Page 27

Chapter 27

THE AIR GONDOLA ZIPS TOWARD the back side of Four Tiers. It groans in protest as it starts to slow, noisily complaining over its stuffed confines. We’ve crammed eight people onto a floating platform designed to fit six, and seven of those eight bodies happen to be the size of a keep tower, which isn’t helping things at all.

I think it’s safe to say that one of Lorn and Aeson’s prerequisites for their Wing members was that they either had to be the size of a barge or look as though they singlehandedly consumed their entire Training Flight. I suppose the go big or go home stipulation makes sense when you consider the bulk of the scions. Surrounding yourself with a Wing that’s much smaller than you is just asking for other dragons to constantly challenge the Wing’s abilities and the Heart’s authority. When it comes to dragons, size most definitely matters.

Any dragoness would agree.

The gondola lists to the left slightly as Onalar—Lorn’s hulking Channeler—tries to force Herm and Jori to give him more room. It’s a futile effort. There’s none to give. But if the big ice dragon doesn’t stop griping and making this thing wobble, I swear I’m going to shove him off of it.

The view of the Talon’s Reach mountain range is stunning from this height, but I have to force my hands to loosen from tight fists to tense fists as the peaks draw closer. I must say I’m not the biggest fan of the fact that we’re more or less riding on an overgrown hoverboard above the manicured keep tiers, one that tips and pitches with every squirm and wriggle. It’s not exactly reassuring that, aside from the platform we’re standing on, there’s only a thin translucent casing that protects us from the unpredictable winds of Talon’s Reach or the sharp cliffs and rocks we’re speeding towards.

My stomach churns with apprehension, and beads of cold sweat dot the back of my neck. I keep telling myself that if we go down, all of these gargantuan drakes will break my fall, but the truth is they would shift and survive just fine. My broken ass would be the only one riding this thing into the rocks.

One of the waterfalls that trails down the back of King’s Keep comes into view, and the roar of rushing water drowns out the grunts and grumbles of the squished drakes caging me in. The air gondola drops and the fall’s mist reaches up to greet us, kissing the clear barrier and leaving tiny droplets of water as we skirt closer to the torrent.

“I used to play here a lot when I was young. I’d come here with your brother Novak, and we’d spend hours exploring and running around,” Lorn tells me unexpectedly. “It was one of his favorite places.”

I follow the scion’s fixed stare to the dark, slippery-looking rocks that flank the base of the waterfall. Echoes of children’s laughter suddenly ring in my ears, and a phantom image plays across my vision of my brothers heckling one another as they leap from one slick stone to another, daring me and Enslee to keep up. All too quickly the memory fades into vapor and disappears among the swirling mist.

“I know,” I answer after a beat, swallowing past the ache now rippling through my chest. “It was the first place Novak wanted to show us when we got here.”

“Us?” Lorn asks, tearing his bright blue eyes from the falls and turning them on me.

“Me and my mother,” I supply promptly.

Lorn nods, but his gaze is thoughtful as it roams over my face before drifting back to the powerful rushing water and the treacherous stones below.

I refuse to let my heart beat any faster than it already is, and deny access to the flush that wants to crawl up my throat and redden my cheeks. Hastily, I banish the flicker of fear trying to roost in my relief, because, yes, I just fucked up—and it could have been very bad—but I recovered. It’s okay. No one knows…or they won’t if I can keep my tells in check.

My eyes want to stray to Selik, Lorn’s Thrasher, who thankfully is standing on the far end of the air gondola, but I force my gaze to the falling water. Worry tries to spur me into testing the air for any taint of dishonesty, but I don’t dare move or do anything else that might tip my hand or push my luck. As far as I can tell from my strained periphery, Selik isn’t giving Lorn any signals demarcating my lie. Neither is the scion looking over at his Wing member as though he’s trying to confirm any suspicions. They both look exactly like they did before my mouth got away from my brain.

The floating platform we’re on winds toward the side of the breathtaking waterfall. For a second, it almost looks as though it’s aiming for the water, but then I see that there’s a stony alcove just behind the deluge thundering down from high above. The gondola floats smoothly into the dark space, only it’s not an alcove at all, but an entrance to some secret location hidden behind the cascading rush of water.

Shadows swallow us whole, and for a moment, I can’t see my own hand in front of my face. All I can hear is the muted rumble of thousands of gallons of water pummeling the mountain all around us, and then the sound starts to fade as we drift deeper into the darkness.

A faint rosy glow blooms in the distance like some ancient lighthouse of old. The light grows brighter and bigger, dancing across the glittering black stone walls encasing our path and revealing a calm stream of water slipping through the crags far below.

All at once, our gondola abandons the dark, and bright florid light illuminates everything around us. A stunning cavern comes into view, and my eyes don’t seem to know where to flit first.

I’ve long lived in a world of magic, but I can count on one hand the amount of times it’s felt magical . This just might make the list.

The walls of the large space sparkle as though made of black diamonds. There’s a crystal chandelier dripping from the expansive ceiling, crafted to mimic the appearance of eddying water. A single golden tree glimmers in the center of the sprawling grotto, with two half-moon-shaped sofas framing each side of the large braided trunk. This place feels ancient and reeks of power, and I have no idea what it could be.

“Where are we?” I ask, but my attention catches on a tall, lean male with a bald head and an ocher complexion. He stands behind what appears to be a reception desk, in an expertly tailored mauve suit that’s a touch darker than the rosy light filling this cavern.

“This is the royal treasury,” Lorn announces, pride coursing through his tone.

Utterly dumbfounded by that answer, I spin to look at him. “Treasury? Why would we visit a treasury?”

My mouth suddenly feels as arid as the deadlands, and my thoughts flit to the conversation we just had about gifts and my Naming Day. The fact that I’m standing here and not in the middle of an armory probably means I’m not going to be getting what I asked for. But if he expects me to get giddy over a necklace or something equally as useless, things are about to get really fucking awkward.

“When your father was killed and there was no surviving kindred or kith, his Crush was automatically left to the next king. My father has never touched it, other than to add pieces of King Tenebrae’s trove when it was cleared from his towers in the keep. The king has ordered that it all be given back to you. Consider it his gift to you for your Naming Day. I brought you here so you can claim it and take your first official steps into the arms of The Horde.” Lorn’s voice grows soft and regretful. “Where you were always meant to be.”

I stare blankly at the heir, unsure how to process everything he just said. Disbelief and astonishment start to circle one another in my chest. My heart is entirely too heavy, but my head feels alarmingly light.

I’ve spent an innumerable number of hours wondering what it would be like to reclaim everything that was taken from me, from my sister, from the other Syphons. Some days it was the only thing that dug me out of the trenches of agonizing loss. That possibility of one day righting the wrongs has fueled me for a very long time. But in all those hours and days spent pondering and plotting, I never once thought that King Noctis and his heirs would simply hand it over for no other reason than it’s the honorable thing to do.

Dragons don’t part well from their treasure, and yet here they are, doing just that.

But why?

“Don’t give me that look, Princess,” Lorn censures lightly.

“What look?”

Lorn shakes his head, but the smile he offers is rakish. “Like you’re waiting for a trap to spring.”

I stare at him blankly. “Well, that’s going to be hard because that’s exactly what I’m waiting for.”

Lorn chuckles, but it’s not as carefree as it was before, and for some reason, that bothers me. The air gondola docks and the others begin to file off, but Lorn and I continue to watch each other, a silent battle of wills taking place.

“I have never met anyone so determined to misinterpret and misunderstand everything around them,” he observes, and he sounds somehow both impressed and bothered.

“You should get out more, then,” I quip.

Lorn runs his fingers through his snow-white hair and watches me with a challenging glint in his gaze. The movement does nothing to muss the neat coif. Every strand of hair falls perfectly back into place when he drops his hand, and I stare at his locks, offended by their easy surrender.

“Why do you refuse to see kindness for exactly what it is?” he lobs at me, inching closer despite the platform clearing of Wing members and leaving us with plenty of space to separate.

I laugh, but it’s absent of flowers and full of thorns. “Because kindness is nothing more than a pretty bow around a pretty box. Foolish people assume there’s something beautiful or valuable inside the lovely packaging. Survivors know otherwise.”

Lorn studies my face like he’s hoping to find a way to unravel my glower. “What’s inside, then?”

“Self-interest,” I reply evenly. “On the least harmful side of the spectrum, people do good things because it makes them feel good. Then there are those who know that pretty packaging creates a path of least resistance to what they want. Regardless of where on the spectrum it stands, things like kindness and generosity are about the giv er , not the giv ing .”

Lorn scoffs. “That’s an incredibly sad and jaded way to go through life, Princess. Kindness and compassion aren’t just pretty packaging, they’re the gift. Not every benevolent act hides a venomous viper in its depths.”

I shrug and step back to put distance between us. “I have plenty of fang marks that prove otherwise, Heir.”

Lorn’s eyes narrow with affront. “Not from me.”

Jori steps off the gondola and it sways slightly. I push my hands out to help keep my balance as I ride the wave of movement. Thankfully, it settles quickly, and I turn to follow the others.

“I’ve only been here a week, Scion. There’s still plenty of time for you to sink your fangs in me,” I call over my shoulder as I step off the floating platform.

Relief filters through me when I’m once again back on solid ground. I don’t do anything embarrassing like lean down and kiss it, but it’s tempting. Air gondolas are not for me.

My mind buzzes with wonder as I make my way deeper into the cavern. I step under the gilt canopy of branches, and the golden leaves high above flutter almost as though they’re saying hello. Stunned, I stop mid-step and stare at the lofty branches. My eyes trace the limbs of the tree down to the thick braided trunk, and awe builds with each inch I survey. It isn’t a flashy, golden sculpture like I thought it was, it’s a real, living, flourishing, gold tree.

My first instinct is to pluck a few leaves off and shove them into my shirt for later. I look around to see if anyone is watching me, which is stupid because everyone is watching me. Herm smiles like he knows exactly where my mind just went, but I ignore him and try to look like someone who isn’t currently casing the royal treasury.

Technically, if I’m really here to claim my kith’s Crush, my stealing days are far behind me. But, worst case scenario, if my suspicions prove to be right and all of this is too good to be true, I’ll have to snap off a branch on my way out.

I skirt the tree trunk, mostly to put some distance between me and temptation, and take in everything else. Soft rosy light from the rippling chandelier dances on the ground as I walk, and for some reason, I want to roll around on the lush sofa like it’s catnip and I’m some back alley stray that has no choice but to give in.

I wonder if they’d let me steal these and put them in my room? They’d make excellent additions to my trove.

I pause at that thought. One, because I don’t have a trove—and when have I ever given two shits about furniture, let alone wanted to claim a couch? And two, the room in Aeson’s rookery is not mine, it’s his. I just stay in it temporarily for the time being.

“My Scion, what an honor it is to see you. How may I be of service today?” the male in the pink suit gushes as Lorn approaches the reception desk with graceful, long strides.

“Thank you, Linden, I hope you and the roots are well,” Lorn greets, and the male dips his head, communicating both pleasure and confirmation that he and the roots are doing amazing.

Whatever that bloody means.

“By authority of King Noctis, I need to cede the Tenebrae Crush,” Lorn declares, sounding all official and princely. He steps to the side and gestures in my direction.

Linden’s professional mien is on point because he doesn’t even bat a lash or twitch a muscle in surprise or question. He simply bows slightly and offers a subservient smile before he raises his hands and begins typing on a keyboard that flashes into existence below his fast moving fingers. Then, out of nowhere, a translucent glowing leaf materializes in front of one eye like a bespoke view screen.

What captures my full and undivided attention though, is that the data Linden is entering on his keyboard starts to scroll across the exposed parts of his ocher skin in flashes of bright molten gold. A language of symbols I don’t recognize stream across his face, wrapping around his forehead and cheeks before slipping past his bald head. Other lines of information snake across his throat and hands, disappearing under the fabric of his rosy jacket and shirt.

Completely mesmerized by the strange occurrence, I drift closer to the reception desk and to Linden, my eyes tracking the glowing movement of symbols across the male’s smooth skin.

“Please don’t disrupt the current,” Linden declares, his focus moving from the glowing leaf screen over one eye to me before his stare drops pointedly to the ground.

I follow his gaze and gasp when I find more golden symbols slinking linearly across the ground toward the massive gilded trunk of the tree. I watch the unfamiliar cyphers move like a line of hardworking ants that just found an abandoned picnic to raid. I hop back to keep from stepping in the middle of one of the currents streaming from Linden into the tree itself like the two are linked.

My eyes snap up to Lorn, questions teeming in my wide stare. His broad smile is painted with thick strokes of self-satisfaction as he watches me take it all in. The branches above me shiver and then shift. I flinch and look up just as a sturdy forked limb drops down. One arm of the bough stretches toward me, and the other reaches for the scion.

“Please place a hand in the center of the foliage,” Linden instructs mechanically.

I freeze, caution edging my stare as I examine the singular, plate-size, four-pronged leaf in front of me. Lorn places his palm in the center of his leaf, and after a long pause, I hesitantly move to do the same with mine.

It’s surprisingly warm and much softer to the touch than I anticipated. Despite knowing that this isn’t a solid gold tree, I still expected it to feel like metal. It smells surprisingly floral and sweet while still carrying an earthen undertone like mineral-rich soil. The delicate veins on the leaf are raised and fuzzy. They tickle my palm as they seem to map every line and crevice of my hand almost like they’re a biometric scanner of some sort.

Linden announces that we can remove our hands, but when I do, shock rings through me. There’s a bloody handprint stamped onto the leaf.

“Hey,” I exclaim, indignation ringing in the solitary word. “How did it steal my blood?”

I reach for the gilt thief, intent on reclaiming what I didn’t know I was offering, but the forked branch shoots up into the canopy, pilfering my print and hiding it within what must be hundreds of other branches and their gilded quilt of leaves.

“The transfer is complete. Would you like to access your Crush now, Dragoness…” Linden trails off, his eyes searching the small vid screen still sitting in front of one eye. “Tenebrae.” His cadence stalls as he reads the name.

Shock spills across his face, and his mouth drops open as though his jaw is laden with so much awe and wonder he can’t keep it closed. With a hasty wave of his hand, the glowing leaf-shaped screen disappears from his eye, and he surveys me, utterly thunderstruck.

“Is it possible?” he whispers. “The roots know, so it must be,” he continues, answering his own query.

The tree shimmies as though offended at being questioned, and I deftly slip into a defensive position in case any more blood-stealing limbs want to have a go.

“My apologies. Scioness Tenebrae, would you like to access your Crush now?” Linden repeats.

I chance a glance over at the male to find he’s once again wearing an indifferent professional mask. I can’t tell if he was apologizing to me or the tree, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

“Uh…sure,” I answer, sounding anything but sure.

This feels wrong. Not that the Crush is now mine, but that Enslee and the other Syphons aren’t here to explore it with me. The money, the treasures, the priceless collections of who knows what, they don’t just belong to me. It belongs to all of the Syphons. I should wait for them, but I can’t say that. And I can tell by the expectant look on Lorn’s face that trying to get out of this right now would invite questions I can’t answer, especially not with a Thrasher here searching every word for lies.

Linden watches me like he’s waiting for me to give him some sign that I’m good and ready for whatever is about to happen. The only problem is I’m not ready, not in the slightest.

What if there’s a portrait of my dad—or worse, my brothers—staring me in the face? Lorn said they added things to the Crush from my father’s tower, so does that mean the furniture from his rooms is down there? Would they have wiped the blood off or left it?

My breaths come quicker, and my heartbeats pick up, like the two are trying to race each other. All at once, I recognize the telltale signs of a freak out, and I quickly work to shut it down. Clearing my mind of all the triggering things that may or may not exist in this Crush, I focus instead on my breathing, on the fact that I’m standing in a magical cavern with a gold tree and a man who I’m pretty sure is a walking, talking root from that tree.

I’m safe.

I’m protected.

I can do this…even if it hurts.

I inhale slowly through my nose and then blow it out of my mouth in an effort to center myself. I do it over and over again until it feels like it’s working.

Before I can change my mind or start panicking again, I give Linden a nod. His eyes are gentle and his smile is understanding as his fingers start flying across his reappearing keyboard.

A deep rumble ripples through the stone all around me, and I turn to search for the source, but it sounds as though it’s coming from the mountain itself.

Flashes of my father’s face, my mother’s, my brothers, the queen, what they looked like dead, blow after blow lands like a sucker punch to the gut. I take the hits and wade through the pain, knowing there’s no avoiding it, not anymore. I’ve run from all of this. I’ve hidden from it. I’ve used it to fuel my retribution and to keep me moving forward. But now comes the hardest part, the part I’ve avoided at all costs. I need to start facing it…and I need to start now.