Page 17

We walk side by side to the metal portcullis that divides the keep from the outside world, Onyx trotting along behind us. With a groan, it rises as we approach, inching toward the sky on thick chains. My eyes widen at what waits on the other side.

A full company of uniformed soldiers is gathered. I’ve never seen so many fae in one place before. Thirty of them, maybe more, all clad in matching dark maroon tunics and armed with swords. Banners bearing the crest of Dyved—the flaming mountain—wave in the air.

This must be the famed Ember Guild. Farley had spoken of it—the special unit of warriors who operate directly under Penn’s command whenever he is home in Caeldera. Highly skilled on the battlefield, thoroughly trained in all areas of combat.

At the front of the battalion, slightly apart from the rest, six men sit atop horses. Their uniforms are a slight deviation on the standard, the additional emblems at their chests marking their higher rank. I recognize Mabon, Uther, and Jac among them, all looking grim and guarded.

In the very center, astride a gray mount, sits Penn. He wears no helm. I’ve never seen him without it in the daylight, I realize, mouth suddenly parched. His hair is a rich chestnut, the ends burnished with lighter shades of coppery gold. His skin is tan from riding in the sun, his cheeks ruddy with exertion. His expression is carefully blank.

And his eyes are fixed on me.

I swallow a gasp at the heat banked in their depths. Fury and fire. They burn bright enough to scald, never shifting from my face as he dismounts and approaches the gates. My heart sails up into my throat as his long-legged strides close the distance between us. My relief is a palpable underscore to my frantic pulse.

He’s here.

He’s come for me.

My hand tightens on Onyx’s bridle as Penn halts a dozen paces away. His eyes sweep down my body, scanning for signs of injury or traces of maltreatment. Finding none, he gives a short nod, then turns his attention to the man at my side.

“Pendefyre,” my host greets with faux brightness. “What brings you here?”

“Soren,” Penn returns stiffly.

The world seems to lurch under my feet. I’m surprised I keep my legs beneath me as reality shifts, then resettles with bone-shaking swiftness.

Soren.

The man beside me is King Soren. King Soren of Ll?r. A man whose name alone is enough to make grown men shake in fear, whose title is synonymous with death. A savage. A brute. The tales of his feats on the battlefield—the unparalleled viciousness that holds invaders at bay, the unmatched wrath delivered upon his foes—are borderline mythic, spreading far and wide through all of Anwyvn.

And I had sat with him. Watched him sip wine and eat strawberries. Saw his head thrown back in laughter and his eyes shining with mirth.

I cannot reconcile reality with reputation.

“It’s been a long time.” Soren’s voice is light as a feather. “Seventy years, isn’t that right?”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” Penn growls. He isn’t looking at me. I get the feeling that is intentional. That, if he does, he might lose his grip on a precariously leashed temper. “This ends now. Return her to me.”

“Is that any way to thank an old friend for taking such good care of the rather intriguing new possession he so carelessly misplaced?”

Penn’s jaw tightens. “Enough.”

“I couldn’t agree more. It is enough.” Soren’s tone loses all hint of warmth. “Enough of you trying to meddle in matters you know are better left alone. Or didn’t you learn your lesson last time?”

Penn’s eyes flash hotly. “This isn’t like that.”

“Isn’t it? All I see here are old patterns repeating. The only difference is that this time I have no intention of standing by and watching as you set fire to our best chance in a century.”

Penn’s teeth grind together so tightly, I think they might crack. “This isn’t the same. She isn’t the same.”

“It’s not Rhya I’m worried about.”

Penn’s entire body jerks at my name. Though he quickly conceals his shock, it is too late. Soren sees his near-imperceptible flinch and realizes immediately what it means. His lips twist with smug self-satisfaction as he glances at me and murmurs, “ Interesting .”

I glare at him.

“Glare all you want.” He laughs. “You’ll need that fighting spirit if you’re to survive Vanora’s wrath.”

“You’d be wise not to say anything else,” Penn warns tightly.

“Why? Afraid, when she learns the truth, she might not be so eager to go with you to Dyved?”

“I’m not sure why you care. Didn’t you just say you have no intention of getting involved?” Penn doesn’t wait for a reply. Without looking away from Soren, he extends his hand blindly in my direction. “Come. We’re leaving.”

I hesitate only a brief moment before sliding my hand into his. In a flash, he’s yanked me away from Soren and has me tucked firmly against his side. His warmth blasts into me, hot as a furnace through his thick maroon cloak.

“Fire and Air, together again,” Soren says, staring back and forth from Penn to me. “If that isn’t history repeating, I don’t know what is.”

Fire and Air.

I still in shock as reality shifts for the second time in as many moments. Penn feels it—my jolt of awareness. He must. But he does not look at me. Does not so much as address the powder keg Soren has all too happily tossed into our path.

All at once, a dozen pieces fall into place in my mind, a picture emerging from the puzzling fragments. Penn’s body burning with inexplicable inner heat, as though he has a fire beneath his skin. His sword flaming red as he fights, like the blade has been left to rest for hours in the embers. The blaze incinerating the dead cyntroedi in the cave despite the lack of fuel to spark it. The wildfire raging out of control on the mountain, consuming the Reavers in a swath of unnatural flame. His words, after I pulled the arrow shaft from his shoulder.

I heal quickly.

It all makes sense. So much sense, I cannot believe I failed to put the pieces together before. Even Soren’s offhand comment about the previous wind weaver—whom they knew seventy years ago —did not fully register until this moment. But if Penn was there as well…he is also gifted with preternaturally long life.

He is no halfling, but high fae.

Fae royalty.

The Fire Remnant.

I look from Pendefyre to Soren, from Fire to Water, scarcely able to catch my breath. They aren’t looking at me—they are too fixated on each other, gazes locked like a pair of circling wolves about to fight for dominance.

“Use the portal at the strait if you’d like,” Soren offers airily. “You have my leave. This once.”

Penn shakes his head. “We’ll ride.”

“Dyved is a four-day journey. “

“I know how far my own bloody kingdom is,” Penn seethes.

“Then you also know how many perils await you on the road there.”

“Nothing my men cannot handle.”

“You would risk her safety? After all this time—all these years of searching—you would put her in jeopardy just to prove a point?” Soren’s voice rises, only for a moment—a single furl of temper quite at odds with his typical indifferent lightness. “I know of Thawe Bridge. I know who chased you there.”

“Keeping tabs on me, Soren?”

“Keeping tabs on Efnysien, as you well know.” He pauses. “Did his men see her?”

Penn is silent.

“ Did they see her? ” Soren thunders softly.

“Yes,” Penn clips.

“Fuck.”

There’s a long beat of tension. The two men stare at each other, silently communicating something I do not understand.

“He will have suspicions, hearing of you with a fae girl,” Soren says finally. “As did half of Vintare, I might add. You might as well have paraded her through the streets of Dymmeria shouting out snippets of the prophecy.”

“That would be redundant,” Penn mutters. “He already knows she’s no halfling. She used her power on the bridge, in plain view of an entire company of his soldiers.”

Another oath explodes from Soren’s mouth. He glances at me briefly, jaw clenched tight, then looks back at Penn. “Perfect. That’s just perfect. Well done, Pendefyre. He’ll never rest now. Not until he has her.”

My breath catches.

Penn’s hand tenses around mine. “That will not happen.”

“You know Efnysien. He is relentless in his pursuits. He will send more men. He will keep coming until he claims her.”

“Let him try. Thawe Bridge is down. I severed the ropes myself,” Penn says flatly. “And I assume you still hold the Avian Strait secure.”

“There are other ways into the Northlands. It is only a matter of time before Efnysien locates one of them.”

“Do not lecture me, nymph.”

Soren inhales deeply, bringing his temper under control. His hands lift in a dismissive gesture. “Fine. Good luck to you, then. But if the men in red make landing in your precious Caeldera and take her from you, do not come crying to me.”

There is a terse pause from Penn, then a stiff “Goodbye, Soren.”

“I’ll be seeing you.” Two sapphire eyes slide to mine. “Soon.”

“Don’t count on it,” Penn growls.

“Oh, but I will. Now that you’ve returned to the north, your presence is expected at Arwen’s wedding festivities on the summer solstice. Or have you forgotten your princely obligations to uphold our treaty?”

Fury is emanating from Penn in waves. “That is for formal matters of state. I have no intention of attending your sister’s wedding.”

Soren only smiles. It is a cruel, knowing grin—one that makes my stomach flutter with nerves. “I should think your queen will have something to say about that.” His brows arch. “I wonder what she’ll have to say about our new wind weaver. Given how close she was with Enid, I can’t imagine it will be a warm reception.”

“ Stop. ”

“Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”

“You will not toy with her emotions like you did—” Penn breaks off, his voice strained. “For fuck’s sake, Soren. This isn’t a game. And she isn’t Enid.”

“I know she’s not,” Soren says carefully. “Do you?”

Penn’s hand tightens on mine so hard the bones grind together. I loose a tiny whimper of protest and he instantly eases his grip. Soren’s eyes cut toward me at the sound, so blue they make the sky look watered down. I try to glance away, but I can’t manage to—not until Penn physically turns me around and leads me down the front walk. Onyx, ever loyal, shadows our steps.

We make it more than halfway to the waiting company of soldiers before Soren calls after us.

“One last thing, little skylark,” he practically purrs in that voice that flows like water over a bed of smoothest stones. “Careful with the princeling. His temper burns hot. I’d hate to see your wings scorched before you ever get a chance to fly.”

I do not look back as we leave the Acrine Hold behind.

We ride in silence, Penn forgoing his other mount to sit with me on Onyx. He presses close at my back, his arm so tight around my middle it is difficult to draw breath. As though he thinks I might disappear again if he lets go for even an instant.

He had not said a word to me—except for a gruff “Are you hurt?” and a brief murmur of assent when I assured him I was perfectly unharmed—before he boosted me up into the saddle and spurred us away.

I allow myself to melt back into his chest, the heat from his body keeping me warm along with the thick blue velvet cloak. Deep exhaustion tugs at me relentlessly. The conversation with Soren, followed by the confrontation with Penn, is proving too much for my worn-out body and mind. I need to crawl into bed and sleep for a week if I am ever going to be able to properly sort through all I’ve learned today.

After a few moments, we come to a fork in the road, the single route splitting into three. The first leads up into the snowy peaks, an ice-encased incline that I send out a silent prayer we will not take. I’ve had my fill of mountains. The second diverges sharply southward, past several low-slung soldiers’ barracks, to what I discern must be the infamous Avian Strait—that narrow, bloody pass where so many hopeful armies have found themselves crushed beneath the weight of Soren’s bootheel. The third goes northwest, a flat, winding route that snakes along the sliver of neutral territory at the base of the range.

It’s the third that we take.

The midafternoon sun is already beginning to tilt toward the horizon. We chase it as it sinks across the sky, a handspan for each hour spent on the road. Our pace is achingly slow, a plodding clop set by the men on foot, who march in orderly rows behind us. Nothing like our frantic flight across the summit.

With the full Ember Guild at our backs, there is no possibility of discretion. There is also no need for it. If the spectacle of force does not scare away any potential enemies, the swords sheathed over their shoulders surely will.

Jac keeps pace to our left, looking uncharacteristically solemn as he rides. Uther and Mabon flank our other side, riding a set of tan mounts. I wonder what happened to the feather-footed draft horses they rode into battle. I hope they made it through the wildfire.

I want to ask—about the horses, about the turn of events that led them to Soren’s doorstep—but swallow my curiosity. The tense atmosphere is not conducive to idle chitchat. None of the men seem up for conversation. They are far too busy scanning our surroundings for incoming threats.

It’s a shame, for I could use a distraction. The inside of my head is not a particularly comforting place to be at the moment. After weeks spent parched for even the smallest drop of information, I suddenly find myself drowning in it. My thoughts stray to Soren almost as often as they turn to the man pressed against my spine.

Two vastly different men, with vastly different temperaments. One a crackling ember of temper, the other a fathomless, mercurial undercurrent. No wonder they butt heads with such vehemence. The only thing on which they seem in total alignment is their utter dislike for each other.

There is history there—a scarred one, at that. Whatever happened between them, whatever has shredded their association into the combative rivalry they are so intent on perpetuating, seems to involve one of the previous wind weavers.

Enid.

The name echoes in the furthest recesses of my mind, prompting so many questions I have no choice but to bury them all deep; otherwise I risk losing my grip on reality. I keep my attention fixed on the minutiae of the road as we trudge onward. League after league, hour after hour.

Eventually, when my exhaustion proves itself too strong to overcome, I drift mercifully into unconsciousness. I do not dream—not of the dark sea, nor of anything else.

My eyes snap open when we jolt to a stop.

Full night has fallen while I dozed. Light flickers from lampposts lining the courtyard of a town house on the main street of an unfamiliar town. All around me, men are dismounting and disassembling. Hooves clatter as horses are led away to the stables; boots crunch on snowy pavestones as the large company of soldiers breaks apart into smaller clusters of two or three. The men melt into the dusky night like shadows—some slipping through the front gates, following the boisterous sounds of music that leak from the center of town; others taking up guard posts on the perimeter of the courtyard and the property beyond. I do not see Mabon, Jac, or Uther anywhere.

“Are you awake?” Penn asks hoarsely. His arm is still tight around my middle.

“I’m awake.”

He slides from the saddle, then reaches up to help me down. His hands do not linger at my waist for longer than a breath. Still, I feel his touch through the gauzy layers of my gown, through every corner of my tired body. My muscles ache, stiff from the ride, but I swallow my protests as he laces his fingers with mine and pulls me up the walk.

The house is gray with black shutters, every one of which is bolted firmly—against the cold, against intruders, against curious eyes from the street, where townsfolk stroll beneath the lamplight, shopping and socializing despite the late hour.

“Where are we?”

“Coldcross,” he says succinctly.

“Which is where, exactly?”

“Trade-post town. Straddles the border between Ll?r, the Frostlands, and the Cimmerians. The royal family keeps a residence here.”

He leads me up three stone steps toward a heavy wooden door. It opens before we’ve made it within knocking distance. A male servant hovers on the threshold, bowing slightly when he sees Penn.

“Crown Prince Pendefyre. Welcome, welcome. We’ve made all the arrangements requested in the raven you sent this morning.”

“Thank you, Gael.”

Releasing my hand, Penn pushes firmly at the small of my back so I have no choice but to step through the doorway into the house.

“See that she’s settled in. I need to sort out my horse and my men.”

“Certainly, sir. But, if you’d like, the stable hands are more than capable—”

Penn is already walking away.

“Never mind,” Gael says brightly, shutting the door. “Come now, Miss…” He trails off, a question in his voice.

Soren’s warning about names and their power is fresh in my mind. I offer him an apologetic smile. “The men call me Ace.”

He blinks. “Very well, Miss… Ace .”

“Just Ace will do.”

“Erm…right.” His composure is, thankfully, far less shakable than mine. “If you’ll just head up those stairs, Miss Ace…”

Two minutes later, I am alone in a rather spacious bedroom on the upper floor of the town house. The shutters are latched and the curtains pulled, preventing any glimpse at the world outside. A fire burns low in the grate, warming the room.

I take off the cloak of blue velvet and hang it on a hook by the wardrobe. Resisting the urge to peek inside dresser drawers and riffle through the writing desk, I make use of the attached bathing suite tucked behind a screen in the corner. Then I sit in the brocade armchair near the fire and wait.

I do not have to wait very long.

Penn crashes through the door with such force, it rattles on its hinges. The saddlebags he’s holding hit the floor with a dull thud as he strides across the chamber. His eyes rake me head to toe, a cutting sweep that slices deeper as he takes in the dress I’m wearing.

“Gods,” he hisses. “You’re in his bloody colors.”

“I didn’t have much say in it. It’s not like I chose—”

The savage look he shoots at me stills my tongue. “What a fool I was for thinking you needed rescue. It appears you were enjoying Soren’s company more than you ever have mine.”

“I was not.”

“No?” He scoffs. “It’s amazing, really, how chummy you got with him after—what was it? Two days? Yet you’ve been in my company for nearly a fortnight and I had to hear your name from his mouth.”

“Penn…”

When I say his name, the fire in the grate leaps higher, as though someone has thrown a cup of spirits on it. My eyes widen.

He swallows harshly, struggling to get himself in check. “I can’t stand to look at you when you’re branded like a piece of his property.”

My spine stiffens and I rise slowly from my seat. “Are you… angry at me?”

His chuckle holds no humor. None at all. “Angry? Am I angry ? Angry may be too tame a word for what I’m feeling.”

“Why?

“ Why? ” The flames leap again. “The last time I saw you, you were headed for safety at the Widow’s Notch. I fight my way through a godsdamned horde of Reavers, burning down half a mountain in the process, barely managing to keep my men shielded from incineration…only to find you’re not there at all. You’re nowhere to be found. Vanished, without a trace.”

“The pass—” I try to interject.

He cuts me off. “Then, after two days—two bloody days of searching that summit, thinking you were dead, blaming myself for ever letting you out of my sight—I get word from the basest sort of man, a man I would not trust with my worst enemy, let alone with—” He exhales sharply. “And you’re not dead at all. You’re just fine. Sleeping soundly at Acrine, holding court with the devil himself.”

Two days?

Had I really slept for two entire days?

Soren never mentioned that.

My eyes find Penn’s. His are full of fire, practically glowing with it. As though whatever power the Remnant has bequeathed him burns perilously close to the surface.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper, not wanting to rile him further.

“What didn’t you know?”

“Any of it. Who he was, where I was, what had happened…” I shake my head. “It’s not like I went there willingly.”

Sparks shoot from Penn’s fingertips. I scramble backward, highly aware of the gauzy fabric that swooshes around my legs. He stomps them out with his boots before they scorch the wood. But his roar is loud enough to make me realize a few sparks are the least of my worries.

“ He took you against your will? ”

My mouth snaps shut at the absolute rage suffusing his voice as much as the fiery display of it. I consider my next words with extra care. Words that could, I realize belatedly, give the Prince of Dyved grounds for retaliation against the King of Ll?r. Words that could, intentionally or not, start a war.

Are you trying to provoke him? I’d asked Soren earlier.

If I were trying to provoke him , he’d answered, I would’ve brought you back to Hylios.

“No, not against my will. Not exactly,” I quickly assure Penn, eager to douse the blazing anger inside him. “He found me on the mountain. I was exhausted. Incapable of carrying on. He…he helped me.”

Penn takes a series of deep breaths. He seems marginally calmer when he walks over to the fireplace and lays his palms on the mantel. It must be hot, but he does not seem affected by heat any more than he is bothered by extreme cold. He does not look at me as he barks a brittle, single-worded command over his shoulder.

“Explain.”

And so I do. I tell him what happened after he sent Onyx galloping from the clearing. Of the second band of Reavers, who’d cut me off at the pass. Of their pursuit through the woods. Of the wildfire pressing in.

He tenses at this news, the lines of his shoulders going rigid. But the fire in the grate does not leap and his hands on the mantel produce not a single spark, so it seems safe to continue the tale. My voice falters only as I describe the moment I decided to use my Remnant.

How does one put the sensation of being torn inside out into proper words? I will never be able to capture just how it felt, tapping into my power for the first time. How my skin had seemed too thin to contain it, my mind too feeble to comprehend the wind whipping through me. It was like taking a sip of wine from your glass and finding a full cask poured down your throat instead; inhaling a singular breath and receiving a gust strong enough to explode your lungs.

He lets me speak without interruption until I describe crossing the river with Onyx.

“You forded the river,” he says flatly. I can see the frown marring his profile from six paces.

“Yes,” I confirm, not sure why he’s so addled. I just told him that wind had burst from within me in a tempest, nearly killing me in the process, and he barely batted an eye. Yet the simple crossing of a mountain stream gives him cause to doubt me?

“This late in the season that river is one endless, icy rapid, from the summit to the base. There’s no way you could make it across without drowning. Certainly not in a waterlogged dress, stallion in tow.”

“I found a narrow bend where the current was gentle,” I insist.

“I rode along that entire bank searching for you. There is no such bend.”

“Perhaps you didn’t see it—”

“I didn’t see it,” he agrees, “because it’s not there.”

“And yet,” I rebut, annoyance stirring within me, “here I stand.”

“Then you’re the luckiest girl I’ve ever met.”

My brows shoot to my hairline. Lucky? I do not feel lucky. Then again…even as I reject his assertions, my mind is back in that river. Knee-deep in that frigid water, remembering the way it lapped around me as I forged my way across. Not dragging me down, not fighting my progress. At times almost propelling me forward. Helping me along.

Straight into Soren’s grasp.

He was there. Standing on that opposite bank. Almost like he’d been waiting for me. Almost like…the water delivered me to him.

Had he ensured my crossing? Had he held off the rushing rapids, the ripping currents, as I made my way to safety?

I shake my head, banishing the suspicions. Even if they are true, I’m not about to share them with Penn. His temper hangs by the thinnest of threads. Soren is just the knife to sever it completely.

“Call it what you’d like. Luck, obstinance, desperation…I did make it across,” I say softly. “But doing so took my last bit of strength. I collapsed on the bank, my air shield gave out, and I lost consciousness. When I woke up this morning, I was at the Acrine Hold. Despite your belief that I was holding court with the devil , in truth I spent no more than an hour in his company before you arrived at the front gates.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Penn’s shoulders. Releasing his grip on the mantel, he turns to face me. He takes a stride in my direction and, without thinking, I scuttle backward, heart leaping into my throat.

He freezes. “You’re afraid of me.”

“No,” I whisper. “I just…I’ve never seen you this way. You’re usually so…controlled.”

“I…Soren, he…” His throat works, swallowing roughly. “You have no idea what seeing you there, by his side, did to me. Knowing he was close enough to even breathe your air…The thought of what he might’ve done to you…That I might not get to you in time…”

“He did nothing to me. We talked; that’s all.”

“You cannot trust him,” he tells me, eyes igniting with fresh flames. It’s like staring into the depths of a forge. “There is nothing he will not say—will not do—to turn you against me.”

“Why?”

“We have a—” He struggles for words. “A complicated history. I don’t know what he told you about me—”

“Very little.”

Penn scoffs darkly. “I doubt that, given that you’re flinching at my presence when, not two days past, you reached to me for support.”

I blink in surprise. I’ve wounded him more deeply than I realized by retreating. I’m not sure why that makes me feel so guilty.

I’ve wounded him ?

He’s wounded me !

He is the one who lied. He is the one who kept his identity hidden. He shared nothing—not of our joined fate, not of the prophecy, not of Soren. Certainly not of the mysterious Enid, and whatever happened to her seventy years ago.

I owe him nothing. No trust. No true allegiance. He may be my protector, but he is not my friend.

Then why does looking at him make your heart ache, Rhya?

I shake off the unwarranted pangs of sympathy. All that truly matters is that, for the time being, Penn is the string that tethers my kite to the earth. Until this storm passes, I have little choice but to remain by his side, under his protection.

Ignoring the thudding of my own pulse, I force my gaze to meet his and take a purposeful stride forward, to prove I’m not afraid of him.

“Penn…”

His whole body jolts at my whisper.

“I’m exhausted. All right? Can’t you understand that?” My voice cracks on the question. “I’m so tired, I can barely stand. And every time I think I’ve found my footing, my feet are swept out from under me again. These past few days…Between using my power for the first time and hearing I’m part of a fated tetrad upon which the future of Anwyvn rests—”

“He told you, then. About the prophecy.”

I nod. “Needless to say, I’m trying to sort through my thoughts. I need a little time. More than that, I need some sleep.”

He stares at me for a long beat. “Of course. I’ll let you rest.”

“Thank you.”

He turns for the door, pausing halfway over the threshold.

“I am…” he begins haltingly. His shoulder muscles ripple beneath the maroon fabric of his cloak. As if he is holding himself back, straining beneath the force of all the words he cannot—will not—say. “I am very relieved you’re alive.”

With that, he steps into the hall and shuts the door with a firm click. It isn’t until I am alone in my chambers, breathing deeply to regulate the mad tattoo of my heart, that I see the matching scorch marks marring the wood mantel over the fireplace.

They are burned in the shape of two large, precise handprints.