Page 19

Caeldera is nothing like I imagined.

After so many days spent in the icy shadow of the mountains, perhaps my expectations are unfairly low. I pictured the capital city as a larger version of Coldcross or Vintare.

I could not be more wrong.

On our third day of riding, the frost plains come to an abrupt end when we reach a wide canyon. Stretching out of sight from the Cimmerians to the North Sea, it forms an unquestionable boundary between the glacier-bound Frostlands and the flat, snow-topped plateau upon which Dyved sits. The mesa juts against the blue sky, not nearly as tall as the range but elevated enough to make an invasion almost impossible.

No wonder the Northlands weren’t conquered during the Cull. With the mountains to the south, seas to both north and west, and the canyon to the east, Penn’s entire kingdom is uniquely shielded from all sides.

After crossing the border, we make our way up a winding switchback pass to the top of the plateau—a climb that takes several hours. Whatever Dyved’s natural geographical protections, it is clear they take no chances when it comes to safeguarding their territory. I count at least five guard posts along the way, each stationed in a wooden tower with a unit of armed soldiers in dark brown uniforms. They stand at attention when they see our company coming, then drop into deep bows of respect as soon as they recognize Penn. At my back, he nods to return the greetings.

The top of the plateau is not sparse, as I’d envisioned, but densely forested with white-barked pine trees. A thick bed of needles blankets the frozen earth on either side of the trail as we make our way inland. I wonder if the snowdrifts here ever melt completely, even in the heat of summer.

Will I still be here in two seasons’ time to see for myself?

For hours, there is nothing but forest. But then the woodland trail widens into a dirt path, and eventually into a cobbled road that branches in many different directions. Stone markers are placed at each crossroads, counting down the distance to Caeldera. As we approach, we pass settlements and villages, along with other travelers—in carts and carriages, on foot and on horseback. Everyone who sees our riding party drops into the same deep bow of deference to their returning prince.

I have never been more conscious of my riding position, seated before Penn. I feel the weight of many eyes on me, curiosity swirling in the air as we near the outer limits of the city.

Prince Pendefyre has returned.

And brought with him a girl.

I keep my spine straight, my shoulders set, and my hands fixed on the pommel as the road hooks around a sharp butte of rock, then slopes suddenly downward through a deep tunnel in the earth. In a blink, midday sun is swapped for shadows, a shift so abrupt it makes my breath catch. The clatter of our horses rebounds in every direction, an echo chamber of hoofbeats. The walls drip with fern and lichen in the low light. The stone is striated with lustrous ore, a galaxy of glittering mica, almost dazzling to the eyes.

There is a dark beauty about it, despite my innate dislike of enclosed spaces. The clawing sense of panic I typically feel whenever I lose sight of the sky is offset slightly by the soaring ceilings of the passage, as well as its width. All the same, I find myself breathless and reeling when we exit through a set of ultra-thick doors at the far end, and I catch my first proper glimpse of Caeldera.

We are at the bottom of a deep, verdant crater. Like a hollow center of a tree stump, the gorge is encircled by the sharp walls of the plateau that rise around us on all sides. Built into the cliffs, some hanging at precarious angles, are dwellings of many different shapes and sizes. They look carved from rock itself, their walls rough-hewn and capped with a fuzzy coating of moss. Tidy chimneys spout from their copper-plated roofs; glass-paned windows twinkle brightly against the gathering twilight. Narrow, near-vertical roads slash their way down the snow-dusted cliffs like claw marks, funneling into the bottom of the crater, where a large lake pools in shades of teal.

The lake is fed by a great waterfall that thunders from the upper cliffs. Open-air markets line its banks, food merchants and spice traders bartering with a sea of shoppers clad in fine cloaks and fashionable gowns. Cobbled streets web out in circular rings from the lakeside to the base of the cliffs.

It is all spectacular. I can scarcely take it in. But the thing that steals the breath right out of my lungs and makes my eyes widen to their limits is not the dazzling lake or the charming stone-fronted buildings that surround it or even the cascading falls, but the keep.

No.

Not a keep.

It is a palace. Built into the rock wall by the base of the waterfall—in fact, one wing looks to be nearly within the waterfall—the spires and ramparts shoot up toward the sky, piercing the shroud of mist. The tallest tower almost reaches the top of the crater.

“Welcome to Caeldera,” Penn whispers into my ear.

We follow a wide avenue through a central marketplace to the arched bridge that spans the lake beyond. I had thought the attention we drew up on the plateau was intent, but it is nothing to the fierce scrutiny of thousands of Caelderans who line the way, their rapt eyes fixed upon us. Some throw flowers in our path; others call out in welcome.

“Prince Pendefyre!”

“Welcome home, Your Highness!”

Penn is not at all affected by this. He continues to nod sedately, occasionally lifting an arm to wave at someone he knows in the throng. I hope my expression is not as pale and shaky as I feel inside. By the time we reach the foot of the bridge, my stomach is a ball of lead.

At some unseen command, the foot soldiers break away from the contingent of us on horseback, bound for their barracks and a well-earned rest from the road. Only seven of us—me, Penn, and the highest-ranking Ember Guild—are to continue to the palace. Though the bridge itself is wide enough for at least four horses riding abreast, the other mounts drop back to let Onyx lead the way. Jac, Uther, and Mabon trail directly in our wake. Cadogan and the ever-unpleasant Gower bring up the rear.

All around us, two-seater paddleboats and angular rowing craft knife across the lake’s surface, carrying residents from one shore to the other. I crane my neck in an attempt to keep the tallest turret in my sights as we near the palace. There are three round towers of escalating height—shortest on the left, tallest on the right. The tallest is so mist shrouded from its proximity to the falls I wonder if anyone inside can see out the windows, if the walls within are damp and cold from constant moisture.

By the time we reach the front gates, which are at least thrice the height of the average soldier, my face is dappled in fine beads of water. It takes four brawny guards to open them for us. They swing inward with a creak of hinges, leading into a courtyard of dark flagstones, where a greeting party has gathered to receive us. A contingent of uniformed servants line the walk, all clad in the same dull brown shade, heads bowed in subservience. Standing beneath the stately threshold to the inner keep, a flock of courtiers position themselves like colorful peacocks.

Perhaps I am a girl of simple tastes, with no eye for the regalia of court, but their exaggerated finery seems ill-suited for the natural beauty of Caeldera. They drip with gemstones—rubies glitter at cravats, sapphires sparkle at cuff links, emeralds twinkle from earlobes, diamonds drape ample necklines. It is such a staggering display of fortune, I am nearly blinded as we cross to them in a clatter of hooves.

None shine so resplendently as the silver-haired woman standing at the very center, whose gold crown is so weighted down with gems, I’m not sure how she manages to keep her neck from buckling. Even without the crown, I would know her for royalty by countenance alone. Her posture is unyielding. She seems carved from marble, more statue than flesh and blood.

Penn pulls Onyx to a halt before her. He is oddly rigid at my back, an atypical stiffness emanating from him as he dismounts, then helps me from the saddle. Behind us, I hear the sound of the other men doing the same, their boots thudding against the flagstones, but I do not look at them. I am busy brushing road dust from my cloak, running quick fingers through my tangled locks. I cannot say I have ever dreamed of being presented to a queen, but if I had, I likely would have envisioned doing so with the benefit of a recent bath.

Penn keeps one hand at the small of my back as he leads me straight to her. His sister . It is jarring to see the two of them together. I know they must be of similar years, yet their appearances could not be more contrary—one ravaged by time, the other untouched by it.

Penn bows at the waist. He puts slight pressure on my spine, and I drop quickly into an awkward curtsy. Considering I’ve never attempted one before, I don’t think I do too badly. Not until I rise again and find the queen and her posse smirking at me like I am a bear trained to walk upright in the traveling circus.

“Pendefyre. You’ve returned to us.”

Her purr is for him, but her eyes never leave me. They are the same gray shade as Uther’s but hold none of his steady warmth; hers are void of anything resembling welcome. Wrinkles feather the skin around them. Not the lines of laughter, but of one who’s spent most of her time on this earth with her features fixed in a discontented sneer.

“Sister.” Penn’s voice is carefully bland. “Thank you for greeting us. There was no need for it.” His pause is artful. “Truly.”

“How could I let my beloved brother return home after so long away without a proper reception?” She finally looks at him. Her lip curls in distaste. “Though, had I known you would be bringing half the filth from the Range Road with you, I might’ve had the servants roll out drop cloths first.”

“By all means, head back inside, Vanora. I’d hate for someone of your advanced years to risk catching a chill.”

The gathered courtiers titter, a ripple of unease moving through the crowd at the unmistakable insult. The queen’s stare hardens, gray eyes turning to unflinching stone in her age-lined face.

She was beautiful once. Exquisite, even. You can still see it—a faded imprint of beauty that lingers beneath the burden of a century on this earth. Just as clearly, you can see that she has not weathered the loss with grace. Her vanity has bloomed into bitterness as seasons turn and her petals wilt, then wither away completely.

It is no wonder she can scarcely stand to look at her brother. Penn, the picture of youth and vitality. Penn, standing tall and broad-shouldered and very nearly immortal. Her resentment hangs thicker than the mist in the air.

“Your concern for my health is noted, brother. I must say, I was surprised when I received word of your arrival back in the Northlands. We were not expecting you until the spring thaw. I’m afraid the servants have had little time to prepare your chambers.”

“I don’t mind a bit of dust.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. You were always most at home rolling around in the sparring pits.”

“Better the sparring pits than the viper’s den you call a court,” Penn mutters.

“Mmm.” Her lips twist in a humorless smile as she looks behind us to the Ember Guild, who’ve formed a line at our backs. My knees almost give way when her granite gaze shifts to me once more. “Pray tell, who is this you’ve brought with you? A new kitchen girl? I’m afraid our staff is quite full, but perhaps I can find her a position in the stables. They’re always in need of another set of hands to muck the stalls.”

Penn goes very still.

“I do hope she’s not another one of your whores,” Queen Vanora continues. “The last one made such a spectacle of herself when you grew tired of her charms. Such weeping . Even my hounds don’t make such noise when they expel a litter of pups.”

My cheeks flame as every set of eyes in the courtyard lands on me with keen interest. My mouth is so parched, even if I were able to think of a coherent response, it would not make it past my lips.

“This woman is my guest,” Penn says with finality. “I expect her to be treated with all the respect that affords. Even from you, dear sister.”

The queen’s kohl-penciled brows arch. “You would command me in my own palace?”

Penn leans in a few inches, trapping her gaze with his. “You may sit on that throne, Vanora, but we both know it is only by my continued grace that you do so. I am the Remnant of Fire. My birthright outweighs all your overinflated self-perceptions. If I were to pluck the crown from your head, there is not one soul in Dyved who would move to stop me.”

Vanora visibly quails.

Penn’s hand reaches out and grasps mine, fingers intertwining in a bone-grinding grip. His voice lifts to address the entire courtyard, servants and courtiers alike, a commanding ring that reverberates across the flagstones.

“Our household now has the distinct honor of hosting not one but two Remnants beneath its roof. Let me be the first to formally introduce you to the long-awaited Remnant of Air, Weaver of Wind, and, until I see fit, our honored guest.”

A collective gasp explodes from the courtiers. I imagine their faces are a tableau of shock and surprise, but I have no chance to see for myself. Penn drags me by the hand, sidestepping his sister and cutting a path through her stunned-silent posse, straight through the open doors of the inner sanctum. I hear the sound of boots close behind us and know Jac, Mabon, Uther, Cadogan, and Gower follow.

We pass through a majestic ballroom with soaring ceilings too fast to properly see any of the details, then rush up a grand staircase of stone that diverges into three at a landing. Penn takes the right bend without hesitation.

When I trip on my skirts, he does not even pause. Grabbing me around the waist, he hauls me upright and carries me the rest of the way.

“Would you stop ?” I cry, scrambling for purchase on the stone steps, feet windmilling the air uselessly. “Put me down! I can walk!”

Penn grunts as I land a kick to his shin.

He does not stop.

Up, up, up we climb, a seemingly endless stretch of steps. They steepen sharply, then narrow and begin to spiral round and round. We must be inside one of the turrets. The walls are circular, the windows water beaded. Though I would never admit as much to him, I’m grateful for Penn’s strong arms supporting me. It is a long climb, and after three straight days in the saddle, I am bone weary.

I don’t realize we’ve lost our guard detail until we finally reach the top. Penn shoves open a thick wooden door, then deposits me over the threshold inside a spherical chamber. It is dusty from disuse but otherwise not at all unpleasant. There is a stately bed pushed up against one wall, a desk of dark wood centered before a large window, and a neglected wardrobe shoved into a corner beside several heavy chests. A fireplace scales the wall directly across from the bed, its mantel one massive slab of stone. Several bookshelves brim with thick tomes. Two tall weapon racks are set up near a screened-off bathing area, fully stocked with lethal-looking blades of all shapes and sizes. Despite the dust motes, they shine like they were sharpened hours ago.

The room is not overlarge—perhaps twenty paces across in any direction. The windows at the front overlook the entirety of Caeldera, while those on the far side are misted with water. The back of the tower is built into the cliff side, natural stone forming the wall instead of slab and mortar.

“Is this your bedroom?”

Penn nods.

“When were you last here?”

“Six—no, seven months.”

“So long away from home.”

He pauses a beat. “This has not been my home for a long time.”

I stare across the room at him. He is standing by the window, looking down at his city. From here, the lake is a teal jewel winking in the late-afternoon sunshine. The boats gliding across its surface look like bugs on a water bowl.

“How long did you spend with King Eld’s army?”

“The better part of a decade.” He runs his hand through his thick hair. “Before that, I was with the king whom Eld eventually usurped. And another before him, in a territory farther south.”

I’m shocked by this. So shocked, I cannot stop myself from blurting, “ Why? ”

He glances at me, brows raised. “Even with my abilities, it took time to work my way up to a high-ranking position. Glamours and mind tricks only go so far.”

“No, I mean why do it at all? Why stay there? What was the purpose?”

“Do you truly not know?”

My breath catches. Surely he does not mean…

“I have been looking for you for a long time,” he murmurs, watching me carefully. “I have lost track of the years. Of the men I have commanded. Of the enemies I have killed. I cannot begin to count the number of halfling executions I oversaw in my role as Commander Scythe.”

The blood drains from my face. “You…”

“I could not save them. Not all of them. The mortals’ fervor for killing is too strong, the appetite for violence too insatiable. Most times, the best I could do was to offer a clean death. To hold off the more hideous inclinations of the hunting parties.” His stare turns hard. “You thought I was monstrous before? You have no idea how much blood stains my skin. How many piles of fae ash I have scattered to the skies. How many lives I have snuffed out, incapable of lifting a hand to stop it.”

No wonder he had not an ounce of gentleness in him when we met. It had been stripped away by the horrors of war. I think suddenly of Farley’s words, back in the Cimmerians.

Can’t really blame him for nursing a grouchy disposition, after spending all that time in the Midlands…It’s going to take him some time to adjust to normal life again…

Did one ever truly adjust after life in a war zone?

Did one ever return to normal?

My tongue sits lamely in my mouth, refusing to form words.

Penn does not seem to require a response. His eyes have gone unfocused; his voice has softened to a whisper I am not sure I’m meant to hear. His thoughts are far away—in the blood-drenched horrors of his past.

“So much death. So much despair. It was endless. Year after year. Hanging after hanging. Pyre after pyre. I had begun to lose all hope of ever finding another Remnant. But then…then, finally …Word of a halfling. A girl, captured near the Red Chasm. A strange little slip of a thing with silver eyes and the devil’s mark, who’d somehow seared the flesh from a man’s hand without lifting a finger.”

“Me,” I whisper.

His eyes refocus on my face. “You.”

The air goes static. Electric. Like the sky before a lightning strike. I am afraid to look at him and somehow equally afraid to look away. I force myself to turn, fixing my eyes on the natural wall at the back of the chamber. I run my hands over the rough surface. It, like the rest of the cliffs, is dark, almost black in color, and veined with deep red. I have never seen anything like it.

“What kind of rock is this?”

“It’s not rock. It’s petrified ash.”

“Ash?”

“Caeldera is built inside the crater of a long-dormant volcano. Those walls, like most of the cliffs here, are hardened lava flows.”

“We are inside a volcano,” I breathe. “Right now.”

“A dormant one, yes.”

My eyes are round as a barn owl’s. “How long has it been dormant?”

“Longer than living memory tells. A millennium or more. The city was built by my ancestors’ ancestors, during the time of the empire. The Fire Court. One of Anwyvn’s four maegical strongholds.”

“And the others?”

“Two were destroyed after the uprising—their temples sacked by culling priests, their palaces looted by invading armies.” He pauses. “The Water Court remains. Soren holds it still.”

“Hylios?”

He nods. “Soren and I may not be friends, but Dyved and Ll?r are allies in war. Whatever our personal issues, we stand united against the grasping Midland kings…and the darker dangers brewing in the Southlands.”

“The red army?”

“Yes. Efnysien’s army.”

“You and Soren both speak of him—Efnysien—like he is the worst sort of evil.”

“Because he is.”

“But who is he?”

“Once, Soren called him family. A tie of marriage, not blood, made them brothers. But jealousy left to fester can reduce even the bonds of kinship to a bitter feud. Eventually, Efnysien was banished from Soren’s court. From all of Ll?r.”

“What did he do to warrant such extremes?”

“To this day, I do not know all the details. Even if I did…it is not my story to tell, but Soren’s.” He sighs. “All you truly need to know about Efnysien is that he is an enemy—not merely to his former family, but to all fae.”

“Like the Reavers.”

He shakes his head. “No. The Reavers hate fae for possessing maegic, which they see as unnatural. Prejudice has soured into poison. Efnysien…He hates us not because we possess maegic, but because he himself does not. Jealousy and ego are at the heart of his crusade. He covets fae abilities and has spent a lifetime searching for ways to acquire power that will outmatch his brother-in-law’s.”

“Are there such ways?”

“Dark ones, yes. Ancient druidic arts of blood and sacrifice, from the time before the empire. Where he discovered them, whom he learned from…I do not know. I do not wish to know. But it is a vile practice—a perversion of all moral codes, both mortal and fae.” His brows furrow in deep thought. “To steal maegic is akin to ripping a soul in two, tearing away the vital essence of one’s very being. Efnysien has no scruples. He drains power from any source he can find. Any halfling he can find.”

“But halflings are powerless.”

“Most. Some are born with minute traces. Like a few drops at the bottom of an otherwise empty cup. Efnysien finds those drops and uses them to fill his own vessel. It does not matter that he himself was born empty, so long as he gorges himself on the gifts of others. Shoring himself up by brute force, a vile conglomeration of countless blood sacrifices.”

“And he—” My voice is halting. “He can wield maegic?”

“Not natural maegic. Not elemental. It is something…darker. Distorted. It has given him an unnaturally long life—one he has used to build a dark kingdom of his own. Dymmeria.”

I remember Dymmeria from Eli’s old maps. A vast territory of desert at the southeastern tip of Anwyvn, isolated from the rest of the continent by a wasteland of sand and shadow. I know nothing else about it, save what my mentor told me—namely, that any halfling in the Southlands is better off dead than captured. Based on what Penn is describing, I cannot say Eli was misguided. To tear apart a soul is an evil I can scarcely contemplate. Even the mortal Midland kings, in all their endless war and senseless slaughter, are not half so horrific.

My quick-churning mind strikes upon a thought that makes my throat clog with panic.

“What?” Penn asks, taking a sudden step toward me. Reading the terror plainly on my face. “What is it?”

“If he hunts halflings for mere traces of power…what would happen if he got his hands on a Remnant?”

Penn’s eyes are hard, as is his voice. “We are never going to find out.”

“But he—his men, they saw me on the bridge.” I shake my head, thoughts spiraling faster than I can sort them out. “They know what I can do and you said—oh, gods , you said it yourself, you said it to Soren! They’ll come for me. He’ll come for me—”

“Rhya.”

My eyes snap to his face. It is the first time he’s ever said my name, and hearing him say it makes my heart, which is already pounding, stumble inside my chest.

“You are safe here,” he says with uncharacteristic gentleness. “You are safe with me.”

“But…”

“Even if they made it through the Avian Strait—which they will not, not while Soren of Ll?r still breathes—they will never make it here. The whole city is warded. No one will breach Caeldera. Not even Efnysien’s red army.”

My brows rise. “Warded?”

“Wards. Protective shields that rebuff unwelcome guests, like an invisible net of deterrence. They surround the entire city. Those with ill intent are kept at bay.”

“How? Is it a maegic spell of some kind? An enchantment?”

“No. I’m no sorcerer, I assure you.”

He walks to me and lays a hand on the wall beside mine. The veins in the black ash begin to glow bloodred, responding to his touch. I snatch back my palm when the heat grows too intense. He drops his as well, and the flare instantly fades from the dark stone.

“The petrified lava that flows throughout the city walls is imbued with natural energy. That energy can be tapped. Infused, rather. Like a conduit or a crystal, absorbing a charge.”

“You provide the charge?”

“Yes. A pulse of my power once or twice a year is enough to reinforce the natural defenses that shield Caeldera. Like a magnetic force field, it attracts positive energy and repels anything that poses a threat.” He shrugs lightly. “It also heats the whole crater during the cold months. That’s why everything here is so lush and green, even in the heart of winter. And why the castle is so warm, even up here in the tower.”

I think of my paltry air shield, offering a friable bubble of protection, and almost laugh aloud. I’d been proud I could defend a handful of paces of earth. How absurd it feels now, hearing Penn so casually describe the net of safety he casts over an entire city. The scale of his power is so immense in comparison, I find myself looking at him with fresh eyes.

Who is this man, standing before me?

This stranger who was once my enemy, this enemy who became a protector. A man with a scarred past and an inferno in his bones. For all our time together, I still do not know him. I have scarcely scratched the surface of all he’s endured in his extended lifetime. But…a part of me wants to. Wants to with a desperation that will not relent.

That wanting shakes me to the core. My newfound curiosity is at war with every instinct of self-preservation, which screams at me to run from his blazing complexities as quickly as I fled the fires of Seahaven.

“Come,” Penn says, calling me back to the present. “I’ll show you to your sleeping quarters.”

“Am I not…” I glance around, fighting a blush as my eyes skate past the bed. “I thought I was staying here.”

With you.

By your side.

Where it’s safe.

“In a way, you are.” He leads me across the round chamber. Near the wardrobe, there is a ladder bolted to the wall, leading up into the lofted ceiling rafters that divide Penn’s room from the pointed spire that sits at the very top of the tower.

“Go on, then.” He jerks his chin at the ladder. “Up you go.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.”

“Is there even space up there for someone to stand?”

“Only one way to find out.” He gives me a push, his hand at the small of my back. “I don’t have time to stand here arguing with you about your sleeping arrangements. I have some matters to attend to—pressing ones. I’ll be back in a few hours to bring you to dinner. In the meantime, do not leave the tower. There are eyes everywhere in this palace.”

“Your sister’s spies?”

“Spies, courtiers. Call them what you like. Her glittering posse loves nothing more than gossip, and your arrival has stirred up a storm of it. They will be eager to corner you alone. Try not to give them an opportunity.” He pauses, lips twitching up at one side. “Though it might be amusing to see you go up against them. A fledgling owl loosed among a pride of preening peacocks.”

At that, he turns and leaves me alone. I wait until the door closes behind him before I heave a sigh and climb up the ladder, into the spire.