Page 17

17

Full of regret, Zolya flew toward the royal gardens.

I should never have agreed to this, he thought, eyeing the horde of guests roaming the expansive grounds. The manicured shrubs had been soaked in droplets of blue and purple phosphorus light, the marble paths had been scrubbed until they shone like reflective ice under the twins’ moonlight, and the torches had been laid in a pattern that mimicked the constellations. Lounge beds, draped gazebos, and salt baths were tucked away into secluded shadows. All hugged by the sweet scent of jasmine and a light tepid breeze manifested by circling wind and heat makers.

Azla had outdone herself.

Unsurprisingly.

A repercussion Zolya would suffer through tomorrow.

Tonight, he was meant to appease his court, be a symbol of merriment to assuage any worry that their current comforts may be in trouble.

Certainly, an ironic salve for a looming unstable economy.

As Zolya banked left, his entourage of guards following, he landed within an open-air temple at the top of the garden, the moons nearly fully formed at his back.

A wave of bows greeted his arrival, rippling out to the farthest corners of the garden.

And there they remained, bent low, waiting for his command.

“Let us give thanks to our creators,” he said, voice traveling over the crowd, “for they have blessed us with the success of our mission across Cādra and the healthy return of myself and our kidets. Now, please, let us enjoy this beautiful gathering Princess Azla has manifested. Make Izato proud with your revelry.”

Cheers and light clapping answered him, the music returning louder as servants entered the grounds with steaming dishes and overflowing glasses. Atentés in their revealing attire slunk between guests, smiling and offering any who desired drops of docüra.

Expense, expense, expense, thought Zolya.

“You look stunning, sire,” said Azla as she came to curtsy before him, Lady Esme at her side.

His sister-cousin was the resplendent one in her bronze-plated bodice, the details rippling away like leafy vines toward her shoulders and over her hips, her brown skin dusted with gold. She appeared as if the daughter of Leza stepping from a bramble.

“Where would you like me?” he asked.

“Oh, Zolya.” She nearly rolled her eyes at him. “This is your party. You can roam wherever you’d like.”

He gave her a dry look. “Where would you like me, Azla.”

She smiled, a child who got not only a toy but sweets. “I have made up the perfect cropping of benches and pillows for you and your friends over there.” She pointed to a stone gazebo that had been brought into the temple. It had been done up intimately but was still very much on display within the center of the party. He would be sitting like a pampered parrot at the top of a cage.

“Very well,” he replied.

“Sire.” She touched his arm, momentarily stopping his retreat.

He glanced down at her, waiting.

“Thank you,” she said.

And there it was, the desperate gratitude sparking in her eyes. His whole reason for being here, agreeing to this: to make her happy.

Or as happy as an illegitimate, motherless offspring of a stern king could be.

“Of course,” said Zolya, managing a small grin.

She and Lady Esme gave him another curtsy before he walked away.

As he settled into a low lounge bed, draping his wings on either side of him, he accepted the plate of cheese and meats brought by servants. At least here Zolya would be saved from conversing with too many of the guests. He knew how he appeared: intimidating, unapproachable in his display case.

Here sat a reminder of the king who ruled them, a token of royal blood for guests to feel important to be so nearby.

As a few brave souls came to wish him well, Sun and Isle Court members presenting their daughters and sons, Zolya politely entertained them before the next in line stepped forward.

Osko visited briefly to drink half his spirits, offering Zolya a slight respite from unwanted conversation, but soon left to chase an Isle courtier into one of the flower mazes.

Zolya let out a bored sigh, swirling his wine. He would have gladly been doing many other activities than this, like lying along the tallest roof in the palace, gazing up at the Kaiwi River, the celestial home of the High Gods. He often went there alone so he could relax, unwatched and unjudged.

Zolya understood why his father rarely attended these social gatherings.

It was the purpose of the prince: to fulfill the undesired obligations of the king.

Though Zolya tried not to think too long regarding King Réol’s absence from an event celebrating his son.

It certainly wasn’t the first disappointment from his father, nor would it be the last.

Desiring a change in temperament, Zolya was about to chance a walk through the gardens when he spotted her.

A feat that was not hard, given she was gazing full force at him.

Not an act many practiced—specifically not servants.

At the edge of the temple, a woman stood half-hidden behind a column, her other half lit by a nearby torch. Her dark hair was thick and flowing around her shoulders, her tall horns capped with gold that matched the thin piping along her white chiton, the neckline temptingly low to display ample cleavage.

She held a tray of docüra, sparking a flood of questions in Zolya’s mind.

The foremost question was, How?

How was the meddyg from the fields outside of Zomyad standing here, on palace ground, as an atenté?

Despite her change in costume, there was no denying this was the same woman. It was hard to forget a face like hers or the fiery gaze that swam within such a fragile-appearing creature, not to mention the woman who had unintentionally helped him find Gabreel.

After three long breaths, she quickly averted her attention, as if remembering herself.

Something uncomfortable twisted through Zolya, a desire for her to look at him again.

Before he knew what he was doing, Zolya turned to one of his guards, giving them a command.

In an instant, his man was beside her, talking low.

A wave of emotions fell across her features, each tinged with fear—an animal in hiding that had been found out—but then her expression went blank, professionally masked as she was ushered forward.

She came to prostrate on her knees before him, a reenactment of their first meeting, yet this time Zolya held an uneasy certainty it would not end the same.