning waves down her spine as hot as the Blazebloom beside them. “And make it silver. Like … like polished steel.” Like his eyes. “Anything else, you decide.”