Page 9

9

As soon as Zolya touched down on his mother’s private isle, he regretted his choice to visit.

The air was sweeter than usual. The lush gardens oversaturated with creeping blooms.

And the gentle breeze carried a vibration of celestial power. Cool and hot at once.

A High God was present.

Zolya curled his hands into fists, in no mood to be tested by the divine.

Every waking moment of his life was already riddled with tests.

But it was too late to depart, for a servant had caught sight of him and was already bowing and offering him a refreshment before ushering him through to a shaded veranda.

His mother’s home was a physical manifestation of herself. An island full of vibrancy and art, flowing paths that led to an array of meditation pools, each dedicated to one of the twelve High Gods. It was a space of expression and reflection. A sanctuary.

Or usually was, when Zolya wasn’t being announced before the presence of Naru, the High Goddess of artistry.

Despite standing before his queen, Zolya strode directly to where Naru lounged against a silk settee. Her divine power rippled in hot currents, and it took extra strength to hide his flutter of fear as he came to kneel.

“My benevolent creator,” Zolya addressed the goddess as he bent over her outstretched hand. He took special care not to touch any part of her. “I am eternally humbled and honored to be in your presence.”

“And yet,” said a lyrical voice tinged with birdsong and the echo of time, “you held the desire to leave as soon as you had arrived.”

Zolya’s muscles tensed.

He was not surprised Naru had sensed his earlier emotions from such a distance away, but it was unpleasant nonetheless. “It was a desire merely born from not wishing to intrude on my queen’s precious moments with you, my almighty goddess,” he appeased.

Naru’s amused laughter was a tinkling of bells. “You may look upon me, Prince Zolya.”

He did as he was told, finding a face too radiant to hold within his mind. Though Naru sat beneath the shade of a wisteria tree, her skin shimmered from light to dark, vibrant to muted, a changing of every color in existence and those yet to be born. Her painter’s palette.

As for her clothes, the details were lost in the bright glow of the fabric and the great draping of her fiery wings at her side. The gods were not physical beings by nature, but incorporeal. To present themselves as flesh and bone was an attempt to gather in their immensity. A small gesture of kindness to avoid overwhelming their subjects when they visited from the heavens.

Though overwhelm they certainly still did.

“One of our more accomplished children, your son is, Habelle,” said Naru to the queen while still fixated on Zolya. Her words might have been complimentary, but the goddess regarded him with indifference. A common expression of the gods, all their gazes the cold expansive universe. “He grows handsomer with every passing decade. Perhaps by too much,” she mused. “We know how our almighty father enjoys being the only one to shine.”

A flippant threat that still froze Zolya’s next words.

The gods were as fickle as they were vengeful.

A menial offense could spark great despair, while a larger atrocity could be wholly ignored.

His response had to be perfect, for it, no doubt, would be heard by Ré.

“I am but a dull reflection,” replied Zolya, “beneath the glorious sun of our creator.”

Naru tilted her head, and though she did not smile, he could sense her pleasure at his words. Her entertainment in a prince prostrating. “Indeed,” she agreed. “Now, what say you of your mother’s creation? She and her ladies have been engaging me with their talents during my visit.”

Zolya stood, taking in the glistening ice sculpture in the center of the veranda, his mother and her ladies-in-waiting nearby.

He had arrived during one of the queen’s sculpting sessions. An art where she summoned a small rain cloud and controlled the droplets precisely as she wanted.

A few of her ladies—daughters of the highest born of the Sun Court—who held the power of freeze were there to capture her water in place. The finished result was an immaculate depiction of the surrounding wisteria trees. The icy blooms so detailed he could reach out and pluck one off without compromising the piece.

“An accomplishment, to be sure,” he replied. “I am forever in awe of the blessings you’ve bestowed upon our women. The delicate crafting they can accomplish with their magic is always stunning.”

“You make their abilities sound minuscule,” observed Naru. “To carve something delicate takes great strength. It is far easier to push a boulder off a cliff than to chisel it into pebbles where it lies.”

“Yes, of course.” Zolya bowed his apologies. “That was not my intended meaning.”

“You must forgive my son’s attempt at appreciating my art, Naru,” interjected his mother. “I fear I may have favored my time sculpting over my time with him when he was a boy. More than one shattered piece did I find whenever he was near.”

“Is that so?” questioned the goddess.

Zolya could feel Naru’s hard gaze on him.

Mother, he wanted to chastise, though he sensed that his discomfort was her current joy.

“Merely a repercussion of my own inadequacy in trying to be as my queen,” he quickly explained. “My rain may be mighty, but never could I direct it as precise.”

“Then I advise you to allow your mother to teach you her art, child.”

Zolya laughed but soon realized the goddess had been serious.

He had a multitude of replies on his lips, though none were complimentary.

A man be taught delicate magic? A prince sit for art lessons?

If he wasn’t challenged enough by his father, that would surely give the king fodder for the next century.

“Is artistry so amusing?” questioned Naru, the very goddess who mothered it.

Zolya’s wings stiffened. He was flying in dangerous skies.

“You must remember all that I command, child.” Naru’s voice grew heavy with her reprimand, power gathering. “One can have artistry with a blade, with ideas, with lies.” She fluttered her fingers, awakening tiny depictions of her words within her palm, one piece folding into the next. “It does not merely belong to the brush or the chisel. I am talent. I am skill. I am mastery. Do you laugh at that?”

“Never, my almighty goddess.” Zolya came to one knee. To grovel to a god was the quickest way to be forgiven.

“Good,” said Naru, snuffing out her creations with a clamped fist. “As for finding artistry within your magic, I ask you to meditate on this for when we meet again, young prince. Perhaps then you will learn how dangerous delicate can be.”

In the next breath, Naru became nothing but light, a star gathering inward as she winked out of existence, leaving them.

Zolya’s muscles instantly relaxed, a long exhale. “Thank you for that, Mother,” he said as he came to his feet, tugging his coat straight.

“I had no part in you flying yourself into such a storm,” explained Queen Habelle from where she remained beside her tree of ice. “It was not I who laughed at a god’s advice. Really, Zolya, I may be a favorite of Naru, but you know better than that.”

Zolya sucked his teeth in annoyance, knowing she was right. His mother may have protection under Naru, certain informalities agreed upon when she visited, but that did not mean it extended to himself.

“Yes, well,” he began, chin lifting. “Let us excuse my lapse in behavior from not eating a proper meal before my flight here.”

“Ah,” exclaimed his mother. “Now we learn of the real purpose of your visit. You’ve come for my chef’s food.”

“And to be amongst the best company while eating it,” added Zolya, shooting her a wry grin, which stirred from her a laugh.

Not to have been outdone by her divine visitor, Queen Habelle was resplendent. Styled in a flowing peplos of white and orange that wrapped her lithe frame. Her black skin shone with youth—despite her being well over two centuries in age—while her amber wings matched the color of her braided hair that was gathered into an intricate updo.

“Let us get you fed, then,” she ordered, waving to a nearby servant. “But before you begin your feast, your queen requires a proper greeting.”

Zolya strode to his mother’s outstretched arms, then laid a kiss to each of her cheeks. Her familiar lilac fragrance was a calming inhale, her hazel gaze a tender hug.

Though his father held the power to harness the sun, it was his mother who had always showed him warmth. Beyond any of Zolya’s scholars, she nourished his mind, challenged his ideas, and allowed space for him to voice them.

Which was why he had the habit of visiting her after an audience with the king.

Her tranquil presence washed the bitter tang from his mouth, eased the tightness in his spine. Her private isle was not merely her place of respite but his.

“I am glad you are home,” she said. “My favorite child.”

Zolya huffed a laugh. “I am your only child.”

“Lucky for you, then.” She smiled, stepping back. “You might not have remained my favorite otherwise.”

“Despite such a threat,” countered Zolya, “I am confident I would have. My abilities to charm are rather notorious. Wouldn’t you agree, ladies?”

A tittering of giggles and blushed cheeks greeted his wink from the trio of women peering at him from behind his mother’s wings.

“Yes, sire.” They curtsied in unison.

Zolya caught the tail end of the queen’s eye roll.

“You may leave me, girls,” she announced. “So I may talk with my son without damaging your delicate eyelashes from all that fluttering.”

Two of the ladies looked offended, the other embarrassed, but all obeyed. With a quick leap into the air, they retreated to the queen’s palace.

As servants laid out a spread fit for royals, Zolya and his mother settled into the plush benches beneath the blooming lavender trees. Zolya wasted little time before filling his plate with wrapped dates and warm glazed lamb, the flavors euphoric as they settled onto his tongue.

By the High Gods, he was eternally relieved to be eating this and not another tasteless soup.

“Thank you, Mariel,” said the queen to one of her attendants as she poured them tea.

Zolya eyed how the Süra barely contained her pleasure at the queen’s spoken gratitude.

“You spoil them,” pointed out Zolya once all the servants had slipped back to the fringes of the balcony, awaiting when they’d next be needed.

“For what?” questioned his mother as she raised her teacup.

“For whenever they are sent back to Galia.”

“I have no intentions of sending anyone back anywhere,” she countered. “Unless they desire to return to their lives in Cādra with their families, of course. All who work on my isle know they can leave if requested.”

Zolya paused midchew, blinking at his mother.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, my son. These Süra do have lives and families apart from their roles here, you know. Many of whom they support with their Galia compensations.”

“Of course I know this,” he said after a hard swallow, annoyance stirring.

“Then what has you frowning?”

“I merely wish you were more careful with your behavior. Thanking servants, addressing them by their given names, granting them pardons from their positions if they so wish.”

“What a snob you are, my son.”

“I am a prince,” replied Zolya, tone indignant. “One you have raised to understand his place and role in Cādra and those of others.”

“Mmm, yes.” She sipped her drink. “Perhaps I am to blame for some of your snobbery.”

“I am not above showing kindness to our staff,” he explained in a hush. “Of course I am not. But I understand how certain ... observed relaxed behavior could lead to whispers of being a ...”

“A what?” pushed the queen.

“A Süra sympathizer,” he answered curtly.

And we all know what our king and courtiers think about such positions, he finished to himself, wings tense at his back.

“And what if I was?”

“ Mother ,” he chastised, cutting her off as he glanced about their surroundings. “Please, keep your voice down. Your ladies are not so far off. This may be your island, but rumors spread fast on wings.”

She swatted away his concern with a wave of her hand. “Clouds fill each of their minds.”

“Then why have you chosen them for your ladies?” Zolya frowned, discarding his plate on the low table between them.

“It is called politics , my child. To be a lady-in-waiting to the queen helps each of them in their matchmaking. I pet the wings of their families so they can pet mine. A tactic I know you are familiar with.”

“Yes,” Zolya replied dryly. “Another lesson you are responsible for. Which begs the question, How do you not see the politics regarding my earlier point with your servants?”

His mother merely smiled at his barb, her amber hair glistening from the sunlight coming through the tree canopy as she leaned forward to pluck a grape. “What I see is this conversation leaving one of us ill at ease with the other,” she countered. “Now, tell me of your recent exploration, my son. I hear it was a success.”

Success, not sentencing.

Exploration, not manhunt.

Zolya swallowed down the acid taste that quickly rose at his mother’s request, unwelcome memories from yesterday’s audience with his father awakening like a dreaded dream.

Gabreel’s preserved wings, spiked and spread wide.

The inventor’s silent rage and palpable desperation to protect his son.

The Mütra trembling beneath his feet.

So new to this world.

And Zolya made responsible for showing him the horrors of it.

Do we know what powers it might possess? his king had asked.

We will find out, Your Eminence, he had complied.

Zolya had felt crazed afterward. Did still. He loathed himself as he ordered the arrangements for the Mütra to be studied that night. As if the boy were a soul with no feeling, no conscience.

Despite the decades Zolya had witnessed and carried out similar orders for his father, despite having been present during Gabreel’s original banishment, he had never grown the stomach for their form of discipline. Only better armor for his mask of indifference toward it.

Zolya often wished he could be as pure of purpose and conviction as Osko or even his father regarding their laws and beliefs. As many of their court members.

It seemed a much simpler existence.

But he had always been more like his mother.

Full of thoughts, questions.

Disobedience stalked the corners of his heart.

Traits wholly unbecoming of the only son of the king, one specifically created to be the next in line for the throne. Which was perhaps why he found himself so provoked by his mother’s informalities with her staff.

Such small freedoms he was hardly allowed.

“Tiring, was it?” The queen’s voice brought him back to the shaded veranda, to where she regarded him carefully. Her gaze dipped to his clenched hand along his thigh, as though that was where he could trap his spinning emotions.

“It was a long voyage,” answered Zolya, loosening his grip. “One I’m glad is over.”

“Yes,” appeased his mother. “As am I. I never enjoy when my child is long gone.”

Her words stirred up more disquiet in Zolya’s chest.

“Speaking of children,” said Zolya after a moment. “Gabreel had a son ... with his Süra lover.”

The queen’s brows rose. “Did he?”

“We brought him with us to Galia.”

“The child?”

“Yes.”

“Alive?” His mother’s concern was clear in her tone, in her pinched expression.

Zolya looked away, unable to stomach her disapproval, to allow further guilt and uncertainty to twist into his heart.

Instead, he concentrated on the slowly melting ice sculpture that sat beneath the heat of Ré. Despite the king’s promise, Zolya knew what would become of Gabreel’s son eventually.

“Yes, alive,” he replied.

A stretching of silence.

“And the mother? Gabreel’s Süra lover?” asked Queen Habelle.

“Apparently dead.”

“You are not sure?”

Zolya rubbed his lips together, unease a cold slither through his veins.

It had been subtle, but he had noticed how Gabreel wanted to look into the forest behind him when they were in Zomyad. Zolya had wondered who might have been watching from within.

Who might the inventor have wanted to catch one last glimpse of before they took flight?

Zolya’s aptitude for knowing when someone was lying was not always a blessing. Especially when the terms of their arrangement to acquire Gabreel had specifically stated they were to stay within the clearing.

They could not penetrate the forest but must remain waiting on the fringes to catch the inventor when he emerged, as he was rumored to do whenever traveling to his hidden workshop.

Though, for Zolya, that was preferred.

He wanted to fly as far and as fast from that forest as possible.

Gabreel’s son was a surprise enough.

The nyddoth had deliberately left out the detail of the inventor having a family. Which made his request to lift the hunting of Mütra all the clearer.

Even if they had wanted to kill Gabreel’s son that day, they couldn’t. Not while still in Zomyad, at least.

Blood the nyddoth did not want on his hands.

Blood Zolya did not want on his either.

But that was the way of their world. Of the crown prince’s position.

Which was exactly what had Zolya remaining quiet now, fearful that if he voiced his uncertainties regarding the death of Gabreel’s lover, someone else might hear besides his mother. If not a servant or one of the queen’s ladies, then a High God.

Zolya had no wish to reengage his hunt. He already had his hands full with the inventor and his Mütra offspring. He did not want to produce any more pets for his father to play with.

“All that I’m sure about is this new mine,” Zolya eventually reasoned. “The Aspero Sea erodes the Dryfs year by year. The ambrü- and gem-output reports have become minuscule. The treasury will soon grow unstable, and despite the hard labor this build will require, an unsteady government would be a far worse fate for all in Cādra.”

His mother’s gaze was a narrowing of calculations. He could tell she had many thoughts regarding his proclamations, but in the end, she settled on “Then it is good you have returned our inventor.”

For some reason this was more maddening than if she had challenged him.

Then it is good.

Good.

Zolya clamped his teeth together as the word settled like hot embers on his skin, a flutter of frustration down his spine. He glanced to the wide-open sky beyond the veranda. The endless blue expanse. A promise of freedom. Of escape. And yet forever the domain of their almighty creators. A reminder of the duty his bloodline carried. To rule over it.

“Yes, it is good,” he repeated, shoulders tense.

“Zolya, look at me.” There was a light clink as his mother placed down her teacup.

Hesitantly, he met her hard stare.

“You did not have a choice, my son.” She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “Do you understand? With the inventor, you did not have a choice.”

Remorse was a sharp clawing up Zolya’s throat. One he swallowed down with unknown force. His mother, for better or worse, always saw him. “Didn’t I?” he asked.

“No.” Queen Habelle shook her head as she sat back. “You had moves. They are very different,” she explained. “You are the son of the king, Zolya. A royal child of gods and heir to the throne. You were born into a dangerous game. You must, must , move through it carefully. You have done that. Triumphantly. Do not berate yourself. Not for actions that were inevitable. As I said, with this you did not have a choice.”

The truth of his mother’s words was a vise grip to Zolya’s lungs. Shackles to his wings. He could not breathe; he could not escape.

He didn’t have a choice.

Never did.

But would he ever?

Something hot and dangerous awoke in his blood, sparking the magic that swam there. The ever-present gnawing of independence he had been taught to smother since birth. But not kill. No, the queen made sure he kept this internal fire alive, merely in secret, in her private company.

And this was the danger of his mother, of visiting this island.

Here he believed he had space to set himself free. Lower his masks of duty and responsibilities to the Diusé bloodline. Merely be her son. A man. A person.

But the difficulty lay in how to be recaptured.

An animal did not easily return to their cage.

It was this fight, this frustration of the queen’s dual expectations of Zolya that had him lashing out now.

“But what of your choices, then, Mother?” he questioned coolly. “You speak of moving through life carefully yet so flippantly mention sympathizing with Süra for everyone to hear. I fear that is hypocrisy at its best.”

Queen Habelle sat back, not at all offended by his cutting remark. This was the very freedom she allowed him, after all. “I have lived more than two centuries, Zolya,” she said. “My flippancy is allowed due to the protections I have carefully—and artfully , I might add—put into place around me.”

“Protections,” he scoffed. “Just as Aunt Callia had protections? Sister to the queen yet still susceptible to the king’s impulses.”

Zolya regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

The veranda fell quiet. Even the breeze seemed to die as his declaration echoed around them. Queen Habelle’s eyes flashed, her wings stiffening.

“Mother, I apologize. I did not—”

“My sister,” the queen interjected, voice the frost of winter, “did not move through her life carefully, now did she?”

Zolya dared not reply.

With a pinch to her brow, his mother regarded her softening sculpture. Its magnificence was now reduced to an unidentifiable melting mass of ice, soon to be nothing but a puddle at its base.

“One’s title or blood is hardly ever sturdy armor,” she said after another moment. “In fact, they are likely the weakest form of protection, for they are often desired by others. A title can be easily taken. Blood easily shed. Callia may have been a queen’s sister, but that also meant she was near power. And power, as you know, Zolya, is dangerous.” She looked back at him, expression hard. “Power clouds judgment, cloaks consequences. Why do you think I live on this isle at the western edge of Cādra? So far from Galia, from you, my son. I can tell you now, it is not for the views. Absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes, one is blessed with being forgotten.”

Forgotten by her king.

Forgotten by her husband.

Shielded from occupying the thoughts of a dangerous man.

Zolya swallowed past the ache wrapping his throat. Pain brought on by the idea of his mother experiencing any of her own.

He did not remember exactly when his mother had moved to this isle, only that there was a distinct before and after .

Before, Queen Habelle was reserved, mute, obedient.

After, she had interests, hobbies, opinions.

After, she smiled.

She laughed.

She held him.

“My sister was a fool to not follow me here,” continued Queen Habelle. “Instead, she decided to move closer to power, and look at what that got her. A bastard and then killed.”

“Mother,” whispered Zolya, her words a blow to his chest.

“Is it not true?” she challenged.

“I’m sorry” was all he could manage.

“The only remorse I have is that you cannot also live here permanently,” she countered. “You and Azla.”

Zolya frowned at the mention of his half sister and cousin. The very bastard child his mother had just accused his aunt of having.

While Zolya had a relationship with Azla, Queen Habelle hardly spoke of her.

Despite the sixty-five years since Azla’s birth, Zolya still wasn’t sure of the queen’s feelings regarding her niece. He knew only that what had transpired with his aunt was a wound that had never quite healed for his mother. Either because of her betrayal or because of her execution, he could not say.

“I hope you are watching over her,” the queen went on, shocking him further.

“You astound me.” Zolya shook his head.

“Why?”

“To care for the bastard child of your husband.”

Her brows drew in. “You are kind to her, aren’t you, Zolya?”

“Of course. I have no issues with Azla.”

In fact, Zolya felt more kinship with her than he cared to admit. Both were blood of the king. Both were utilized at court for others’ gains. Both were judged by what they represented over who they were as people.

“Good.” His mother nodded, settling into her bench. “While I may not support what my sister did, a child shouldn’t be judged for who their parents are or what they did before their birth.”

Zolya huffed his disbelief. “If only all felt as you, Mother.”

“I am one of a kind,” she managed with a smile.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I certainly would not judge if some animosity filled your heart toward Azla.”

The queen tilted her head, assessing him. “Does some fill yours?”

Zolya let the question swirl in his chest, testing his true feelings, but too easily he knew his answer. “Azla is headstrong, too much at times,” he began, “but I have grown fond of her. She ...” He clamped his lips together, keeping his next words from flying free.

“What?” urged his mother. “You can say it, my son.”

“She reminds me of you,” he said hesitantly.

His mother merely nodded, a faraway look entering her features before she shook it off. “I am not upset that you have a relationship with her,” she explained. “I am glad of it, in fact. I can only imagine how lonely her life would have been without your favor.”

This was true, of course. Princess Azla had been a pariah at court for many decades following her birth. Not until Zolya accompanied her as her chaperone during her debut year did she fall into favor. With the king hardly acknowledging her existence—a burden of many daughters of the court with their fathers—all had waited to see how his bastard would be entered into society. To be on the arm of the prince, well, that was one advantage of Zolya’s title: his power to influence others’ thoughts. At the very least, their behaviors in public.

“She would be glad to know her queen thinks kindly of her,” explained Zolya.

“You may share that I do,” stated Queen Habelle. “And perhaps, one day, she can visit me here.”

Zolya nodded despite how the offer rippled unpleasantly down his spine. He might care for Azla, but this isle was for him. This time alone with his mother was his. Dare he admit he would be jealous to share it?

“I have been meditating on this for a while now,” continued his mother, smoothing out her skirts. “It is not often Volari bear children. If the High Gods blessed Callia with a child, it was for a purpose. Perhaps part of that purpose was to teach me compassion.”

As his mother regarded him expectantly, Zolya kept his expression neutral.

Compassion was not a trait he believed the High Gods cared for. Devotion, beauty, talent, ambition, along with humility in the face of their greatness—these were attributes they seemed to crave.

“If that is the case, Mother, you have succeeded in your learnings,” he appeased. “A more compassionate person I have yet to meet. Just ask your staff. I’m sure they would all agree.”

Queen Habelle raised a brow at his barb. “Yes, I’m sure they would,” she replied. “As I’m sure they would also agree it is time we visit my meditation pond.”

Zolya was unable to hold in his groan.

“You cannot fly here and eat my food, Zolya, without a prayer session of gratitude,” she scolded. “Naru also gave you clear orders to meditate on her earlier words. Now is a perfect time to do so. We will pick something beautiful from my gardens for her altar, as well as the rest of the gods.”

“The rest?” Zolya exclaimed, eyes wide. “If we are to visit all twelve, it will be dark by the time we are finished.”

“Good thing you have a room within my palace, then, hmm?” countered his mother. “You will stay the night. I’m sure you did not find much time for prayer when you were out searching for our inventor. Luckily, you have that time now.”

Yes, how fortunate for me, Zolya silently grumbled as he followed his mother.

Yet when he found himself prostrating, forehead kissing the cool marble floor of Naru’s altar room, his mind did not tumble to the goddess’s teachings. His thoughts, instead, were consumed by his mother’s earlier words regarding purpose.

If the High Gods blessed Callia with a child, it was for a purpose.

Zolya wondered if his only purpose was to follow in his father’s footsteps. Or, perhaps, could the High Gods have created him for more than wearing a crown?

His mother had spoken of compassion.

A trait he had difficulty only hiding, not feeling.

Why give the son of a stern king compassion when his daily duties were riddled with inflicting pain? With upholding rigid laws and decorum and beliefs he didn’t completely believe himself?

Why sculpt him in the image of his father but fill him so completely with his mother?

It all reeked of amusement for bored eternal beings.

Anger was a crescendo building in Zolya’s veins, stroking along the magic that swam there, rain clouds brewing.

Here he bowed, meant to be thanking the High Gods.

Instead, all Zolya wished to do was curse them.