Page 15

I dream of a great, dark sea.

Of the waves and the water. Of the brine and the bitter cold. A vast expanse of ocean, fathomless as time. And I, a tiny piece of flotsam, tossed by tidal whims. Drowning in slow degrees as my head slips under, never to resurface.

I should be frightened, but I have dreamed this dream before. I have swum this sea a thousand times, my slumbering mind returning again and again to the plundering depths, to the swells that crash around me with frothing whitecaps. To the currents that caress and cajole as they drag me to the bottom, whispering sweet nothings even as they kill me.

This deadly sea of dreams is not the sunny shore of Seahaven, but somewhere else—a place I’ve never been. A figment of sleep-fueled imagination. For if such a place exists, I’ve never seen it. Yet it feels so real, so vivid, sometimes I think it must be a memory left over from a past life, carried through the aether as my soul sprung into existence.

When I gasp awake, I can still taste sea salt on my lips.

It takes me a moment to shake off the residue of the dream. I glance around, eyes wide, struggling to get my bearings. Searching for threats. Finding none.

I’m alone.

Alone in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. No sign of my belongings anywhere. Not my bow, not my quiver, not my dagger, nor any of my clothes. The bedspread clutched in my hands is light blue; the plush feather mattress beneath me is of the highest quality. The chamber itself is the color of sand, while the floors are a luminous ivory tile.

It looks like an ordinary—if rather richly appointed—bedroom, everything finely crafted out of light-hued wood, from the carved writing desk to the nightstands to the wardrobe. Across from the bed, a large window with crisscrossed panes dominates the wall.

I throw off the thick blankets and stalk toward it on bare feet, legs wobbling like jelly with every step. I am not sure how long I’ve been unconscious, only that it was not long enough to counteract my exhaustion. I am spent, every ounce of strength sapped from my bones. This soul-deep weariness I have never before experienced is not only physical. It centers at the mark embedded in my chest the same way a headache gathers at one’s temples, then radiates outward.

Evidently, using my power comes at a price.

I wonder where my boots are as the tile’s chill seeps into my soles; wonder who took me out of them when they put me in the flimsy nightgown I’m wearing. My heart thuds as a face jolts into my thoughts—the man I encountered on the riverbank. His bright blue eyes are the last thing I remember before everything went dark. That predatory gleam. That self-satisfied smirk. That voice, like a deadly fall of water, ribboning the air.

Well, well. Aren’t you interesting.

I do not like to think he was the one to strip me to my skin and dress me in this garment. The nightgown is borderline indecent, the fabric so gauzy and light it is almost sheer against my skin. Not silk, but something far finer. The stitching is so tiny and precise, I can barely detect a single seam. It flows around me like liquid as I stop before the window.

My mouth gapes.

While unconscious, I have undergone a vast change in altitude. The Cimmerians are spread out before me—above me, rather. Wherever I’ve been taken is situated at the base of the range. If I squint my eyes toward the summit of the centermost peak, I can just make out a dark scorch staining the snow-topped tract of evergreens. A smoldering wound, scarring the face of the mountain—the only remaining trace of the raging wildfire. It looks to have consumed half the slope before finally burning itself out.

Looking at it, I can hardly believe I walked away unscathed. My eyes ache with unshed tears as I think of Penn and his men, fighting for their lives. They’d been at the very heart of the blaze. Even if they’d survived the Reavers…

Could anyone survive such a fire?

The door swings inward with nary a knock of warning. Tears forgotten, I spin around to face the intruder. I backpedal a step when I see it is the fae man from the river, my spine pressing against the sill so hard it will undoubtedly leave a bruise.

“You’re awake,” he says, strolling into the room like he owns the place. Which, it occurs to me, he likely does. “Good.”

He stops six paces away. We stare at each other in silence, each taking the other’s measure. He is just as alarmingly attractive as I remember. A tall, powerful frame encased in tailored navy fabric. Deeply tan, almost golden, skin. Dark, lush hair framing a face that could make an artist weep. Bone structure fodder for a thousand sonnets. The crystalline eyes are balanced by a jawline so chiseled, sculptors could labor for a lifetime and still never quite capture its finer nuances.

“Did you sleep well?”

Did I sleep well?

As if I’ve taken a nap in a field of wildflowers, not been knocked unconscious and dragged down a mountain. Is he insane?

“What did you do to me?”

He arches a single brow at the thick accusation in my tone. “What did I do to you?”

“You…” I shake my head, trying to sort out my thoughts. “You brought me here.”

“And?”

And? Is that not enough? “You…you knocked me unconscious! You must’ve drugged me or hit me or—”

“No.” A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw tightens. “I did not lay a finger on you, except to carry you here when you so foolishly drained your powers to the point of exhaustion and collapsed at my feet in a pathetic heap. Though, if I’d known this was the kind of thanks awaiting me…” He shrugs with a nonchalance I do not believe, even for a second. “I might not have bothered.”

There is a frigid pause.

“Oh,” I whisper weakly in its aftermath.

“Yes.” His eyes glitter. “ Oh. ”

“And Onyx?”

“Feasting on hay in my stables.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Being laundered by my staff. They were covered in blood and soaked from the river.”

I nod, accepting this. I attempt to keep my voice level. “And I assume I also have you to thank for this”—I gesture down at myself—“garment I am wearing?”

He does not respond. He is staring at the aforementioned garment as though his eyes have followed my gesture and gotten stuck there. It is not a lascivious gaze, but one of undisguised fascination. For, in the slant of sunlight, the dark whorls of my Remnant are plainly evident beneath the gauzy fabric gathered at my breasts.

When he steps toward me, my whole body tenses with fear.

He halts instantly. His eyes flicker back to mine. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

To this, I say nothing. Words are only worth as much as the actions behind them.

Lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, he takes a purposeful stride backward. My audible exhale of relief seems to amuse him.

“You have nothing to fear from me. I merely wanted a closer look. It is not every day you see a Remnant standing before you.”

So, he knows what I am. Then again, even without the mark, he would’ve known. He’d seen me cast an air shield on the mountain.

My shoulders stiffen as wariness tiptoes in. “And what is it you want from me?”

“Perhaps I desired a glimpse at Prince Pendefyre’s new pet.”

Hope and fear stir within me when he speaks Penn’s name. Hope that he might still be alive and, even now, on his way here to find me; fear because this stranger, whoever he is, does not sound like he much cares for the Crown Prince of Dyved.

“If a glimpse were all you wanted,” I whisper softly, “I doubt you would’ve brought me here.”

“Historically speaking, Pendefyre isn’t fond of sharing his toys.” His lips twist up at one side. “I wanted us to have a chance to get to know each other. Uninterrupted.”

“For what purpose?”

“Call it…curiosity.”

“About me.”

“About you,” he agrees. His eyes search mine. “Your presence at the Vintare inn was noted far and wide—and not only by my scouts. For days, ravens have been busy flying to every corner of the Northlands, spreading the news from crofters to courtiers.” His voice gains a mocking edge. “The long-awaited Dyved heir has finally returned to the north. He does not come alone, but with a fae girl in tow. Slip of a thing, with strange silver eyes.”

My breath catches.

“Chased into the mountains together, according to the rumormongers. And by Efnysien’s men, no less,” he continues. His head cants to one side as he stares at me. “Normally, I am not one for idle gossip—especially where Pendefyre is concerned. But I must admit, this particular tale piqued my interest.”

The men in red and black. Efnysien’s men. I’ve heard that name before. I still recall Jac’s shocked question to Penn back at the summit— This far north? What in the skies are they doing all the way up here? —but I’m hesitant to reveal as much to this stranger. Instead, I shrug with the same airy nonchalance he’s adopted to counterbalance the sharpness of his gaze.

“Well, now you’ve seen me.” I swallow hard. “I assume your interest is sated and you will send me on my way.”

“To Dyved.”

I say nothing.

“With Pendefyre.”

The silence lingers.

“Gods help you.” He looses a humorless laugh. “Gods help us all.”

“Where I go next is no business of yours,” I say stiffly. “Much as I appreciate you getting me to safety, what I do from this point on has nothing to do with you. So, if you wouldn’t mind returning my clothing, I’ll saddle Onyx and be on my way.”

He speaks as though he hasn’t heard me. “You don’t have any idea what you are, do you?”

My teeth clench.

“Given your clumsy attempts at wielding your power, that much is obvious,” he continues. His expression darkens, sudden as a summer storm. “What can that fool be thinking, putting you at risk? Leaving you exposed to all manner of dangers? Reckless. Bloody reckless. Even for him.”

“He is far from a fool,” I snap without thinking. “We were attacked by Reavers.”

“How quickly you spring to his defense.” His smile is a knife’s edge—cutting and cruel. “I’m guessing that means he hasn’t told you why he is so eager to bring you back to his homeland.”

I try not to react. Try not to succumb to his transparent provocations. The idea that Penn has an ulterior motive is not a novel one. I’ve suspected as much from the moment he drove his sword through Burrows’s throat and threw me on the back of his horse. Yet, for some reason, contemplating it hurts more now. For some reason…I had begun to believe him when he said he is not my enemy. To hope Farley had not lied when he’d called us friends.

Penn may not be a fool, but you certainly are one, Rhya Fleetwood.

“I’m guessing he hasn’t told you much of anything,” the blue-eyed stranger continues, each word a fresh blow. “Not very big on sharing, is he?”

“And I suppose you will?” I retort. “I don’t know you, but you don’t seem the forthcoming type.”

His knife-blade smile sharpens. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, who you are and what you truly want with me.”

He stares at me for a long while. He says not a word as his hands lift to his shirt. It is fashioned in a timeless style, appearing at once very old and immaculately new. The fabric is such a dark blue, it looks black at first glance. The buttons down the front are polished stones carved with intricate patterns. My eyes widen as he begins to undo them, one by one.

“What the skies are you doing?” I shriek, pressing back against the windowsill in alarm, my pulse a cavalry charge within my chest.

“Not what you think.” He continues to work at the buttons, his deft fingers moving quickly down the line until his shirt flutters open. With fluid grace, he shrugs it off, revealing a muscular chest that looks carved from marble. The navy material flutters to the floorboards.

And I gasp.

Not at the sight of a man’s naked torso—I have seen plenty of those in my time healing sickly villagers with Eli—but at the dark whorls that mark the otherwise flawless stretch of golden flesh on the left side of his chest. A triangular pattern spirals outward from the center, across his pectoral. Darker than pitch and ever so slightly raised from the rest of his skin, almost like a blackened brand.

There is no denying what it is.

A Remnant.

It is the same as mine, yet different. Not only the placement, but the design itself. Where the whorls of my own mark are ethereal, almost gossamer, his have more substance. There is a fluidity to their wavelike coils, but also unquestionable strength in the thicker lines, the bolder curves. If my mark is a breeze on the surface of the sea, his is the riptide roaring below.

Without a thought as to what I’m about to do, I take two strides forward. My hand flies up to touch the intricate design, needing to confirm what I’m seeing is actually there. That it’s real.

That he’s real.

He sucks in a sharp breath as my fingertips make contact, but I barely notice. His skin is somewhat cool to the touch and surprisingly soft, like satin over the steel of his muscular chest. When I start to trace the waves and spirals of his Remnant, a sound rattles low in his throat—half groan, half growl. His hand flies up to manacle my wrist and jerks it away, stopping my exploration almost before it’s begun.

“That,” he hisses softly, “is sensitive.”

Skies.

I should be embarrassed. I’m sure that will come later, but in this moment, I’m too unnerved to process my own emotional state. I glance up into the stranger’s face, craning my neck all the way back to accomplish it. He’s quite tall. His strong fingers still grip my wrist—not painfully, but also not gently. Though I tell myself to pull away, I’m paralyzed into stillness by the piercing weight of his eyes. Blue as the ocean and just as bottomless.

“Who am I?” The stranger’s mouth twists in a half grin as he finally answers my question. “I am… Water .”

I make my way downstairs when my head stops spinning.

After revealing his Remnant mark, my enigmatic host said nothing else. He’d merely bent, extracted his shirt from the floor, and left me alone to gather myself with orders to meet him on the terrace whenever I feel ready.

Frankly, I doubt I will ever feel ready for whatever revelations await me there, but at least I am properly clothed. I’d found a gown—just as he said I would—in the wardrobe and wormed into it, contorting my arms to do up the laces at the back.

The dress is in a style I’ve never seen before, with belled sleeves, a fitted bodice that plunges scandalously low in the front, and long, lightweight skirts made of the same gauzy material as the nightgown, but dyed a dozen different shades of blue. Sheer, overlapping layers of navy and cerulean, turquoise and sapphire, lapis and indigo, froth around my heels as I move. The effect is such that the wearer appears to be clothed in a part of the sea itself, caught in the crest of a wave with each step.

It is exquisitely beautiful.

I hate how much I love it. I am ashamed to admit I spend a fair stretch of time examining my reflection in the mirror before I leave the chamber. I’m still far too thin, but no longer appear quite as feverish or malnourished as I did the last time I saw myself. Against my fair coloring, the gown does not look altogether terrible. I pinch some color into my pale cheeks and run my fingers through my mussed white-gold mane. Lacking all skill with ribbons and pins, I let the locks fall freely around my shoulders and down my back.

As I turn to leave, my gaze catches on my wrists in the mirror’s shiny surface. The skin that peeks from the bottom of my draped sleeves is almost completely healed. I can barely see the scars where my iron shackles scorched down to sinew. Only a hint of unevenness remains where days ago there were angry red puckers.

It is miraculous. Impossible. No one heals this fast.

No one normal.

I try not to dwell on it—when I do, my mind begins to brim with disturbing thoughts I have neither the time nor the inclination to wade into. Not at the moment, as I descend the final polished step of a steep stone staircase and find myself immediately ushered by two silent, soft-footed servants down a short hall that opens up into a sun-drenched sitting room.

Like the bedchamber decor, the furnishings are well crafted but sparse, almost utilitarian. There is no art, no adornment anywhere I can see. The wall of windows provides the only visual diversion. From this vantage the entire range is on display. The full splendor of the Cimmerians stretches out before me, an unending flow of peaks and valleys. There is a rare beauty to their snowcapped slopes, an undeniable pureness in the way they pierce the sky. The only flaw in the spectacular view is the man standing on the terrace outside—his back to me, his eyes on the horizon.

One of the servants propels me across the room to a set of double doors and practically shoves me through them. My host turns as I approach, his gaze raking me from head to toe.

“A wind weaver in my colors. That is something I never thought to see again in all my days.”

His colors.

Who is this man?

A general?

A lord?

Someone powerful, clearly. But he has not given me so much as a name or an affiliation. I am not sure whether we are still within the autonomous region of the Cimmerians or if we have entered sovereign territory.

I stop a good distance from him, turning my head toward the mountains and laying my hands on the stone railing. Despite the snowy clime, the terrace itself is warm. Twin fires burn in low stone trenches that run along the perimeter of the floor to either side of us, casting a pleasant glow across the entire veranda.

“Where are we, exactly?”

“The Acrine Hold.”

I keep my gaze fixed on the mountains. “Am I supposed to know where that is?”

“You would, were you from the Northlands.” He pauses. “Which, obviously, you are not. Tell me—where did the princeling find you after all this time?”

I finally glance at him, brows raised. “You seem to know quite a bit about Penn’s activities.”

His gaze gains a cutting edge when I let slip the casual nickname. “I make it my business to know a great deal about a great many people,” he says with aching slowness. “You, on the other hand, remain an enigma. Especially as you haven’t answered a single one of my questions, while I have entertained several of yours.”

“On the contrary, you seem to know more about me than I know of myself.”

He arches one brow in silent inquiry.

I blow out a sharp breath. There is not much point in playing coy. He already knows what I am. And if anyone can offer me an explanation about my fate…I suppose it is someone who shares it.

“The truth is, until a few days ago, I’d never even heard the term Remnant ,” I tell him. “Besides the mark on my chest, there was never any indication I was anything but an ordinary halfling. I’d never tapped into any power. I wasn’t even aware that I had power to tap into.”

He shows no reaction.

“I didn’t understand that the mark meant I was…” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m still not sure I truly understand what it means.”

There is a heavy beat of silence, followed by a low, angry oath. “ Fucking Pendefyre. ”

I open my mouth to retort, but he doesn’t give me a chance. He turns on a heel and crosses to the other side of the terrace, where his servants have arranged a beautiful dining table. It is big enough for six but set only for two, the surface covered with more food than I’ve seen in quite some time.

“Come on, then,” he calls back over his shoulder, the flash of anger already smoothed over. “We’ll sit. We’ll eat. We’ll talk.”

I hesitate only a moment before I trail after him. It takes effort not to flinch when he pulls out my chair for me. I swear I hear the ghost of a chuckle in the air as he pushes me in, the picture of polite manners, and takes his own seat at the opposite end.

Our eyes meet over the platters of food and hold for a long moment. Neither of us seems to know where to begin. Or perhaps he merely does not want to. He studies me, his eyes drinking in the angles of my face, the pale waves that frame it, the dark whorls of my mark peeking from the plunging bodice of my gown.

“Wine,” he mutters tightly, pouring clear golden liquid into two glass goblets. The muscle in his jaw is ticking. “Wine will help.”

He slides one goblet toward me, then promptly drains his own in two gulps and refills it to the brim. “Let’s begin with what happened on the mountain.”

“You mean the Reavers?” I ask. “Or the wildfire?”

“I mean the display of idiocy I witnessed from you.”

I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me…are you so young, so untested, you cannot understand the risk you took in doing what you did?”

My brows rise at his calling me young. I may be especially lean these days, but I am not a child. Back in my village, half the girls my age were married by their sixteenth naming day; at twenty, I am on my way to spinsterhood.

Besides, he himself does not look so very ancient. When I first saw him on the mountain I’d placed him around Penn’s age, in his mid- to late twenties. Looking at him now, I question my own perception. Despite his youthful appearance, there is something about him—a stillness, a sense of unflinching control—that seems unquestionably…

Older.

“Forcing that much raw power when you have no idea what you’re doing is not only dangerous,” he says bluntly. “It is reckless beyond belief.”

“I managed just fine.”

His fingers tighten on his goblet stem. “The blood on your cloak painted a different picture.”

“I lived, didn’t I?”

“By the skin of your teeth.”

“That was hardly the worst thing I’ve had to survive in my life,” I mutter. “Not even in the past week, come to think of it.”

“Mmm. And what if you had collapsed at someone else’s feet? What if I had not been the one to discover you there, on the brink of exhaustion? You could’ve found yourself in bad company.”

“I’m not so sure I haven’t.”

His lips twist at one side. He lifts his goblet in a salute. “Fair enough.”

I watch him drink, the tanned column of his throat working rhythmically. My own wine sits untouched. I will not accept anything from his table—no matter how tempting the spread set out before me looks. Slices of cured meat, cheese, and crusty bread are stacked on platters beside marinated olives, fresh grapes, and a variety of other delectables. My eyes fix on a bowl of ruby-red strawberries and a rush of saliva fills my mouth.

It has been a long time since I’ve had a strawberry. Years. The past few harvests, even Eli’s thriving gardens had begun to fail. Whatever ailments plague Anwyvn, whatever blight grips her growing seasons in the Midland kingdoms blessedly spared Seahaven for most of my youth. But the peninsula’s fertile stretch of soil could not remain forever immune to the spreading sickness that leaves crops to wither on the vine and farmers to go hungry at their dinner tables. By the end, all we could grow were the most hardy vegetables. Corn. Potatoes. The occasional carrot or radish.

Still…I have not forgotten the sweetness of a strawberry on my tongue.

“Take one,” a melodious voice interjects into my thoughts.

I start, glancing up into a set of piercing blue eyes. They are fixed on me with such intensity, my pulse quickens to a patter.

“No, thank you.”

“You clearly want one. Why not indulge yourself?”

My teeth clench as I lie, “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Suit yourself.”

Quick as a flash, his hand darts out and he plucks a particularly plump strawberry off the top of the pile. His eyes hold mine as he takes a bite. I tamp down an unwelcome flutter of envy as I watch him chew, his chiseled jaw working with taunting slowness. The pink tip of his tongue darts out to lick the juice from his bottom lip.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, still looking at me long after the strawberry is gone.

“I’m glad one of us is enjoying himself.”

“Am I not charming you with my delightful company?” His eyes narrow. “I doubt you’d like my less charming side. Trust me.”

“But I don’t trust you.”

“That may be the wisest decision you’ve made so far.”

My pulse’s patter becomes a pound.

He takes another sip of his wine. “Speaking of decisions…perhaps you could explain to me why you thought it wise to summon a power you are blatantly unprepared to wield. Do you have a death wish?”

“No, I have a survival instinct,” I rebut. “I couldn’t breathe. I had to push back the smoke somehow. I didn’t have any other choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

“When the alternatives were giving myself a little nosebleed or being scorched to death…” I shrug. “Things seemed rather clear-cut.”

“A little nosebleed? Is that all you think it was?”

He drains the final sip from his goblet and refills it once more—not with wine, but water from a sturdy stoneware pitcher. He does not drink. He slowly spins the goblet stem between two fingers. Light refracts through the glass, dappling a dozen tiny round diamonds of sunshine across the table’s surface as the liquid begins to swirl.

His voice is low. “Think of every breeze that has ever stirred between every blade of grass in every corner of this world. Think of every ripping squall that has ever filled the sails of every ship in every far-off sea. Think of every soaring current that has carried every bird that dared spread its wings in every distant sky…”

His hand is no longer touching the goblet, yet the liquid in his glass still spins—not slowing but speeding up, faster and faster, a tiny vortex under his command. I taste the tinge of maegic in the air, the faintest whisper of it threading into every breath I take. And beneath it, deep inside my chest, the answering stir of power as my mark blinks awake after a long slumber.

Transfixed, I cannot tear my eyes away as the water rises past the rim of the goblet, stretching toward the sky like a waterspout in the center of an ocean gale. Several globules the size of fat raindrops break off and start to orbit around the glass, a delicate waltz of water and air that mesmerizes me.

I swallow a gasp and force myself to look at the man responsible. He is watching me, paying no attention at all to what is occurring in his water glass, as though the dazzling display costs him so little effort, it is beneath his notice.

“Every gust. Every gale,” he continues. “From a whisper to a scream, from the lightest puff to the wildest tempest…All that resides within you. All that and still more.”

I cannot speak. It is all I can do to keep from gaping at him as the spinning liquid abruptly drops back into his goblet. There is no splash, no messy overflow as it is released from his control. Not even a ripple disturbs the surface. The water is utterly still.

Heart pounding, I tear my eyes from it. He is still watching me. If he sees how rattled I am, he feels no urge to quell my unease. His tone is a light caress; his words are anything but.

“Left unchecked, untrained…you have no idea how easily your own power can break you. It will crack your mind like the shell of an egg if you are not careful. And everything that makes you who you are will spill out onto the pavestones of your skull, a useless puddle of wasted potential.”