Page 29

Chapter Twenty-nine

A collective gasp sounds as Pendefyre comes into view. My own lips part as I take in the sight of him standing on a ledge halfway up the cliff face in a hollowed-out natural chamber, his features awash in firelight. There are countless glyphs carved into the stone surrounding him, deep maegical scars that hum with untapped power.

He is dressed simply in plain black breeches—shirtless and barefoot, his Remnant on full display—yet he appears almost godlike as he stares down at us. And we stare back, necks craned, mouths agape. A congregation at worship of their deity.

“Fyremas is upon us,” Penn calls, casting his eyes around the cavern from above, his voice reverberating with strength. “Once again, we celebrate the turn of the seasons. Winter to spring, snow to thaw. As our fields shake off the weight of slumber, as new life awakens deep beneath the earth, as we again take up the task of plowing soil and planting seed, we ask the gods to bless us with a fruitful harvest, we ask our ancestors to grace us with their favor, holding off the blight that erodes into our lands. We ask the wards to shield us, as they have for generations, from any who would do us harm.”

He hauls in a deep breath, chest muscles flexing. “I have walked the world beyond our borders. I have lived a life outside the lands we call home. I have tasted the ashes of ruined kingdoms in the air and seen the darkness that steals across all of Anwyvn firsthand.”

His eyes press closed. When they open, he is looking directly at me. Even across such a distance, I can see—can feel —the heat in his stare. The intensity of it.

“In a time of widespread death and loss, we are fortunate to still have so much to safeguard. To possess so much worthy of protection. So on this night, above all else, we give thanks for the salvation already delivered. For the gifts already given. For the homecomings we thought might never come. And for the ones we love—the ones worth fighting for.”

My breath catches.

“May the light of Fyremas burn bright until the dawn, a reminder that there is no night so consuming it cannot be endured; no gloom so heavy it cannot be cast out. We are Dyved. We are the flame in the darkness. And we will hold back the shadows, in whatever form they come.”

Penn’s arms rise from his sides. The crowd gasps again when they see, in the air above each hand, he holds a ball of white-hot fire. Everyone seems to hold their breath, awaiting Penn’s next move. The effort to remain in control wears at him—his face is drawn; his brow furrows in concentration.

For the first time ever, all his shields are down, allowing me a rare glimpse into his psyche. Through our bond, I experience his emotions as if they are my own. That unflinching self-control, that undercurrent of intensity. There is no fear in him, no anxiety. He will not let those feelings take root, even if he feels them stirring to life within.

You are the sentinel at the threshold of chaos.

You will not yield.

You will not fall.

Tension thrums, charging the air like the sky before a lightning strike. Even at this distance, the raw strength he exudes threatens to make my knees give out. He drops into a crouch and presses his flaming hands to the stone. The earth gives a great shudder, a ripple moving through the cavern as Penn’s power pulses, unbridled, into the thick layers of petrified ash. Into the wards beneath, embedded deep in the fabric of the earth. Into the leylines, those sacred seams of ancient maegic that hold our world together.

The trenches of fire flare along the floor perimeter, brightening the throne room nearly to daylight. The caged flame at the base of each column sparks higher, causing those standing closest to shy away in fear. The temperature rises by several degrees as Penn’s maegic continues to pour out, wave after wave, pulse after pulse. A flood of raw energy. The glyphs in the chamber around him glow red—a glow that spreads outward through the walls like blood through veins, until the whole cavern is charged.

Maegic fills the air, thick and palpable. At my chest, my own Remnant stirs awake in response. I clench my fists, trying to hold on to my own control. I can no longer tell which emotions are mine and which are Penn’s.

Is it my fear or his that lumps at the back of my throat?

Is it his worry or mine that prickles at my eyes?

I let his power wash over me, through me, and seek the tranquil center inside my mind—calming my own inner storms before they are magnified by the one Penn has unleashed.

It ends with bone-shaking swiftness. His power shuts off all at once, like the turn of a valve, a stopper shoved into a bottleneck. One moment the world is abuzz with maegic, the walls aglow, the air shimmering…and then, in a blink, the flames return to normal height in their trenches. The heat recedes; the air clears. The only trace of what just occurred is the red-veined lava flows, still glowing all around us, pulsing faintly like the earth beneath our feet has a living, beating heart.

His control is absolute, his skill astounding. I am not sure whether to be more awed by his discipline or more anxious I cannot manage anything akin to it.

The crowd bursts into applause—boots stomping, palms clapping, mouths calling out cheers of celebration. Farley lets out a whoop of glee. Jac grins as he jostles me with an elbow. Even Cadogan is smiling.

Fyremas has officially begun. It is time to celebrate. The wards are charged, the ceremony ended. But as the tide of jubilation sweeps through the room, I find myself the sole point of stillness, staring upward to the back wall of the cavern.

On the cliff face, the ceremonial chamber is empty.

At my chest, the Remnant bond is eerily numb.

Pendefyre is gone.

“Jac!” I yell, breathless. “Enough! I’m dizzy.”

He grins as he twirls me yet again, spinning me with the skill of a man who has significant experience holding women in his arms—both on the dance floor and off it. It is our third jig in a row. My breaths are short; my head is awhirl. The cups of strong mulled wine I consumed over dinner may be contributing to my dizziness, but my partner’s increasingly wild moves are not helping matters much.

“Not my fault you can’t keep up, Ace!”

“I should’ve asked Cadogan,” I retort, catching sight of the second member of my guard detail as we whirl across the expanse of flagstones. His blond hair is a bright beacon even in the shadowy corner where he stands keeping watch.

For all the celebrations unfolding around him, Cadogan remains both sober and self-contained. He does not dance or drink. His eyes never stray far from me, even as the hours tick by and the party spills from the Great Hall to the grand ballroom to the courtyard. If he is not watching me, his eyes are scanning the crowd. Whenever I pause long enough to take a fortifying sip of wine, he instantly closes ranks, fending off anyone who gets too close for his liking. Several brave young men—a rather flattering amount, truth be told—risk making an approach and attempt to engage me in conversation, only to be turned around and sent on their way.

Cadogan takes his guard duties quite seriously.

Jac is a different story. He’d matched me drink for drink at dinner but soon outpaced me. By this point in the evening, he is glossy-eyed and loose-limbed. I’m surprised he manages to turn me with such success. Perhaps he relies on muscle memory, for he is long past thinking about steps or rhythms.

“ Brava! ” he cheers as the quartet of stringed instruments play their final refrains, his voice joining a chorus of whistles and applause. His blue eyes twinkle like stars when they meet mine. “Another?”

“No,” I wheeze, pressing a hand to the muscle spasm stitching through my side. “A break.”

“Weakling,” he mutters, following me from the makeshift dance floor that has sprung up just outside the keep. There are hundreds of folks milling about, moving from the grand ballroom where Vanora and her glittering posse are gathered to the courtyard and back again. Some go farther, venturing beyond the palace gates, out onto the bridge that spans the lake and into the city itself, where the party rages on in the streets as all of Caeldera dances into spring. I imagine Keda and Teagan somewhere in their midst.

“Looks like Farley has found himself some company,” Jac says, amused. “And here we were feeling sorry for him, not able to dance…”

My eyes follow the jerk of his chin and I stifle a laugh. Farley is reclined on a chaise near the refreshment tables with a swarm of admirers fluttering all around him. From his hand gestures alone, I can tell he is relaying the story of the cyntroedi attack. As he mimes two pincers snapping his leg, a raven-haired beauty strokes his cheek in comfort. A stunning man in amber silk reaches out to twine their fingers together, squeezing in sympathy.

“I suppose that explains why he was so adamant about ditching his crutches.” My lips twist—I am half-amused, half-anxious. “He’d better not overdo it. Perhaps I should—”

“Oh, come on. Let the man have some fun, Ace. It’s Fyremas, for gods’ sake! He’s not likely to rebreak his leg with a quick roll in the hay.” Jac pauses. “Actually, more than one roll, by the looks of it.”

“Is that a note of jealousy I detect in your voice?”

“Definitely.”

“Go on, then. Find your own hay-roll partner. I don’t need you watching over me.”

“Penn will skin me alive if I leave your side tonight.”

“Penn isn’t here to know,” I say stiffly.

In a rare moment of wisdom, Jac holds his tongue.

“It’s not like you’ll be leaving me alone,” I point out. “I’ll still have Cadogan watching me like a hawk.”

“You don’t truly expect me to abandon you on your very first Fyremas, do you? I may be an occasional scoundrel, but I’m not a complete scoundrel. Besides, left alone with Cadogan, you’d be bored to death. The man could find fascination in the drying of paint.”

I choke back a laugh as we reach the subject of our conversation on the fringes of the crowd. More than a few hopeful admirers are lingering nearby, admiring Cadogan’s burly form in the well-fashioned uniform, but he pays their preening no notice. His large hand is curled around a goblet—water, not wine.

“Where are Uther and Carys?” I ask him, brows lifting.

“Headed home to High Street.”

“But they’ll miss the fireworks! Carys said the fireworks are her favorite part.”

“I’m sure they’ll watch them from their own courtyard.” Cadogan looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “You cannot expect them to dance the night away with a newborn in tow.”

“Of course not,” I murmur, chastised. “I only wish I’d been able to say good night.”

Jac snorts. “You’re at Carys’s shop damn near every day. A handful of hours separate you from a reunion.”

“You’re right.” My lips flatten. “It’s only…”

“What is it, Ace? Fyremas not living up to your expectations?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s wonderful, really. I just…I suppose I envisioned we’d all be together. If not for the celebrations, at least for the fireworks.”

The men trade a glance.

“ We? ” Jac asks gently.

“We. Us. All of us.” My cheeks flood with color. I wish suddenly I had something to sip—spiced wine, mead, ale, anything would do. “Farley, Mabon, Carys, Uther…” I trail off helplessly, swallowing down the final name that sits on the tip of my tongue.

“Well, Mabon pulled patrol duty at the tunnel tonight, the poor bastard, so he won’t be back until dawn,” Jac says, scratching at his collar.

“Farley looks a bit preoccupied at the moment…” Cadogan smirks as his eyes travel over my shoulder briefly, to the chaise lounge. The pair of admirers are now perched on either side of the cushioned seat, their bodies blocking most of our view of the reclining redhead. “But I’m sure we could peel him away—”

“No.” I sigh. “No, that’s not necessary. Forget I said anything.”

“Ace…”

I wave off their concern. I feel rather foolish for harboring anything resembling disappointment. Never in my life have I attended a festival such as this. Back in Seahaven, Eli and I paid homage to the start of spring by taking a late-night stroll through the Starlight Wood, examining the new silver buds that gathered along the low-hanging branches, leaving blessings for the gods beneath the ancient Aurea Tree at the center of the grove. An honorable if unexciting tradition.

By comparison, Fyremas is a feast for the senses. Music everywhere. More food and drink than one could ever consume. Garlands of pine and juniper interwoven with the early blooms of spring, perfuming the smoke-hazed air. And firelight—firelight everywhere. Burning on torches and crackling in metal basins, reflecting in the eyes of everyone as they dance and drink and laugh. It all feels like a dream, some rapturous conjuring of imagination. And yet, beneath the joy that sizzles in my bloodstream, I cannot quite dispel the faint chord of discontent at the very core of me.

Penn’s absence bothers me far more than I’d anticipated—far more than it has any right to, given the way we left things during our last encounter. After his vanishing act during the warding ceremony, I assumed he would eventually rejoin the festivities. Yet, he was not present during the feast, nor during the fire-lighting procession through the streets that followed, led by a fleet of red-robed fyre priestesses bearing torches, casting blessings to the God of Flame. Even as the musicians took up their strings and the dancing began, there was no trace of him—neither before my eyes nor through our bond.

I cannot feel him at all, even when I cast out my senses as far as they will reach.

Now the clock marches toward midnight, and his continued absence itches at me like a scab on a freshly healed wound. I don’t want to ask his men where he is. To do so would be to admit that I actually care for him…and that is something I am scarcely able to confess to myself, let alone Jac and Cadogan.

So I keep silent, keep patient. Any minute now, he’ll no doubt walk out of some shadowy corner and say something equally infuriating and impenetrable…

“He’s not coming.”

My eyes jerk to Cadogan’s. His handsome face is grave as he watches me. “ What? ”

“Pendefyre. He’s not coming.” He glances at Jac, who hovers by my side. “I’m sorry, we…we thought you knew…”

My face must betray my stunned disbelief, for Jac moves closer and chucks me lightly under the chin. “Don’t take it personally, Ace. It’s not you he’s avoiding. He never takes part in the festivities.”

“But…” I shake my head to clear it. “Where is he, then?”

They trade another glance.

“No one really knows where he goes—only that he does,” Cadogan says, a hint of apology in his words. “We won’t see him until dawn at the earliest.”

It’s a surprisingly crushing blow to know that the moment I’ve been holding my breath anticipating all evening is never to arrive. I try to hide it, but I’m sure they both can see the disappointment that suffuses my features.

“Come on, Ace. Let’s track down another cup of ale.” Jac’s shoulder bumps mine playfully. “Then we’re heading back out on that dance floor whether you like it or not.”

Summoning a smile, I cast my eyes heavenward. “Gods help me.”

Minutes before midnight, a towering form materializes from the shadows beside me. My heart leaps in my chest…until I register eyes of lightest hazel, not dark ember; hair of peppered black in place of sun-streaked chestnut. His epaulettes shine bright as midday sun.

“General Yale, sir,” Cadogan and Jac chorus in unison, both nodding in respect.

Yale’s scar lends him an unearthly look in the wavering light of the torches as he nods back. His eyes are fixed on me. “I was hoping I might steal the wind weaver away for a waltz before the fireworks begin.”

He phrases it like a request, but I know better. So do my guards, for they say not a word as I place my hand in Yale’s proffered one and allow him to lead me onto the floor. He clears a path toward the center with ease, never releasing his grip on me as we maneuver through the crush of inebriated revelers.

The fiddlers strike their first note of a fresh waltz, a screech of bows on strings. On cue, Yale’s other hand finds my waist. I suck in a sharp breath and try to focus on the steps. Keda and Teagan taught me the basics of some of the Northlanders’ dances, but I am no expert. It did not matter so much when I was dancing with Jac. He is a friend. Yale is…

I am not yet certain what Yale is.

“You seem to be enjoying your first Fyremas,” he says as we move in time with the music. It is a slower tune, a welcome relief from the constant lineup of lively jigs. I follow his lead, a marionette on strings. He moves with surprising grace for a battle-hardened warrior.

“I am,” I agree, though he has not really asked. He has a habit of phrasing his inquiries as declaratives, as though he knows the answers to his own questions long before he puts words to them. “And you?”

“Fyremas is seldom a dull evening. This year is no exception. Though perhaps for different reasons.”

My brows arch. “What reasons might those be?”

“Surely Pendefyre has already informed you of the Reaver rabble gathering along our borders, wreaking havoc with increasing persistence. They have taken several outposts in recent weeks. No matter how we drive them back, they seem intent on invasion.”

“The Reavers have been a thorn in Dyved’s side for years, have they not?”

“This is different. The clans have long been scavengers—striking opportunistically, sporadically, rarely twice in the same place. Not lately. For more than a month, they have been moving methodically and systematically, with a level of organization previously unwitnessed. Strange, is it not? Their newfound zeal. It makes one wonder what might be driving it. What—or whom —they are so desperate to get their hands on.”

A spiral of unease swirls in my stomach.

“But I don’t need to waste my breath on these matters,” Yale continues. “You must know more about it than anyone. After all, I’m told you are in the prince’s closest confidence.”

I swallow hard, saying nothing.

Yale’s eyes are golden blades, whittling away any pretense. “Seeing your face in this moment, I think perhaps I need better informants. He clearly has not spoken of this to you.”

“No, but it seems you are more than eager to. Or do you merely mean to dangle information like a carrot for me to chase? I assure you, I have no intention of doing so. I am not a rabbit.”

He smiles, a predatory flash of strong white teeth. “There’s no need for snark, Rhya—may I call you Rhya?”

“That’s my name. And, as I have no plans to refer to you as General or Commander , I’m fine with a bit of informality.”

“Excellent. I’ll call you Rhya. You can call me whatever you please. The men call me Yale. Friends call me Jareth.”

“Yale will do, at present.”

His smile vanishes. “You would be wise to court my friendship. The alternative may be less agreeable.”

I do not care for his thinly veiled threats any more than I do the shrewd intelligence in his stare. But I keep my face clear and my tone light as we execute a spin, allowing him to twirl me within the circle of his arms. The tempo of the fiddler’s tune is accelerating, as is my heartbeat—though that has more to do with our conversation than the dance.

“I have friends aplenty already,” I say stiffly.

“Yes, I have noticed that. Friends of great import, no less. The prince’s inner circle has closed so tightly around you, I’m surprised I was allowed to steal you away for a dance.” His hand flexes on my waist. “One might almost think your life was in danger.”

“If you mean to scare me with vague implications—”

“Ambiguity is not my objective, I assure you. I’m delighted to enlighten you about precisely how much disruption your presence here has caused.”

“ My presence?”

“Do you have any concept of the time it took to comb through an entire army, weeding out anyone who might be tempted to collect the bounty Efnysien put on your head?” His eyes flash with rage—a lapse quickly concealed with frigid civility. “Do you have any idea how many soldiers I was coerced into diverting here on specific orders from Crown Prince Pendefyre, simply to protect you ?”

My eyes widen. I knew that Penn increased security within the Ember Guild after the Gower incident. Ranks tightened, allegiances verified. I was not aware he’d ordered a similar culling within the rest of Dyved’s armed forces, or that he’d commandeered some of the army on my behalf—an army typically controlled, with unequivocal authority, by the man in whose arms I currently waltz.

“What bothers you more, Yale?” I ask. “That Penn superseded your jurisdiction? Or that he did so to keep me safe?”

His grip tightens at my waist. The hand trapping mine feels like a set of shackles. “I should think even you would agree: it is neither sane nor prudent to protect one woman at the expense of the entire kingdom.”

“An attempt was made on my life. Penn is merely—”

“I know what Pendefyre is doing. Just as I know about the traitor in his own precious Ember Guild. Second Lieutenant Gower, wasn’t it?”

Yale’s eyes are so cold they rival the Remnant at my chest, which has begun to sear at my skin as he speaks—an internal alert system warning that danger is near. He’s led me so far into the crush of circling couples, I’ve lost sight of Cadogan and Jac at the edge of the courtyard. Quite abruptly, I find myself surrounded by a sea of unfamiliar faces, a crowd so dense I cannot see beyond it.

“What do you know of Gower?” I ask, somewhat afraid to know the answer.

“Only that he did not succeed.” Yale’s tone suggests he may have wished for a different outcome. “Only that there are others like him out there—so many others, we cannot keep track of the threats. Some of them may be here tonight. Some of them may be on this very dance floor.”

“And are—” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Are you one of them?”

His lips twitch; I’ve amused him. “Me? No, Rhya. I do not need to eliminate you. I need only be patient. It is only a matter of time before one of Efnysien’s lackeys succeeds where Lieutenant Gower failed.”

My heartbeat is a roar between my ears, the rush of blood deafening. “What is it you want from me?”

“From you? Nothing.”

“Do you mean to scare me off, then?”

The music is reaching a crescendo. He pirouettes me expertly, spinning me in a full circle. His chest presses close to my back for a brief moment as I turn in his arms. His mouth finds my ear to whisper, “Would that I could. You do not seem so easily intimidated.”

Before I can retort, he spins me around to face him once more and we resume our waltz, gazes locked in a contest of stares I cannot escape. His puckered red scar catches the firelight, lending him a daemonic look. My skin crawls under his grip. I wish, with startling vehemence, that I could shove out of his arms, kick him in the shin, and find my friends. But my curiosity is too strong for me to walk away.

“Why this charade, Yale? Why ask me to dance if not to badger me into submission? I assume you are curious about more than my waltzing skills.”

“Mmm. You could use some lessons on technique, though your natural grace makes you an easy enough partner to lead.”

“False flattery seems rather gratuitous at this point, does it not?” I narrow my eyes. “Tell me what this is about or I shall take my natural grace and use it to remove myself from your presence.”

“Quite a flair for dramatics beneath that calm exterior of yours, isn’t there?” He pauses artfully. “To be truthful, I wanted a closer look at you after watching so long from afar.”

An unpleasant shiver moves up my spine at the thought of him—or his network of spies—watching me.

He feels my tremble; his lips curl up at the corners as he adds, “And to ascertain if the rumors are true.”

“Rumors rarely are. That’s why they’re called rumors, not facts.”

“Fair enough. But from what I have observed since I returned to Caeldera, it seems the whispers in the streets are not so far from reality. Prince Pendefyre has fallen in love again—with another wind weaver, no less. History seems doomed to repeat itself.”

My teeth grind together. I have heard a similar refrain before, from Soren. I like it even less coming from Yale’s smug mouth. “I would think the esteemed commanding general of Dyved’s armies would know better than to listen to idle gossip.”

“But it is not idle. He is in love with you. I have seen it with my own two eyes.”

“Ridiculous.” I bite out the word. “You have seen nothing, for there is nothing to see. There is nothing between Pendefyre and me.”

Except in my memory.

Except in the farthest reaches of my foolish heart.

“Sometimes, affection is most apparent in the things left unsaid, the actions left untaken.” Yale’s tone is flat. “Sometimes, the deepest love disguises itself as indifference—for to reveal it would be to lay oneself bare. No man would willingly admit such a weakness. Perhaps not even to himself.”

My pulse pounds. “Even if your laughable notions are true, I would think a man of your position has better things to worry about than the prince’s love life.”

“That’s where you are wrong, Rhya.” His strong lead never wavers, even as his voice grows intent. “Pendefyre is our rightful king. He will claim the throne. He will do it soon. I know this to be true. I also know that he is volatile. It is his nature, his very essence. The fire burns too strong within him, just as it did for King Vorath.” He shakes his head. “I cannot hold his temperament against him. But when a man like that—a man on whom the fate of my country, perhaps even my world, rests—falls in love, volatility can turn violent. When that man is also a king, violence has consequences for everyone. Only a very foolish general would disregard such a threat to all he is sworn to protect.”

“You see me as a hazard, then. Something to be eliminated.”

“I see you as an unpredictable variable. I don’t like unpredictable variables. They tend to cause chaos.”

“I have no intentions of causing chaos.”

“Your intentions do not matter; only their outcomes.”

“I think you overestimate my sway over Prince Pendefyre. Even if he is”—I nearly choke on the words—“ in love with me, it will not affect his leadership.”

“I have seen great men led astray by lust. I have watched the strongest of leaders cowed beneath the weight of despair over a lost lover, or driven into a blind rage in a fit of jealous temper. With a normal king, such provocations could be cause for disaster. With Pendefyre on the throne…I fear it will unleash utter devastation.”

“What would you have me do, Yale?” I ask tightly. “Leave him? Leave Dyved?”

“I cannot answer that. I can only offer counsel when I feel it is necessary for the good of the entire realm.”

“He will not let me go. He believes I have a role to play in all this. In restoring the balance. Fulfilling the prophecy.”

“You may well doom us all long before you deliver that heralded salvation,” Yale says, his words stark. “In the strongest terms, I would advise against such a union. I would urge you to put a stop to this—before it is too late.”

My heart pounds so hard it strains my rib cage. “And if I don’t comply?”

“Then you should be prepared to face the consequences. I have been charged with the protection of this land. I cannot—I will not—let a threat go unchecked. Not even from a child of the prophecy.”

The song is not yet over, but I draw to a halt, pulling back from his hold. My golden-winged sleeves flutter as I lower my arms to my sides. I am quite finished with his false show of civility, with his camouflaged threats and ill-concealed judgments.

“Thank you for the delightful dance,” I say in a tone that undermines my words. I do not wait for a response as I turn and bolt from him, cutting a blind path through the crush of gliding couples. But his voice follows me as I go, a sharp rebuke that cuts me to the bone.

“You would be wise to heed my warning, Rhya. I will not give another.”