Page 34

34

From the southern roof of the palace, Zolya watched her leave.

Tanwen was but another speck among the crowd shuffling toward the awaiting gondola, but even at his distance, he could pluck her apart from the others.

She shone differently, her energy a magnetic draw despite how she attempted to blend in with the surrounding mass that waited to board the transport.

Zolya knew the subtle curve of her horns and the way her raven locks melted into liquid around her shoulders under Ré’s light.

She was an agile creature, Zolya had come to observe, moving as if used to avoiding the notice of others. Or, at the very least, understanding how to traverse around them, through them, to get where she needed.

Disquiet filled Zolya’s chest as Tanwen disappeared into the gondola, doors shutting.

His wings twitched along his back.

Follow, they seemed to urge.

Zolya did not.

He kept still as he tracked the gondola’s descent toward the town of Fioré, where it would reunite some of the palace staff with their family there before lowering the rest to Cādra.

Tanwen would be heading to Zomyad for her home visit.

Which meant she would be gone from the palace long enough for Zolya to regain his sanity.

Thank the High Gods, he thought.

He still was reprimanding himself for what had transpired the other night.

What more he had wanted to transpire.

What he still wished he could do every evening since.

But, of course, he could not.

What else can I be but my station and you yours? Tanwen’s plea awoke, angry and unwanted, in his mind, her words that had done their job of clearing the euphoric fog in his head.

How annoyingly correct she had been.

Still was.

While others at court were given allowances for their desires behind closed doors—within reason—Zolya was the crown prince. Sole heir to the throne. Every action of his was a statement, a decree, a representation of his bloodline and his father. If any were to learn he favored one of the staff ...

Zolya’s shoulders stiffened.

It would not be only he who suffered.

Tanwen would be at the mercy of the king’s retribution for a prince who had misbehaved.

A slip of panic settled into his gut, stirring awake his ever-present frustration.

How could I be so careless? he chastised.

The only excuse Zolya could think of was the state he had been in when he had found Tanwen cornered by those kidets: groped, dress torn, and nearly forced.

He had still been coming down from his tantrum in the sky, his emotions raw, exposed, when he had realized whom his men had within their grasps. All hope of logic and reason had then been devoured by his rage. Zolya had once again found himself untethered.

The next he knew, she was in his arms, shaking but gripping him tightly. As though his warmth was the only way to thaw her chill.

Zolya’s thoughts had been only on getting her safe, getting her well.

He’d had no foresight around what would happen if others saw them soaring into his chambers so late at night or how she would look in his shirt, freshly bathed, flushed, nipples hard and nearly visible beneath the thin material.

Zolya shifted as heat traveled to his groin.

This is madness, he thought with annoyance, eyes still trained on the now-distant gondola, soon to be swallowed under the canopy of trees along the mountainside.

Zolya couldn’t afford to be out of control.

In fact, he had worked hard to avoid it.

Chaos and uncertainty were what his father had brought to his life.

And Tanwen—Ms. Coster—she was an utter enigma that threatened his decades of learned and cherished composure.

She had pulled his curiosity despite his best efforts to look away.

Zolya was not used to noticing staff.

Had been raised not to.

Yet there she had been, over and over again, utterly engrossing. Dangerously tempting. Helpful. Healing. Listening.

The care she had taken with Azla, her shared concern that had nothing to do with her required duty—it had melted a layer of his armor. And then her attention to him in his rooms, her encouraging words, shared faith in his abilities, despite her being the one he had originally intended to console. He hadn’t been prepared for any of it. Least of all meeting another who shared his passions, echoed thoughts he held only in his heart, and understood the burden of shouldering secrets that could alter another’s life.

Zolya had then found himself afloat on an unknown island, his blood pooling with desires he hadn’t felt for anyone in his near century of existence. He hadn’t let himself feel. And yet there he sat, wanting, wishing, praying that Tanwen would kiss him. For that decision to be her own, and not by any pressure of his.

Which she had.

And everything he had ever believed, thought, assumed about their world had been shattered apart. Zolya was now left desperately attempting to fit the pieces back together.

But even if he could, he knew the fractured cracks would always remain, marks that proved life could be different.

Life could be lived.

“Enjoying the view of your kingdom?” said a deep voice through a whip of wind.

Osko landed on the roof beside Zolya, tucking in his black plumage.

“Something like that,” Zolya replied, attention traveling to the distant town that hugged part of Rhada Lake. She will be in Fioré soon, he thought.

“Galia does look fine today,” admitted Osko, gaze taking in the lush and manicured greenery. “Though, thanks to our gods, she shines thus most days.”

“Mmm,” Zolya absently agreed, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and the cawing of macaws flying nearby. “Tell me, Osko.” Zolya turned to his friend. “How many at court and of our soldiers do you suppose have bedded staff?”

Osko scoffed, his black hair reflective ink in Ré’s morning light. “All of them at one point, I’m sure,” he replied.

For some reason this surprised Zolya. “Have you?” he questioned.

Osko met his stare, a suspicious pinch between his brows. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.” Zolya shrugged. “I hadn’t realized how common it was.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not so common,” Osko backtracked. “The risk is certainly still there to be labeled a sympathizer if affairs stretch too long. As for myself, despite the rarity of Volari reproducing, I’m not keen on the possibility of an abomination.”

Abomination.

Zolya clenched his teeth together. He never could tolerate that word.

“Is this about what happened the other night with the princess’s atenté?” asked Osko. “The barracks are still up in a chatter about it.”

Zolya remained very, very still as his magic hissed and kicked in his veins. “Those kidets were out of line,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed his friend. “Though not the first to have been.”

“That still doesn’t make it tolerable,” Zolya snapped. “Nor will it ever make such behavior allowable.”

Osko watched him for a beat, head tilting inquisitively. “No,” he agreed. “It does not, which is why those soldiers have been dealt with as you’ve mandated. A good beating will knock their behavior back in order.”

“Let’s hope,” said Zolya, wishing he could have been the one to land the blows, but to further involve himself in the incident would not be wise.

“I’ve never known you to be so concerned with these matters before,” reasoned Osko, still studying him.

Zolya resisted shifting under the scrutiny. He needed to be careful. Osko might have been his oldest friend, but he was undoubtedly a purist. Despite how Zolya’s chest burned to share what he wrestled with in his heart, he could not trust Osko with such a confession.

The realization left Zolya rather deflated. The truth of his loneliness covered him like an eclipse, cold and foreboding.

Which was the temptation of Tanwen.

She had proven to be trustworthy, a rarity in this palace, in Zolya’s life. Which had allowed him to share bits of his childhood and his relationship with his mother. When he had seen no judgment from her, no collection of leverage, only genuine interest and compassion, it had nearly been as arousing as her standing there, bare legged in his tunic.

“Yes, well,” began Zolya, ignoring the heat coursing across his skin as he refocused on Osko. “As you said, the atenté was part of the princess’s staff,” he explained. “If Azla learned of what happened, she would be incensed. I have little patience to add calming her constitution to my plate. Attacks on servants also don’t bode well for morale. Madam Arini made that and many other thoughts clear when she sought an audience with me after the incident. We can’t have her worried over her atentés’ well-being while in the palace, nor the other staff. It would only hurt the Recruitment.”

“Yes,” said Osko. “That is true. Though enough Süra join the Recruitment knowing they might be sent to work the mine or fill lower services in Fioré,” he explained. “The opportunity they get in Galia is still beyond the Kaiwi River better than what they might find on Cādra.”

A circumstance only we have perpetuated, thought Zolya darkly. “Nevertheless,” he replied. “The last thing we need is a reduction in recruits. Especially with the building of the new mine.” Despite how Zolya loathed this truth, it remained. Their treasury was continuing to bleed, his father refusing to curb palace spending for fear of losing face in front of his court.

“Speaking of which,” said Osko, “that is why I came to find you. The king wishes for us to inspect the build. We’re to report on the delivery of materials and ensure the promise of labor is well on its way.” Osko flattened a lapel on his gray coat. He was dressed in his full kidar regalia, no doubt in preparation for their official visit to the mine. “The king is demanding to see significant progress by the next full moons,” he went on. “So it can be on track to be operational by the eve of Princess Azla’s nuptials.”

Zolya breathed out his frustration at both the mention of Azla’s death sentence disguised as a wedding and his father’s notorious impractical expectations. To have an up-and-running mine in two months’ time would be backbreaking work. But Zolya supposed that was fine by the king so long as it was Süra backs breaking.

That will change when I’m king, he thought before stopping himself, disturbed by his musing.

He had never allowed himself to imagine being in his father’s place on the throne. Despite doing all he could to live up to the title, knowing he was next in line. Such a future forever felt improbable, at the very least centuries away. But lately that daydream had begun to take hold.

That was spoken like a well-studied future king. Tanwen’s words arose like a warm, supportive press to his shoulder. To become eternally loved. To inspire others. Are those not traits to admire in a great ruler?

Could he really be such a king?

But then the intruding words of his father slithered awake in his mind, a viper’s bite knocking him down. I have a long way yet in my reign, lest our kingdom be at the mercy of your soft heart.

That ever-present flame of ire surged within Zolya’s chest, his gaze landing on the distant white sprawling city of Fioré, his mind tipping to the woman who was now there.

Soft heart, indeed, he thought, his frustration rising before he unfurled his wings. It was a relief, stretching his plumage to allow the sun to warm each of his feathers.

“Whatever the king demands,” said Zolya, “we shall obey.”

He then took to the sky, Osko quick to join.

Zolya flew toward his responsibilities and away from the view of his fantasies.