Page 43 of Artemysia

“What’s for dinner, you think?” - Ivy

T he Syf king lies. There’s so much more he isn’t willing to tell us. Anyone can see that. But if he will get us to North Kingdom, I will discover the truth for myself.

Riev is a Syf prince. That doesn’t surprise me as much as seeing him on the throne, casually sipping wine as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

Where do his loyalties lie? Himself? He held his emotions so close that I couldn’t get a read on him, but I sensed no distress in him other than when I first walked into the throne room.

He wanted to escape, Ivy said. But despite my hurt feelings—which I wouldn’t even have if I’d kept to my own rules—I decide to be sensible and figure out his intentions. I need to get him alone.

Maybe he won’t want to talk to me about it. Perhaps he’s enjoying his new role.

Good for him, then.

What I have half a mind to do is to slap that smug wine-drinking face. But that’s coming from a place of hurt, and I can’t allow my vulnerabilities to get the best of me.

Snap judgments are not my style.

Throg, Ivy, and I are taken up a long spiral staircase to a small wing of three bedrooms connected by a living room. Guest quarters. White furniture with dark green fabrics and accents.

I have too many questions, but my head hurts from the incredible turn of events.

I’ve got to focus on my next task: obtain the information I need from the North Kingdom.

Make the right decision about whether to help the Syf, if indeed something is mutating their population, or continue with my original mission to seek help from North Kingdom against the Syf.

The guard’s dark tail twitches back and forth like a panther. “An attendant will be available to you for any needs. Dinner will be brought up shortly.”

Throg drops onto a tufted white velvet chaise. “Your lover is a prince.”

“Throg, focus. Where is the lie? What’s going on here?”

“I think King Foss tells the truth,” he says. It’s rare to see him so serious, so deep in thought, and the two creases in his brows deepen. “They can’t help turning rabid.”

“Really? Did you smell it?” I’m snarky because I’m anxious.

“Relax. You’re being taken to the other side of the forest. They can’t go with you to the gala. You can seek help as we originally planned, or you can decide if the Northerners are as evil as King Foss says,” Throg replies.

“That’s the plan. I wish you were going too. I need you by my side, Throg.”

“Well, they have to keep Ivy and me here so you don’t just run off.”

Ivy pokes around the room, opening drawers. “What’s for dinner, you think? What do Syf eat?”

Am I the only one worried out of my mind? I suppose it’s how the two of them deal with stress—they casually look the other way. They’re probably waiting for me to retire to one of the bedrooms so they can have sex.

Dinner is a selection of miscellaneous sliced meats served on platters at a table in our quarters by Syf guards who don’t speak to us and rush out as quickly as they can.

Sweet, rosy wine is served in delicate green glass flutes like the one Riev was drinking from in the throne room.

There’s a selection of unfamiliar raw vegetables none of us touch. I have no complaints.

“Why is all this meat sweet? Do Syf not have salt?” Throg complains.

Otherwise, we eat quickly in exhausted, stunned silence.

We’re given Syf silks to change into before bed.

Riev doesn’t come to our wing that evening, though given the situation, it wasn’t expected. I try my best not to think of him, but I have trouble falling asleep. The nights I had him wrapped around me, I fell asleep without lying awake for an hour worrying about the world—a first for me.

The world just fell away.

I should not have allowed myself to enjoy it as much as I did.

No sign of Riev in the morning, either. Breakfast, like dinner last night, is wheeled in on a large cart.

As if they aren’t sure what we eat—and perhaps noticing we didn’t touch the raw vegetables last night—there is a wider variety of dishes prepared for us.

Fluffy eggs with herbs I’ve never smelled before, steaming porridge with strange berries, delicate frosted pastries, and even a honeyed ham hock.

A Syf messenger stops in to deliver a scroll detailing my assignment, like a formal, hand-written contract. She hands me the document and a fountain pen delicately, as if afraid of me.

“Wait. I need to know if—”

I’m met with the back of her turquoise wings and the pattering of her soft boots as she rushes out before I can finish.

I unravel the rest of the scroll and study the details.

I will leave in nine days, traveling with Riev as a marquis and marchioness of a faraway outer estate of North Kingdom.

The old marquis has just passed away, and his recluse heir of a son rarely leaves the house, so no one will have met him or his wife.

They were invited, but will be intercepted by the Syf and replaced by us.

I sign my name and leave the contract on the table by the door .

Ivy fills a large green glass plate and insists she’s always wanted breakfast in bed, so she invites us into her bedroom. She obviously spent the night in Throg’s room, and pulls back the still-made covers before sinking into the oversized bed. “What do we do while you’re away?”

I settle into the velvet armchair beside the bed, placing my filled plate on the nightstand next to her. “Same as I’ll be doing. Find out as much as you can. Ask questions, search their library, and learn all you can about Syf. That’s your assignment. Those are my orders.”

“Library? Research?” Ivy grimaces. “What if I can’t read? Like how Riev can’t write?” She spoons a mouthful of herbed eggs and chomps sullenly.

“Nice try. You can and you will,” I insist. “You read the outpost pantry list just fine.”

“Yuck.” She grimaces.

“Did you just ‘yuck’ my command?”

“No, these eggs, Captain. Taste them. They’re sugary. And crunchy. Is this what Syf normally eat? What kinda eggs are these?” She holds her spoon under my nose, asking me to take a look.

I lean in, inspecting her breakfast. The scrambled eggs seem fine, except there are greenish eggshells in them. I lift my shoulders and frown, but make a mental note to skip them on my own plate.

“Throg, if I’m not back as scheduled, the two of you have to escape. Return to South Kingdom and report all you know. Don’t come after me.”

“But Captain,” he argues, spitting out the eggs into a cloth napkin.

Ivy nods, mouth full. “I can sneak out of this room. Easy.” She eyes the windows. “We’re high up, but I can climb down the stone bricks in my sleep. Like a spider.”

A knock sounds at the bedroom door, and a feminine voice calls out, “I heard that!”

The door swings open. Eira, the small Syf guard, strolls in wearing a basil-green tunic, cloak, leggings, and boots. A sword and daggers are belted at her hips.

“There will be no sneaking out. I’ve been assigned to you, for the safety of all. And yes, we eat peafowl eggs, shells and all. Crunchy and nutritious, and nothing goes to waste.” She drags a hand through her short pixie cut hair, black like her tail.

“Peafowl eggs?” Ivy exaggerates a gag, balancing her plate on an outstretched palm, and catches my eye. “Fancy bird, like you,” she whispers to me, grinning recklessly.

I huff a noncommittal response.

Ivy shifts on the bed to sit taller and looks Eira over. “They must not think we are much of a threat if they sent the frailest, most innocent-looking Syf ever to guard us.”

Eira squares her petite shoulders. “I’m tiny, but strong.

I’ve heard you are able to take down many rabid Syf.

But the rabid Syf are weakened versions of us.

They are out of their minds and are not as skilled or coordinated as regular Syf.

So if you’d like to practice, I’m happy to fight you, but I will win.

” Her wings unfurl from slits in her cloak like long petals blooming behind each shoulder.

On her, they are pale green with pink specks in the morning sunlight.

They flutter excitedly out of the slits in the cloak made just for wings.

Eira unsheathes a dagger from her holster and swiftly flings it at Ivy.

It spins between them, and I expect Ivy to dodge.

Without spilling her plate in her other hand, Ivy seizes the dagger out of the air by the handle.

“What would you have done if it’d hit me?” Ivy asks, her grin stretching from cheek to cheek, incredulous but impressed.

“Our medical care is advanced compared to what humans have,” Eira replies matter-of-factly.

“Eira,” Ivy says, her deep eyes glinting as she admires the razor-sharp, swirl-patterned blade in her hand. “I think I like the Syf of Artemysia.”

Eira sticks around after breakfast.

I recall Outpost Olivier’s description of Syf in children’s tales.

That Syf had magic, were civilized, could sense emotions, and helped humans.

And they liked sugar and rode Lindwyrms. Some of these details already seem to be true, so I’m curious.

Starting with innocent questions will eventually loosen up tight lips .

“Are the myths true? That you ride Lindwyrms?” I haven’t seen any in Artemysia.

“No. Lindwyrms haven’t been spotted here in centuries. Only true Syf royalty can control and ride them.”

Centuries? So the Syf don’t know about the one in the cave? That Lindwyrms still exist? I pocket the information, keeping it to myself for now. “Can Syf sense emotions even if we hide them?”

“You’re anxious.” She nods at me before turning to Ivy. “You’re disturbingly excited for no reason.” She studies Throg. “And you’re calm and content, and oh, something inappropriate when you look at Ivy.”

Throg chokes on his porridge and then laughs heartily.

Eira goes on. “Some of us are better at sensing than others, but it’s why we show less emotion than humans. We already know how the others are feeling, so there’s no need to overdo facial expressions.”

“What about your tail?” Ivy asks. “Does it show emotions? And why have wings if you’re flightless? It’s said they’re used in mating. Are Syf males like humans…down there?” Her face crinkles into a mischievous grin.

I’m forced to glance away, knowing the answer, at least partially…

“Yes—well, the wings are used to hold each other down, among other things,” Eira replies.

“Really! Is it true that you can’t lie?” Ivy asks.

“I’m having the best time answering all your prying, uncomfortable questions,” Eira says with a straight face.

So they can lie. I laugh under my breath, impressed with Eira’s clever answer, and take a bite of a peach pastry.

“And sugar? The tales said Syf love sugar.” I recall Throg’s complaint about the sugared meat last night.

Eira nods eagerly. “We don’t like salt. Our lands produce a lot of sugar, harvested from sugar vines and sugar melons that grow only in Artemysia. Our history lessons say we used to trade it to humans who also love it. The lands outside of Artemysia don’t support the growth as well.”

Ah. That’s why sugar is a rarity.

I press my luck. “Why did humans and Syf stop trading?”

Eira’s tail lashes (nervously, I’m guessing). She drops her gaze and shakes her head. “I can’t answer that,” she says. “Only King Foss can. But he’s going to be busy with Riev until the mission.”

“Will we see either of them?” Throg asks, glancing at me for my reaction. I press my lips into a thin line.

“No. King Foss forbids you from trying to see or contact Riev. He’s going to be undergoing some training. As will you three.”

It sounds ominous enough for Throg to stop chewing for a moment to scrutinize Eira. “What kind of training?”

“It starts today. I’m to escort you downstairs.”