Page 22

22

Zolya was irritated.

But being summoned at the first light by the king often left him in such a state.

Not even the quiet of the palace assuaged the tension radiating down his spine as he flew through the wide halls. The rising sun painted the white marble in pinks and yellows, yawning tendrils of gentle light cutting between the large columns. The morning was thick with the scent of jasmine, and the only others awake were the servants. No courtiers yet filled the palace. None were accustomed to rising before midmeal.

As Zolya curved around a pillar, the tips of his wings brushed the intricate carvings that ran up the spine, a familiar graze. He did not land until he approached the south wing, where the corridors became narrow, forcing him to his feet. His guards were forever in tow, silent shadows at his back.

He very much wished to shirk them.

It was too early to don his princely persona, but like any other time in his life, he hadn’t a choice.

Just as he hadn’t a choice to disobey his father’s command.

Zolya was here to fetch Azla.

More reason for his current foul disposition.

King Réol hardly, if ever, took note of his daughter, and when he did, it was never favorable.

What could he want with Azla? It was the question that had weighed on his thoughts his entire flight over.

Zolya swallowed his unease as he approached the princess’s chambers.

The two kidets stationed outside gave him quick salutes. The usher at the seam of her door bowed low.

“Your Royal Highness,” said Emyr, his horns painted white to match his uniform, “I fear the princess needs a moment more to ready herself for your presence.”

A flutter of panic filled Zolya’s chest.

If one wished to anger the king, make him wait.

“I sent a summons before Ré had fully awoken,” exclaimed Zolya, eyes narrowing. “How is she still not ready?”

Emyr did not so much as blink at Zolya’s curt tone. As one of the ushers to the royal household, his duty was to intercept grievances. And being stationed with the princess, grievances he no doubt had aplenty. “Well, sire—” he began before he was interrupted by the opening of the door behind him.

“Sire,” chirped Alys, the princess’s lady’s maid. She scurried out, giving a low apologetic bow, all while Emyr glared daggers at her for disturbing his post.

But the sight of Alys eased some of Zolya’s tension.

If he wished for truth, she would be the one to give it.

Alys had been serving the princess for over four decades, but her age did not disturb her quickness or sturdy reliability. Originally hailing from the southern clan, her straight horns curved slightly inward to sharp points. As Zolya noted them, a vision of another flashed through his mind. Eyes like rich moss, onyx hair, and a bold fire even her polite words could not hide.

He blinked the image away, instantly disquieted.

Zolya had thought too often over the past few days of the meddyg turned atenté from the party. An oddity, for sure, for no stranger had ever occupied his mind at such length. Certainly not a servant.

“I hear the princess is still indisposed,” said Zolya to Alys.

“She will not stir from her bed, sire,” admitted Alys, cheeks an exasperated red. “I have told her you would be arriving posthaste, but she said if the prince was determined to summon her before even the High Gods deemed it acceptable, he could extend the courtesy of patience and wait.”

Zolya raised a brow. “Did she now?”

Alys, looking horrified, nodded.

Emyr, on the other hand, was a gawking, bright-red splotch, no doubt appalled by a staff member sharing so much about their charge.

Emyr, evidently, was still put out by Alys’s idiosyncrasies.

But Zolya had little time to help the two get on.

“Wait here,” Zolya ordered his guards before marching past the usher and lady’s maid.

The pair gave a useless, distressed plea, but Zolya did not hesitate as he pushed through the receiving room, then strode through the sitting room to swing open the bedroom doors.

The drapes had already been pulled back, the morning light covering the billowing puffs of pillows and blankets that made up Azla’s bed in a honeycomb embrace.

Zolya was unfazed by the scene of his sister-cousin entangled in her lady-in-waiting’s arms. A twisting of bare skin, hair, and feathers.

“Zolya!” Azla sprang up with a yip, white wings flinging around to cover herself and her lover.

“Sire!” said Lady Esme in equal dismay as she attempted to extend a gracious bow over the feathers.

If Zolya was in a different mood, he would have laughed at the absurdity of the moment.

But as it was, he was more terrified of making their father wait.

“Get dressed,” he said to Azla. “The king wishes to see us.”

“The king?” questioned Azla before repeating, “The king!” She jumped from the bed, no longer caring for modesty as she flew, bare arse and all, into her washroom. “Alys!” she cried. “You are needed at once!”

Her lady’s maid hurried in, flowing gown in hand.

“Why did you not say it was for the king?” Azla demanded from the other room.

“I did not realize I needed to,” replied Zolya from where he remained in the center of the bedroom. He eyed the trays of half-eaten meats and cheeses lying about, the multiple empty spirit bottles, and the remnants of a night indulging in docüra. “You two certainly appear to have had a fine evening,” he said to Lady Esme, who had slipped on a silk robe. She stood by the foot of the bed, her pale complexion striking against her amber wings and hair.

“It was the eve of Lady Phiona’s birth,” she explained. “The princess is most thoughtful to celebrate each of her friends thus.”

“Indeed,” mused Zolya. “It is also most thoughtful if the princess’s lady-in-waiting ensures she takes the summons from a royal relative more seriously next time.”

Lady Esme had the good sense to look chastened, cheeks staining pink. “Yes, Your Highness. Of course.” She curtsied. “I shall aid in preparing her now.”

Zolya pursed his lips, showing a thin shred of satisfaction as Lady Esme disappeared into the adjacent room.

Only then, when alone, did he let out a tired sigh, his wings drooping at his back. He glanced to the connecting veranda beyond the tall pillars of the bedroom, to the endless azure sky.

It was another perfect day in Galia, but it brought little comfort.

Whenever Zolya was this ill at ease, he yearned for rain. He wished to gather the churning disquiet mixing within his veins and expel it. His magic crackled through his blood for him to make lightning, rumbled to let loose thunder. He was desperate to cover the sky in his storm.

Instead, he fisted his hands at his side, pushing away the temptation.

It was not Zolya’s purview to disturb the weather in Galia. Least of all because of a sour mood. That was saved for the king.

At the thought of his father, Zolya’s spine straightened further. They were certainly going to be late.

Frustration flared as he spun on his heels, preparing to dress Azla himself, but he was brought up short.

A servant had entered the bedroom, and the sight of her nearly stopped his heart.

“Tanwen,” he heard himself whisper.

Her eyes went wide; evidently she was not expecting to find him standing there either. Or, at the very least, for him to be so informal as to call her by her given name. With the state of her shock, the tray she held rocked unsteadily, and before Zolya knew what he was doing, he shot forward, saving the delicate tonic from toppling to the ground.

A mistake.

Not only because he now found himself kneeling before her, a catastrophic role reversal that she alone would suffer the lashes for if seen, but also because at this proximity, he could practically drink her scent. An earthy vanilla that sped up his pulse on each inhale.

The world froze as Zolya looked up—or rather got pulled in by her rich green gaze, so much more vibrant in the morning light. The skirts of her simple peplos uniform were a finger graze away, the heat of her body pushing against his. Sunlight draped across her side, a shimmering to her dark hair and a spark against her gold-tipped horns.

He noted a line of four freckles along the underside of her jaw. Something about this new discovery pleased him. With each meeting there was more to collect, admire.

It was this precise musing, however, that snapped everything back into focus.

What am I doing? Zolya chastised himself as he stood.

The sudden height of him seemed to further knock her off balance, for she practically jumped to the other side of the room, as if he held the power of wind and blew her hence.

“Your Royal Highness.” She bowed and remained bowing. “I apologize. I did not ... please forgive my clumsiness.”

“You may be at ease,” he said. “No harm was done.”

As she straightened, furtively meeting his gaze, it was as if they both knew he was lying.

Something harmful certainly had transpired, but with a sense of self-preservation, Zolya ignored what that something might be. He blamed his momentary loss in constitution on not getting enough sleep the night before and for his day having begun in a panic with his father’s summons.

“Why are you here?” Zolya asked, an echo of the same question he had met her with the other night, but this time it came out accusatory. Why are you here, again, taking up space in my thoughts?

She straightened at his tone, the building of a wall.

But before she could respond, Azla returned to the room.

She was a burst of sea mist in her delicately wrapped green dress, silver laurel crown braided into her alabaster hair. Lady Esme and Alys were quick on her heels, looking breathless.

“Oh, thank Udasha,” said Azla as she noted who else was in the room and rushed forward. “I am having the most dreadful of a morning, and your tonic is exactly what—wait, where is your tonic?”

There was a stretch of silence as the princess glanced from her servant’s empty hands to Zolya, who held the missing tray.

“Why do you have that?” his sister-cousin questioned, hands plunking on her hips. “Were you being rude to my new atenté?”

My new atenté.

A rush of emotions spilled over Zolya, none of them pleasant.

“Why would I be rude?” he managed in an even tone.

“Because you are you,” Azla reasoned.

“What does that mean?” He frowned, not at all enjoying such an accusation.

What am I? he thought mulishly.

“Never mind,” said Azla. “We don’t have time to discuss such matters. The king requests our presence.” She floated to his side and, with a swig that was wholly unbecoming of a princess and completely revealing of her familiarity around strong drink, shot back the green tonic.

“What is that?” asked Zolya, still finding himself holding the tray as Azla set the glass down.

“My bleeding is coming,” she explained, straightening her skirts. “Ms. Coster has been kind enough to make me something that helps with the ... particulars a woman can suffer leading up to the affair. If I’m to face Father, I would prefer to do so feeling my best.”

A surge of protectiveness coiled around Zolya at the reminder of where they were headed. He hated that he was dragging Azla into their father’s lair; he particularly hated that he didn’t know the reason why. It left no room for Zolya to plan, prepare as he was wont to do when it came to any interaction with the king. And because he despised feeling out of control, he directed his emotions at what he could.

“Your atenté is suggesting tonics to you?” Zolya turned from the princess to glare at Ms. Coster. She had remained, patiently awaiting her dismissal, by the threshold to the room. “Is that appropriate to your role here?” he accused. “We have the most skilled Volari meddyg in all of Cādra to service the royal household. It is not for you to suggest elixirs of any kind beyond your docüra to the princess.”

Ms. Coster’s eyes sparked with ire despite her reddening cheeks. “Of course, sire,” she managed. “It will not happen again, sire.”

Her compliance seemed to only further incite Zolya, as it made him perfectly aware of his ridiculous outburst. But by the twin moons! He was so very tired of working so very hard to keep everything for this palace, for Galia, for all Cādra, in order so his king—and, most importantly, their gods—would remain pleased. The least he asked from others was for them to not make it so damn difficult each and every day.

And Ms. Coster now being here—in the palace, working for the princess—only promised difficulty for Zolya. Her presence made him uncomfortable in that it made him feel at all.

“Well,” huffed the princess. “If you needed further proof of why I had wondered if you had been rude ...”

“ Azla ,” he warned.

“ Zolya ,” she mimicked.

Gods, he thought in silent frustration. He might as well have been arguing with his mother.

Which was probably why he put up with so much from Azla. The same freedoms the queen extended to him, he found he extended to the princess. But it was edging on enough.

“I am merely ensuring you are getting the proper care from the proper staff,” reasoned Zolya.

“Then let me ease your woes by assuring you that I am,” countered Azla. “Meddyg Hyrez may be skilled in many areas of healing, but to attend to the true ailments of a woman, he is most ignorant.”

“How so?”

“He is a man , Zolya.”

“And?”

“And he knows nothing about the intricacies of a woman’s bleeding.”

“If that is true, then why do no other ladies at court have the same grievances regarding Hyrez?”

“Because ladies are not meant to have grievances at all!”

The room hung quiet as Zolya hesitated with his response. He had inadvertently soared into a dangerous sky.

“Just as Volari women are not allowed to learn a trade,” seethed Azla, seeming unable to stop herself now. “Or own a business. If we were, I would have gladly gone to the royal female meddyg for their aid. But as it is, we are only taught how to sit with poise and prune plants, marry well, and laugh at tiresome jokes. Even our magic is useless.”

“ Azla ,” hissed Zolya, fearing any High God who might be listening, not to mention the attending servants. This conversation needed to end. “Your blood has been blessed by our benevolent creators and holds a royal lineage. If anyone’s magic has purpose, it is yours.”

“Really?” scoffed the princess. “Then, pray tell, how is pushing colored sand into patterns with my wind for an entire day useful to our world?”

Zolya blinked, speechless. He had never witnessed this Azla. He knew she had complaints. Who didn’t? But he hadn’t known they were to such a fundamental extent.

It made him uneasy.

Mostly because he agreed with her.

But again, this was not the moment to share such sentiments, especially not when they had an audience.

He eyed Lady Esme behind the princess, caught the spark of admiration in her gaze, the love. Alys was the definition of a blush. Zolya did not dare look at Ms. Coster.

“I see you need time to collect your thoughts on the matter,” said the princess, removing the tray from his hands and walking it to Ms. Coster. “While you do, sire, hear this. Yes, I implored one of my personal atentés for her services over meddyg Hyrez because, while Ms. Coster is exceptionally skilled in the making of her docüra, I was very pleased to learn she is also a talented meddyg, who comes from a lineage of meddygs. Unlike Volari, Süra woman are allowed to learn trades.” The princess placed a gentle hand on Ms. Coster’s shoulder, a sign of solidarity, of protection. “When she offered this tonic, I took it. And guess what? It works .”

“Does it?” Zolya quipped, brows raised. Azla’s disposition was anything but pleasing.

“ Yes. ” Azla glared at him. “So leave me, and her, be. You are obviously in a terrible mood because of who has summoned us. Do not be so predictable by taking your displeasure out on the help.”

With that, the princess spun from her bedroom, strode to the veranda, and took flight.

Zolya’s reaction was swift. He whistled for his guards as he chased the princess into the sky.

By the Eternal River, thought Zolya as he settled beside Azla, the warm wind pushing against his wings, what just happened?

He would not ask Azla, of course. Not now.

Not when they flew toward their father. Or while he still felt the sting from her earlier words and the gaze of Ms. Coster as he had run past her.

Ms. Coster . . .

A woman—no, a servant —who had literally brought him to his knees.

Zolya pumped his wings harder, attempting to work out his compounding frustrations and the unsettling chill of his and Ms. Coster’s brief but private exchange.

This will not do, he thought. This certainly will not do.

As he flew toward the highest peak of the palace, Zolya thought how foolish he had been to believe his day could not get worse.