Page 78

Alder, however, was immediately alert, his features drawn to singular focus as he stared the man down.

Basrain’s expression was much friendlier than those who’d greeted them at the gate, though there was still a bit of reserve as he took in their company. His gaze finally settled on Abecka, and he smiled. “I thought that was you. I was translating an old Pithian text in the scriptorium, and I glanced out my window and thought the Fates were playing tricks on my eyes.”

Abecka gave him a small smile. “It seems you have an entirely new retinue of archivists.”

Basrain’s expression turned plaintive. “I have lost many to the war.”

The weight of his words settled upon them all, but then his gaze warmed over Abecka as he said, softly, “It’s been a long time, old friend.”

“That it has,” Abecka said with equal sincerity. The tension lifted at once, and she dismounted. “I hope my coming here has not placed you in any danger.”

“Not at all,” Basrain replied. “I find that…surrounding oneself with stacks of old books tends to keep the vultures away. They always prefer the shinier things, you know.”

“Yes. It is the failing of the simpleminded,” Abecka mused.

“Indeed.” Basrain smiled with greeting. “And what brings the Light Court’s great enchantress to Callant?” He appraised the rest of their group, but when his gaze touched the Weald Prince, he gasped and dropped to his knees. “Your Highness! I didn’t recognize you! Forgive me…had I known you were?—”

“To your feet, man,” Alder said through his teeth.

Basrain stood slowly, awkwardly, though his eyes were set upon the Weald Prince with wonder and disbelief. “Demas be praised, I had heard…that is, rumors have not been kind to your fate.”

“Rumors are rarely kind, Basrain,” Alder replied lowly. “I trust you of all people would know that.”

Basrain’s expression turned wistful.

“Basrain,” Abecka said, drawing his attention. “We’ve come because we need your opinion on a matter, though I would prefer to share those details in private…?”

“Of course.” Basrain clasped his hands in understanding. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Callant was a monument of white marble—an indubitable museum with its sprawling promenade of halls and arched ceilings so tall they seemed to defy the inherent limitations of any architecture Seph had ever seen.

It was a far cry from little Harran.

And as Basrain led them from one impressive chamber to the next, Seph noted the air of reverence pervading this place. The silence of awe, the posture of humility one innately assumed when seeing one’s life compared to the ages.

Everywhere she looked were artifacts from another time, another place, stored here in this priory for preservation. It was a constant and sobering reminder of the ever-moving current of time, that one life was as small as a pebble along this infinite shore, soon to be swept away like everyone who had come before, even the kith with their extended lifespans. Portraits and statues and books, collectibles and baubles and many things she couldn’t identify, sprawled over tables and shelves, all here to observe and admire and cherish.

Basrainwasa collector.

Seph paused before a table full of such baubles—including a pair of slender metal files that were remarkably similar to the lock picks her nani used to keep. Beside the table stood a large ringed representation of a star and all its orbiting planets. Seph rotated one of the rings and watched a little planet move along its arc. Her time in this world was nothing compared to the scope of the ages, her life an infinitesimal speck against the breadth of the heavens, and yet it washertime that faced total annihilation.

A throat cleared, and Seph glanced over to see one of Basrain’s archivists glaring at her. She pulled her hand from the whirling planets and hurried after the others.

She was eventually given her own room. It was a smaller space with a bed just large enough for one person—thank the saints. There was a simple desk, and a nightstand, where another robed kith left a plate of bread and something unidentifiable, a pitcher of water, and a cloth for her to wash her face—which she did. The water smelled sweet, like blooms in spring, and when she peered inside, she realized therewereblooms in it. Tiny white flowers that opened like stars, though Seph had no idea where they could’ve come from—until she walked to her window.

It overlooked a courtyard nestled at the heart of this structure, completely hidden from the outside world, but where the rest of Weald was dim and gray and dying, this courtyard exploded with color. Giant willows swayed in a light breeze over a burbling pond that gleamed like liquid sapphire. Bright bolts of blazing oranges and flaming reds darted around in the water—fish, Seph realized. Flowering vines draped from oaks like curtains, brushing the carpet of green grasses and dusting it with petals. Something like a hummingbird zipped past and hovered before a bloodred bloom, where it drank long and deeply. Only as Seph watched, she realized it wasn’t a hummingbird at all but a tiny person with wings. What she’d mistaken for a stripe of yellow was, in fact, long yellow hair.

What in all the saints…?

A knock sounded upon her door.

Seph jumped on reflex, then gathered herself. “One moment.” She crossed the room and opened her door to find the Weald Prince standing on the other side of it.

Seph felt so tiny next to him. He dwarfed her in every regard, and as if that weren’t enough to challenge her composure, their ride to Callant had left him in a state of gorgeous disarray. His black hair had been elegantly tousled, the blush of hot blood colored his cheeks, and his steel-gray eyes burned with vigor, searing straight through her flesh to her heart. The heat of him filled the small space between them, spiced with forest and earth and that masculine wildness he carried always. Suddenly it was as though that little winged creature in the courtyard had taken residence in Seph’s chest.

“They are waiting for you in the tower.” His voice rumbled like thunder.

“Who arethey?” Seph asked.