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Chapter Twenty-eight

The days preceding Fyremas slip through my fingers faster than I can find my grasp. I spend mornings at practice in the cavern, calling forth my power, then driving it back with my mental air shields over and over again, until it is, if not second nature, at least slightly easier to keep the wind from spilling out unbidden.

This I do entirely alone. Penn doesn’t accompany me again—not to the cave, nor anywhere else. I see even less of him than I did before Carys gave birth. He goes out of his way to avoid me, holding me at arm’s length with a front of chill civility whenever our paths inevitably cross. He leaves quickly if we find ourselves in the same room, excuses himself from conversations with his men that include me, and never returns to the tower until he’s certain I’m already asleep.

It is probably for the best—or so I tell myself to cover the deep hurt his renewed indifference causes. I cannot afford to lean on him. This power is a burden I must learn to shoulder on my own.

I have never been so glad to have Soren’s book as a guide. There are chapters discussing the many nuances of maegic each Remnant can wield—from water currents to fireballs—but I stick to the simpler sections, which detail the fundamentals of self-mastery.

Wind weavers especially should focus on breath work. The air in one’s lungs is, after all, the very source of your power , the book tells me in one chapter.

Avoid enclosed spaces at all costs , it suggests in another. Confinement will severely limit even the most proficient sky sylph.

Be wary of mood swings , it warns finally. A wind weaver is prone to abrupt changes in temperament, much like sudden tempests. They can appear from nowhere and overwhelm if one does not guard against them.

Below this, Soren had written, Remind me not to get on your bad side, skylark.

After my first few solo power-summoning sessions, I leave the cavern on legs so shaky they scarcely last the climb back to the tower before giving out. But beneath my exhaustion is a newfound solace. For each time I successfully quiet my inner storms, I grow more confident in my abilities. I dare to hope that, someday, I might actually get a chance at a normal life. Not as the Remnant of Air, but as me. Rhya. For with my power locked deep within, I will no longer be a danger to those around me. I will no longer have to live in fear of what I might be capable of or whom I might hurt. I can simply…

Live.

Afternoons pass by in a blur of visits to Carys, Uther, and their new son. They’ve named him Nevin—their little saint—and the joy that suffuses the air of their apartments is strong enough to make my eyes sting with tears. I am not the only one who gravitates toward it. More often than not, a handful of Ember Guild members are there when I arrive, seated around the sturdy kitchen table discussing strategy in low tones so as not to wake the babe, or demonstrating swordplay techniques with fallen branches from the slender birch tree in the courtyard below, their blows no more than soft clicks of bark. I watch these displays of unexpected consideration with ill-concealed amusement as I tend the fledgling garden I’ve planted, trying not to laugh as Cadogan and Mabon’s sparring match dissolves into an argument conducted entirely with vulgar hand gestures.

When she will let me—which is seldom, for she is quite reluctant to relinquish her son for more than a few moments at a time—I help Carys with Nevin. She has bounced back to full energy with remarkable speed and seems a tireless blur of activity despite my gentle rebukes to rest, my urging to recover her full strength. She is impatient to reclaim her dressmaking work, picking up the threads she was forced to set aside during the final stretch of her pregnancy.

As she checks the intricate stitching of my Fyremas dress for the hundredth time during Nevin’s afternoon nap, I remind her that she has more important stitches to worry about—my own handiwork needs time to heal. But she merely waves away my words with a flippant remark.

“I’m a seamstress, dear friend. I know stitches. I should think I can manage to remove a few when the time comes…”

The shadows beneath her and Uther’s eyes tell me their son’s strong lungs are keeping them awake at night, but neither of them ever complains. Nevin is a long-awaited miracle. Their love for him burns bright, evident in the soft brush of their lips on his wrinkled forehead, in the gentleness of their fingers adjusting his blankets or rocking his cradle. I have never seen such undisguised affection before. Such unconditional devotion.

I catch myself watching them with a mix of fascination and deep longing that evening, the night before the festival. Wondering how any parent could feel such things for their child and still choose to abandon her; how any parent could wrap their newborn in a basket and leave her at the edge of the world, an offering for unknown gods.

I think I do a good job of keeping these thoughts clear of my expression as I examine the trio from beneath my lashes. But there is no hiding from Penn. I do not have to turn to see him seated by the wall, his tall form half in shadow, engaged in a hushed discussion with Farley and Cadogan. I can feel him there with sharp clarity, like he is touching me; as though he has reached across the length of the room and run a finger down my spine, setting every nerve ending aflame.

I can hardly focus on the twyllo cards in my hand, let alone recall the wagering rules Jac and Mabon are attempting to teach me. Eventually, the sensation grows so heightened, I can no longer withstand it. Throwing down my hand, I jolt to my feet, an abrupt move that draws more attention than I want. Every set of eyes snaps to me at once.

“Rhya, love, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I assure Carys. “Just a bit tired. I’m going to head back to the palace early and get a good night of rest before tomorrow’s festivities.” I look at Jac, who is frozen with his mug halfway to his mouth. His blue eyes are wide. “Will you walk me back?”

He glances fleetingly into the shadows where Penn sits before pushing to his feet. His mug hits the table with a low thunk. “Sure, Ace. Happy to escort you.”

I grab my cloak from its hook by the door and whip it around my shoulders. My fingers fumble on the neck clasp, trembling under the weight of several intent sets of eyes, but eventually I manage to get it fastened.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Concern feathers across Carys’s features as she crosses toward me. “We’ve got plenty to spare.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Before she can say another word, I cast a sweeping glance around the room, too quickly to lock eyes with anyone in particular. “Good night, everyone.”

I bolt out of the apartment and practically run down the narrow staircase into the darkened dress shop, not pausing to wait for Jac until I hit the street. I lean against a lamppost, breathing hard. After a few moments, the front door swings open with a chime of bells at my back.

“I thought you’d be halfway to the palace by now, you ran out so fast.”

Gods damn it.

My eyes press closed at the voice—a deep rasp that belongs not to the man I expected, but to the one I am trying so desperately to escape. I take a steadying breath before I turn to face Penn. Our gazes snag instantly. I have no earthly idea what to say to him. Where he is concerned, my thoughts have never felt so murky.

“Carys said you’d be needing this.” He gestures to the flat white box tucked under his arm. A shiny gold ribbon ties its lid.

“My Fyremas gown,” I murmur. I’d been in such a rush out the door, I forgot to grab the parcel Carys so lovingly prepared. “Thanks,” I tack on belatedly, reaching out for it. My hands shake visibly.

“I’ll carry it back for you.”

“You?” My brows knit. “I thought Jac was to escort me.”

“Jac is well into his third ale. He’s not escorting anyone anywhere. I’ll walk with you.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m sure Mabon or Cadogan—”

“I’m heading back now, anyway.” His dark brows lift nearly to his hairline. “Unless there’s some reason you find my company objectionable.”

“None at all,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Lead the way, then.”

I promptly begin marching down High Street. Penn falls into step beside me, matching my determined pace in easy strides. He is annoyingly long-legged. I scowl as I turn onto King’s Avenue. Though it becomes difficult to hold on to any real sense of anger as the lively atmosphere of the city pulls me firmly into its embrace.

All around, the streets throb with life. It is the dinner hour, typically a quiet time, but tonight, instead of gathering around their tables, Caelderans fill their front walks, chatting animatedly as they ready their homes for the following day’s festivities. Stoops are swept clean, doorsteps decorated. Wreaths are hung on windows. Garlands of holly and juniper wind their way up railings. The banner of Dyved flies from lampposts and awnings, the flaming mountain waving proudly in the breeze. Overnight, large metal barrels have appeared on every corner, each stacked high with kindling in preparation for the fires that will burn from dusk until dawn.

As we pass by, many set aside their tasks to wave in greeting, warm voices calling out to their prince. When they spot me at his side, several of them make a familiar one-handed gesture in the air—two fingers traveling in the shape of a diamond.

“What does it mean?” I ask Penn, forgetting my plans to ignore his existence all the way back to the keep. “The hand sign they make when we pass?”

“That is the sigil of the sacred tetrad. An honorary greeting of respect shown to the Remnants.”

“They aren’t cursing me, then?”

He scoffs as we pass the guard detail stationed at the foot of the bridge. “Quite the opposite. They see you as a blessing.”

My stride falters, a tiny stumble of surprise.

Penn does not fail to notice my misstep. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe these people might welcome your presence here? That they would embrace you with open arms?”

“Past experience,” I retort defensively. “When you’ve spent your life being hunted, the urge to bolt first, ask questions later, is not so much a choice as a deeply ingrained instinct.”

He is quiet for a moment, absorbing this. We are about a quarter of the way across the bridge now. The palace looms before us, spearing upward into the mist. A row of fishermen trail lures across the lake’s placid surface, their buckets of bait wafting like odoriferous cologne. Penn waits until we’ve left them well behind before he speaks again.

“You can try to hold the world at arm’s length, but it’s no use, Rhya. Like it or not, in the short time you’ve been here, you have already drawn a tight circle around yourself.”

My shoulders tense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Carys considers you a godsend after your help with the birth. Uther has vowed everlasting allegiance on behalf of his son. Farley owes you his ability to walk. All my men—Jac, Mabon, Cadogan, any of them—would lay down their lives for you without question. And I—” He breaks off abruptly, teeth clicking together.

“You what ?” I ask, drawing to a sharp halt.

He stops as well but does not look at me. His gaze remains trained out toward the lake, where a young couple in a rowboat is floating between the lily pads, laughing as they fight for control of the oars. He seems the picture of composure—except for the muscle in his jaw, which ticks with telltale rhythmic tension.

“What is it you feel for me, Penn?” I ask on a tremulous whisper. “I thought I knew. Or that I was beginning to, at the very least. I thought, after what happened in the Forsaken Forest—”

He tenses at the reminder.

“—that I had some inkling of what we mean to each other,” I continue doggedly. “But since we returned here, everything is different. You are different.”

“Oh? And how am I different ?” His tone is sharp. “I am the same man you’ve known since Eastwood.”

“That’s not true, and you know it!” Color fills my cheeks. Is he really going to make me say it aloud? “These days, you treat me like…like I am some sort of plague-infected scourge, best avoided!”

“Ah yes,” he snarls softly. “That’s precisely why I volunteered to walk you home.”

“Don’t be snide.” I narrow my gaze. “You say I hold everyone here at arm’s length? What is it that you do? Because, to my eyes, you are no better at letting anyone in than I am. In fact, you’re worse. You keep an impenetrable shield around you, effective as the wards that surround your city. The minute anyone dares get close, you back away.”

“I did not realize I was the subject of such intense study. Please, by all means, continue your assessment of my many flaws. I’m truly fascinated.”

I stiffen at his biting sarcasm. I can feel his anger, his exasperation, palpable in the air between us. Thrumming through the bond, spilling over from him to me. It is a testament to how riled he is—usually, he’s better at blocking me. My own frustration is a wild beast within, frothing and clawing for release after days of biting my tongue.

“I thought things had changed,” I say bluntly. “I thought—but it does not matter what I thought. Clearly, I was wrong. We do not mean anything to each other. We are not”—I search for the right word to describe us, but there is none in the common tongue that can encompass our complexities—“ friends ,” I finish, faltering on the word. “We never were. We are no different from the two strangers whose worlds collided beneath a hanging tree in a Midlands mire. What a fool I was to expect anything else.”

He stares away from me, expression empty. If I expect him to contradict my words, I am in for disappointment. My stomach is a ball of lead as I reach out and snatch the ribboned box from his arms. He does not resist. His hands fall down to hang at his sides, curling instantly into fists.

“You told me so yourself, the other day in the cavern. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. Emotions are a liability. Separate yourself from them. ” I grip the box so hard, it threatens to cave in. “Thank you for the demonstration. It is a lesson I won’t forget.”

I turn to go but only make it a few steps before his pain-laced whisper halts me in my tracks.

“Rhya.”

There is a war going on in his voice—and on his face as well, I see when I glance back at him. Emotions move through his eyes too quickly to properly decipher them. Rage and regret and resignation and something else, something so tormented it scares me.

“What, Penn?” I ask, voice thick. Tears are impending. I have no desire to be here with him when they break free. “What is it you want to say to me?”

His pause is tense as his posture. “You know my past. You know…The last time I cared for someone…The way things ended…”

Enid.

He’s talking about Enid.

I suck in a sharp breath.

“Don’t you understand?” A ragged note enters his voice. His eyes burn with flames as they hold mine. “I cannot do that again. I will not do that again. Not now. Not ever.”

And there it is.

Finally.

The truth.

Whatever fleeting attraction he feels for me, he will not allow himself to explore it. His avoidance since our return to the capital is suddenly so painfully clear, so devastatingly transparent.

The distance he’s been keeping from me since the kiss?

His way of reestablishing control.

The new wall between us, impossible to scale?

His method of reclaiming any forfeit autonomy.

He deals with his attraction to me by blocking it out entirely. By pretending it does not exist at all. That I do not exist at all.

I might laugh if I weren’t on the brink of tears. Because the true ache of it is, I do understand. I understand all too well. He would rather push aside any possibility of love than pursue something that could put his power into a dangerous tailspin. He would rather act like we are nothing to each other than expose himself to more hurt, more pain. To another lapse of his rigid self-restraint—a lapse like the one he endured seventy years ago. A lapse that claimed the life of the woman he loved.

His need for control is stronger than anything he feels for me. We are—and always will be—a risk he is unwilling to take.

Gods, but that hurts.

It cuts me open, flays me to the bone.

“If you want to pretend that nothing happened between us, that’s what we’ll do,” I lie, heart hammering. “I’m happy to bury it. More than happy. Consider it dead.”

His jaw is so tight, I’m surprised his teeth don’t shatter. “Fine by me.”

Another lance of pain skewers my heart. Surely, I am bleeding inwardly by now?

“Thank you so very much for the escort, Prince Pendefyre,” I say with the icy politeness I usually reserve for Vanora and her courtiers. “I’ll manage on my own the rest of the way. Have a pleasant evening.”

With that, I pivot on a heel as I stalk away, feeling a bit more miserable with every step he fails to stop me. I’m lucky it is a straight path across the bridge, for the tears that stream from my eyes come with such speed, it’s impossible to see where I’m going.

“Oh, Lady Rhya!” Teagan exclaims. “You look just lovely.”

In the mirror, a fair-haired stranger stares back at me. Weeks ago, I had gazed upon my own reflection and found a half-starved halfling with shadowed eyes, scarred wrists, and a broken spirit gazing back. The woman I see now is just as unfamiliar, yet no less shocking to the senses.

The benefit of steady meals and regular sleep cannot be denied. There is color in my cheeks and flesh on my bones. Some of my curves, stripped away during those long months on the run, have been restored to their former abundance. The gown hugs my frame and makes the best of my figure, plunging low at the bodice and cinching tight at the waist. Made of a pale gold silk, it shimmers in the sunbeams streaming through the tower windows.

Carys originally crafted it for a winter ball last Yulemas, but her customer had fallen ill on the eve of the event and so it sat, untouched, in her stockroom for more than a year. Despite its gilded luster, the design is rather simple at first glance—no frills or feathers to distract from its elegant lines or from my Remnant. But the back is spectacular. My spine is bare from nape to small. In lieu of simple sleeves, Carys has webbed panels of fabric together in a sinuous pattern that sculpts from the blades of my shoulders outward along the span of my arms.

Wings.

When I move, I look ready to leap into the skies. Each step lends the feeling of flight. I feel like a magnificent bird, a rare creature of the aether—an illusion only enhanced by the gold diadem that circles my forehead and dips down toward the bridge of my nose in a beaklike point. At the very center of the circlet, a stunning amber-hued gemstone gleams each time it catches the light. It is my only adornment—a gift I’d discovered this morning, tucked in the depths of the dress box along with a note.

Rhya,

There are not jewels enough in all the mines of Dyved to adequately convey our gratitude. Please, wear this with our love. Happy Fyremas—your first of many to come.

Uther, Carys, and Nevin

The weight of the diadem sits heavy on my forehead, setting off a warm glow in my bones each time I catch sight of it in the mirror. My hair, braided and pinned into a hundred intricate coils, shines like platinum. My eyes are rimmed with kohl, my lips stained pink, my skin dusted with pearlescent powder. I scarcely recognize myself. It takes effort not to reach out and touch the mirrored glass, to ensure the reflection is real.

“Carys outdid herself,” Keda says with only the smallest note of smugness. “Can you imagine if we’d let the royal dressmakers have their way?”

All three of us look in unison to the corner of the room, where the ruffled monstrosity Vanora’s henchman delivered this morning peeks out from the top of its parcel. My maids had not exaggerated—it is every bit as awful as they’d described. A swallowing sea of ruffles in a repugnant shade of sulfur.

“Her Royal Majesty is in for quite a shock when she sees you,” Keda says, adjusting one of the hairpins at the back of my head.

“She won’t be the only one,” Teagan adds, smiling. “I’ll bet His Royal Highness will scarcely be able to keep his eyes off you.”

I nearly snort, catching myself at the last moment. If only she knew just how misguided her predictions are. After last night’s argument on the bridge, I think it more likely Penn will never look my way again for the rest of our immortal lives.

“Is your primping finally finished?” I ask. “I’d love to go wander the streets a bit before the ceremony, or maybe even pay Carys a visit to show off her handiwork.”

“There’s no time for that, I’m afraid. It’s nearly dusk. The ceremony is set to begin soon. Besides, there’ll be plenty of time for you to join in the revelry after it’s over.”

I sigh and cross to the balcony, where I can watch the celebrations from afar. Technically, Fyremas does not begin until nightfall—kicking off with Penn’s recharging of the wards, followed by a formal banquet in the Great Hall and, much later, a ball that lasts until daybreak. People will dance the night away, ushering in the spring with a celebration of life and rebirth, pausing only long enough to watch the midnight fireworks over the lake. Tonight, the palace gates are open to all Caelderans, a rare invitation for common folk to mingle with the most elite of Vanora’s courtiers—though why they would voluntarily seek out such snobbish company remains a mystery to me.

Down in the city, the merriment began long ago. From my lofty vantage, I can see the throngs of people already congesting the cobbled avenues. I cannot hear their joy over the roar of the falls, but I imagine the air is thick with laughter, music, and chatter as food and drink flow freely. I would give much to be down there with them, rather than put on display as part of the royal spectacle.

“Almost time now.” Keda looks toward the door, as though expecting a fist to knock upon it. “I’m sure Prince Pendefyre plans to personally escort you there…”

“Mmm,” I hum doubtfully.

I haven’t seen him since the bridge. He did not return until long after I retired to the spire last night, and it was barely daybreak when I heard him storm out again this morning, rattling the tower door on its hinges when he went. Our lingering animosity is the one sour note in my gathering excitement. It casts an undeniable pall over the coming evening.

Skies, everything was so much simpler when we were at each other’s throats instead of under each other’s skin…

As the time to depart grows ever nearer, my maids grow more and more dismayed. Keda is folding bedsheets to keep from wringing her hands. Teagan is chewing her bottom lip as she brushes nonexistent dust from the surface of Penn’s desk. Both jump several inches off the ground when, at last, a fist raps against the wood.

“That’ll be His Highness now!” Keda calls, racing for the doorway.

I do not have the heart to dash her hopes. The bond tells me plainly: whoever has come to accompany me to Fyremas, it is not Prince Pendefyre. He is far away, in a distant part of the keep, layers of stone and slate separating us. Even knowing this, I am still somewhat crestfallen to see Jac and Cadogan standing at the threshold, clad in a fancier version of their Ember Guild uniforms—maroon doublets edged in gold thread, dark suede breeches, and shiny leather boots to the knee. Embroidered black sashes slant across their muscular chests, the sigil of Dyved stitched directly over their hearts.

Sauntering into the tower without waiting for an invitation, they both stop in their tracks when they catch sight of me standing on the balcony. Cadogan seems stunned silent. The apple of his throat works rapidly, bobbing as he swallows. Jac only manages one word, muttered through clenched teeth.

“ Gods. ”

I look down at myself. “What? Do I look ridiculous? Wait, don’t answer that. It’s too late to change now. Besides, Carys made this dress for me. She’ll be insulted if I don’t wear it.”

The men glance at each other.

“He’s going to regret giving us guard duty,” Jac says lowly.

“Immensely,” Cadogan agrees.

“I’ll wager twenty crowns he actually shows his face at the ball this year.”

“Easy money.”

“You’re on.”

“Um. Excuse me?” I clear my throat to interrupt their strange aside. “Would either of you care to explain what you’re talking about?”

“No,” they say in harmony, finally looking back at me.

Cadogan avoids my eyes. I swear, he is almost blushing. Jac, on the other hand, shows no such modesty. A slow smile spreads across his face as his gaze sweeps me head to toe, lingering in places that make my stomach flutter.

“You look good enough to eat, Ace.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not saying much. I’ve sat beside you at dinner. Is there anything you won’t eat?”

“We should get going,” Cadogan interrupts. “It’s a long walk to the throne room. Are you ready?”

“She’s ready,” Teagan says, giving me a tiny shove toward my escorts.

“She’s perfect ,” Keda proclaims.

I allow the women to usher me toward the door. But when we reach the threshold, I pause and tug them both into brief hugs, whispering words of thanks into their ears.

“Och! Off with you now!” Teagan scolds, pushing me away. “I’ll not be blamed for your tardiness.” Despite her harsh words, I notice she’s blinking a bit too rapidly, as though holding tears at bay.

Keda merely winks merrily at me and whispers, “Have some fun, Lady Rhya.”

“You, too,” I order, squeezing her hands tightly. I glance at Teagan. “Both of you. You deserve to enjoy the festivities, after all you did to prepare the palace for them. Go dance in the streets. Eat something delicious. Drink a bit too much spiced wine. Seduce a handsome stranger. I expect to hear all about it tomorrow!”

They wave me off, into the care of Jac and Cadogan—one set of nursemaids swapped for another. Cadogan is mostly silent as we descend from the tower, an endless downward spiral, but Jac keeps up a steady stream of mindless chatter about the jousting tourney he’d competed in at the festival grounds erected just outside the city limits. Today, he’d been unseated by a burly fellow named Smithy; tomorrow, he will have his revenge in the hand-to-hand combat arena, gods willing.

I only half listen to him, using most of my focus to keep from tripping on my long train. The gold gown has far more fabric than the simple day dresses I’ve grown accustomed to wearing.

We reach ground level, then pass through the grand ballroom and banquet hall. The palace is bursting with folks from near and far, all clad in their finest attire. I knew, of course, that Dyved was rich in gemstones—Vanora’s inner circle flashes them at every opportunity—but tonight, the display of wealth is staggering. Rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds. Men and women alike drip with them as they make their way toward the throne room at the back of the keep. My gown, glorious as it is, looks understated in comparison to the sea of silk-draped courtiers swanning around us.

We join the crush, three minnows carried on the current of opulence. It would be easy to be swallowed up in such a crowd. But Jac and Cadogan keep a firm buffer of space around me as we walk, prohibiting anyone from getting within three paces. There is no blocking the curious stares or pointed comments as people spot me in their midst, however.

“That’s her.”

“The new wind weaver.”

“Did you get a look at her eyes? Silver storm clouds!”

“I hear she and the prince are—”

I do my best to shut them out, to keep my gait steady and my chin high as we make for the impressive arched doors that grant entrance to the throne room. In all my wanderings of the palace grounds, I have never been here before. It is not often in use, except for formal matters of state or great celebrations. Located in the oldest part of the keep, it is more a cavern than an actual room, embedded deep in the bedrock behind the falls. Not so unlike the glyphed chamber where I have spent so many mornings at practice—except completely enclosed from the mist and utterly massive in scale.

The throne room is so large, in fact, I have difficulty making out the ceiling overhead. The jagged walls are the gloomy shade of petrified ash, full of crevices where the lava flows dried and hardened a millennium ago. With no windows to speak of, it would be pitch-dark inside if not for the trenches of fire that run along the perimeter, burning steadily. Stone columns, wide as the tree trunks at the heart of the Forsaken Forest, shoot upward toward the ceiling. At their bases, more fires burn in sharp-toothed metallic cages, the flames licking hungrily at the stone.

I would have liked to pause at the threshold to properly take in the grandeur of it all, but we are caught up in the crush, already moving down a set of stone steps. At the bottom, the crowd parts in two—diverting to either side of a central aisle that cuts directly between the stately columns. The room is already nearly at capacity; folks stand shoulder to shoulder all the way to the raised dais at the far side. Despite the vast numbers, it is mostly silent, only a low murmur of voices as spectators find places to stand, jostling for better viewing positions. I make to follow them, but instead, Jac and Cadogan steer me toward the aisle.

“Where—”

Jac cuts me off before I can get more than a single word out. “You get a prime seat at the front, Ace.”

I say no more as they lead me onward, aware that there are as many listening ears as watchful eyes trained in my direction. Cadogan and Jac flank me on either side, matching their strides to mine, their faces set in uncompromising masks, the broadswords strapped across their backs shining almost as brightly as the jewels adorning the crowd that surrounds us.

The atmosphere is rife with anticipation. The very air feels still, sacred, as though everyone is holding their breath. A full hush sweeps over the room in a wave as I make my way, one step at a time, down the aisle, deeper into the earth. I keep my expression clear, a mask of serenity concealing the chords of anxiety chiming in my bloodstream. It is more than being the center of so much attention; claustrophobia is rearing its ugly head, my natural aversion to being so far underground gripping me with sharp talons.

The stone walls are closing in, the heavy stone ceiling pressing down on my shoulders, flattening me toward the floor. Each step is an endeavor, each breath an enterprise. I taste soil in the air, inhaling the distinct flavor of confinement with every pump of my lungs. Visions of being buried alive, of opportunistic cyntroedi creeping and clacking and chewing at my bones, plague me.

I walk on.

The journey to the throne platform seems endless. The chill of the floor seeps into the thin soles of my gold slippers. I focus on the cold, envision it not as crushing stone, as confining earth, but as the crisp breeze of a winter evening, the icy kiss of the season’s first snow. I am not here, not entombed. I am in the air. In the sky. A bird in flight, the golden wings on my back stretching wide as I soar.

These imaginings help a bit. But self-delusion only goes so far. By the time I reach the aisle’s midpoint, my breaths are shallow, my skin clammy. I am teetering on the edge of a bottomless pit of panic, half-ready to turn and bolt from the room.

But then I feel it.

A jolt of warmth down the bond. A pulse of raw power, tugging me away from that dark edge.

Penn.

His presence cuts through the fog of panic in the interlude between two instants. I sense him with sudden clarity—as though he’s been shielding himself but, in that moment, allows the shields to fall away. He is here, just ahead, not far at all. The tether tightens around my heart, reeling me in, urging me forward. I latch on to it, allowing Penn’s reassuring strength to shore up my own flagging resolve.

My head lifts, eyes seeking him out, but he is nowhere to be found. At the end of the aisle, the crowd of courtiers to either side is replaced by two orderly rows of foot soldiers in starched brown uniforms. Standing at attention at the front of the brigade, a mountain of a man watches me approach through shrewd hazel eyes. The golden epaulettes at his shoulders give away his identity.

General Yale, who leads Dyved’s armies in the northern provinces.

He is younger than I’d envisioned when the men spoke of him—no more than a decade or so older than myself. But those years have not been entirely kind. His dark hair is streaked gray at the temples and a ridged red scar runs the length of his left cheek from temple to jaw.

He surveys me with detached interest as the distance dwindles between us, his emotions unreadable. I get the sense there is not much his golden eyes miss. I breathe easier when we pass out of his sight line.

Beyond the brigade of foot soldiers, twenty elite members of the Ember Guild line the throne platform, their maroon-and-gold uniforms identical to those worn by the men beside me. The dais itself is lofted several steps above the main floor. At its center is a heavy throne, crafted of the same dark metal that cages the fire at the base of each ceiling column. It is currently unoccupied. To its left side, one step down, on a smaller seat of similar craftsmanship, sits Queen Vanora. A position of honor—one befitting a kingdom’s steward.

But not a true queen.

No wonder she does not often use this room , I think as her cold eyes lock on mine. It is a perpetual reminder of her shortcomings, her lack of full sovereignty on display for all to see.

“Wind weaver,” she acknowledges when we come to a stop before the platform. Each syllable is scathing as it leaves her purse-string mouth. Her eyes sweep me head to toe, and I see a glimmer of undeniable fury as she takes in the lack of sulfuric ruffles. She herself wears a resplendent gown of deep red, with a bevy of rubies to match. Her crown sits heavily atop her sleeked-back silver mane. “You are unforgivably late.”

The hall goes utterly silent at her condemnation. Beside me, Cadogan and Jac both bend into swift bows. I sweep into a rather flimsy curtsy, more than happy to steer my gaze toward the floor.

“Apologies, Queen Vanora,” I tell the stones.

“Do you think yourself more important than a warding ceremony that keeps all of us alive?”

“No, Queen Vanora.”

“Do you think yourself above the protection of this city and its people?”

“No, Queen Vanora.”

“Then be seated,” she hisses, “before you delay us further.”

I feel a different sort of pulse through the bond as I rise again—not reassurance, but rage. Wherever he is, Penn is close enough to hear his sister’s vitriol. Yet, when I risk a glance into the shadows beyond the throne, I still cannot see a single trace of him.

My guard detail leads me away from Vanora’s narrow-eyed scrutiny to a section of pew-like benches built along the bottom level of the dais. Carys and Uther are there, baby Nevin swaddled in his father’s strong arms. I recognize several other highly ranked members of the Ember Guild in attendance, their wives tucked close by their sides. I smile at Carys; she grins back, green eyes dancing in delight as she surveys her handiwork.

Jac and Cadogan find an empty stretch of seating near the end of the pew, next to Farley. I frown at the redhead, noticing his crutches have been swapped for a simple cane. I’ve told him time and again, he ought to wait at least another week. The man is going to set back his recovery in an irksome display of masculine prowess. He merely shrugs, unrepentant under the force of my glare as I take my seat beside him.

My skirts have barely settled when Queen Vanora begins to drone, briefly welcoming her subjects before launching into a recitation of all she has done for the kingdom since the previous Fyremas—her allocation of funds to clear a tract of land by the North Sea where a new generation of farmers might homestead, her assignment of fresh troops to the southern borderlands where the Reavers threaten, her recent clearing of the Forsaken Forest, where the ice giants had nested in previous weeks.

Her, her, her.

Nothing about Pendefyre. Nothing about General Yale. Nothing about the Ember Guild. She speaks as though she singlehandedly carries the kingdom upon her back. As if every victory is hers alone, rather than the combined efforts of dozens, hundreds, thousands of Dyvedi citizens. After ten straight minutes of her self-accolades, Jac feigns a soft snore from my left.

I bite my lip, stifling a giggle.

Finally, the old crone runs out of steam. The hall seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief as her voice tapers into silence. Her hands curl around the arms of her chair, tension apparent in every arthritic joint as attention shifts away from her in one great whoosh of light and heat and sound.

All eyes soar upward, to the wall of shadow behind the throne platform, following the twin trails of fire as they streak from the floor trenches upward to the ceiling in two crackling lines, illuminating the back wall of the cavern…

And, with it, the Crown Prince of Dyved.