“Plotting?” Flinx’s brows rose. “Not against you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
Alaric let out a breath in relief.
Flinx crossed the room, setting the lamp she’d been holding on her desk and lighting a separate one fixed to the wall by an iron bracket. She paused, her back to him, as if too shy to meet his gaze. “Gossip flows quickly in this place. It will become common knowledge that you sought me out. The lorists will demand to know what you wanted.”
“What will you tell them?”
Flinx turned. “What do you want me to tell them?”
Alaric sighed. That I need you, he thought. She was the one his Knack pointed to; every time she was nearby, he felt it—the warmth at his brow, the contented feeling of a final puzzle piece fitting into place. But that was not how the game worked, was it? He was the crown prince; he had to be mindful of things like appearances and reputations, and respect the hierarchy of order put into place generations ago. His insistence upon using the services of a librarian instead of a lorist would not go unchallenged. People would talk, speculate, draw conclusions . . .
He shook his head. He could play that game. Games were his specialty. And though he might not have had the experience the dukes did with deflection and planning, controlling the board with a few choice words and a hoarded chip of secret knowledge, he was a fast learner. With a Knack for betting.
“Tell them,” Alaric said, “that I heard of your philanthropic work at your school in town and came to offer my personal support and funding.” He reached into a pocket and tugged out his coin purse, setting it gently atop Flinx’s desk.
Flinx blinked at him, a shallow frown on her lips. She didn’t seem to notice the lynd. “How did you know about that?”
“One of your fellows told me,” he replied with a shrug. He fell into one of the empty desk chairs, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Now I have both an excuse to meet with you and an excuse to pay you. I love it when I’m brilliant.”
Flinx rounded her desk, settling into the other seat. “So it’s just a front to you,” she said, her voice cool—a little shaky, but firm. “My work is a convenient excuse.”
Alaric’s smile faded. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It certainly sounded like it.”
Alaric’s throat tightened. He straightened, leaning toward her. “If you want me to build you a school and name you headmistress and give you an annual stipend for running costs, I’ll do it, if it—”
“I don’t want you to do that,” Flinx replied, eyes widening. “You should want to do that.” She shifted in her seat, running a nervous finger over a carved arm. “You know, improving Enserion doesn’t have to begin with grand schemes and untangling noble politics. It can start right here, in Cyair, with only an open heart and the smallest bit of effort. Your people have needs that aren’t being met. Do you even know what they are? Or how infinitesimally small of a change might be required to improve things considerably?”
Alaric held Flinx’s gaze, chastised. He really did need her, he decided. Despite the crevice he’d just unintentionally opened up between them—or perhaps because of it. She saw things like he wished he could: not like a soldier used to following orders, like Thyrian; not like a world-weary pessimist expecting the worst, like Vylaena; not even like an experienced and powerful leader viewing things in terms of strength, like Taemon. She saw things as an educated commoner, who knew firsthand the shortcomings of his kingdom—but also, it seemed, a path to righting them.
“I am learning,” Thyrian replied in a low tone. “Every day, I am learning. All I need is someone to be patient with me, and point out my oversights, and help me. Not as a tutor, if that’s not something you can commit to, but as a friend. As someone intelligent who I can turn to for advice when I desperately need it. Is that, at least, an option?”
Flinx’s brows knit together. “You don’t even know me. How can you decide so quickly that you want to be my friend?”
“I know more than you think,” Alaric replied. “You tolerate Vylaena, which means you’re made of sturdy stuff—and because she tolerates you, I can tell you’re not inclined toward frivolity. She has no patience for nonsense.”
He offered her a small smile. “You’re sun-crowned. A scholar. That says something, too. As does the fact that whenever I’m around you, my Knack points at you like a compass to the north.”
“That doesn’t exactly put me at ease.”
Alaric laughed. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. But I promise; it’s a good thing. At least that’s the sense I get. I think we’re supposed to be friends, Flinx. If you’ll have me.”
A hesitant smile worked its way up Flinx’s cheeks. “Some might say that friendship is more of a commitment than a mere tutoring job.”
“But with less paperwork, and more casual luncheons.”
Flinx snorted. “Well, I suppose I could agree to that.”
“Good.” Alaric grinned at her, leaning back in his chair. “And in the spirit of asking my new friend for advice, I have a question for you.”
“Go on.”
“Duke Taemon,” Alaric said. “What do you know of him?”
Flinx’s eyes unfocused. “He holds sway over the southwest,” she said slowly. “I’ve heard stories . . . reasons why his province is not plagued with the same problems that eat at the rest of Enserion. Commoner travel restrictions, curfews, a strict, well-trained personal guard with just a little too much power . . .”
She shook her head. “I’ve never traveled there myself. I can only relate secondhand information.” Her brow furrowed. “People say there’s a reason no one dares overthrow King Arnyel, and it’s because they’re afraid of what his brother-in-law, Taemon, might do in retaliation.” Flinx’s eyes sharpened on Alaric’s face. “None of the other dukes have a strong personal guard like Duke Taemon does. None have as intimidating a reputation. Of course, that also leaves him open to nasty gossip . . .”
“Like what?” Alaric frowned.
“It’s just gossip,” Flinx pressed, “but there have been whispers. That Duke Taemon has been gathering his strength, waiting for the right time to take the crown himself.”
“And what do you think?” Alaric asked, his gut tightening.
“I don’t know the man,” Flinx replied. “He’s your uncle, not mine. I can only report what I’ve heard. But if there was ever a time for the duke to make a move, it would be if the Desert Kingdoms attacked Enserion. Can you imagine? The Duke, riding in with his personal guard, saving the kingdom from annihilation. The people would be so grateful they’d likely not even care if he usurped the rightful king.”
Alaric swallowed. If that was true, there was another reason for Taemon to not pledge his support for Alaric’s proposed alliance. He wanted to be the one to save Enserion, not an alliance with Galiff.
But—no, no. This was speculation. Flinx had warned him it was merely gossip. The Darnyels look after their own, Taemon had told him. They were family. He wouldn’t do something so heinous to his own family.
But the thing was, with everything he’d learned—with everything he now understood about court and politics and the underhanded ways one had to fight for what they wanted—he no longer knew what to believe.
“Thank you,” Alaric said, deciding to sort through that mess later. “You’ve been more helpful than you know.”
The librarian blinked at him as he rose from his chair, her lips slightly parted. “That’s all you wanted to ask?” she said. “Whether or not you could trust your uncle?”
“For now,” he replied, moving for the door.
“Alaric.”
He turned, one hand on the doorknob, smiling at her use of his name, sans title. “Yes?”
“May I give you one bit of unsolicited advice?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t go around telling people how brilliant you are. It rather ruins the effect.”
Alaric laughed wholeheartedly, pulling open the door. “
Noted. Have a good afternoon, Flinx.”
He smiled all the way back to the palace.
25 | The Banquet
“Where did you disappear to yesterday?” Alaric asked as Thyrian and Vylaena swept into his rooms just after breakfast, interrupting a letter he was penning.
“We spent the afternoon chasing down river pirates,” Vylaena replied, snatching a scone from the plate on his table.
Alaric stared at her. “Really, Vylaena. What were you up to?”
“I took Thyrian wight hunting in the Elderwood.”
Alaric rolled his eyes. “I give up.” He returned his attention to the parchment beneath his fingers.
“How was your lunch with the duke?” Thyrian asked, appearing at Vylaena’s side.
“Lunch went swimmingly. If you like your sandwiches served with a side of cryptic warnings and the threat of possible regicide.”
Vylaena snorted. “Always so dramatic.”
Thyrian frowned. “You said he might be an ally.”
“He might be. But I have to figure out how to ensure it.” Alaric glanced up. “Do either of you know a more tactful way to phrase ‘upon pain of death’?”
“Or else,” Vylaena supplied without pause, carrying her scone over to one of the couches to enjoy it in comfort.
“You, making death threats?” Thyrian scoffed, rounding Alaric’s chair to peer over his shoulder at the half-written letter. “Is . . . is this addressed to the castle cook?”
“She refuses to make me any more of those fudge cakes I like; says I’ll make myself sick. I’m a grown man. I can eat what I like!”
“I’ve been thinking about Serk and how he managed to get a hold of that soulstone,” Vylaena spoke up, drawing the two princes’ attention. “There’s a man I know who used to have his hands in the human trafficking trade; part of the Moren Cartel before they were killed off by Maestryn Gammon’s lot.”
“Of course,” Alaric replied acerbically, “the dirty scoundrels.” He leveled a flat gaze in Thyrian’s direction.
Vylaena ignored him. “He might have information about whether any ether-touched were rounded up and taken somewhere. I can call in a favor and ask.”
“Alaric, I think you might’ve been right,” Thyrian said, rounding the couch to sit opposite Vylaena. He fixed her in an assessing gaze. “She has an awful lot of friends for a Shadowheart.”
“Contacts, not friends,” Vylaena clarified. She swung her legs off the arm of the couch and made to stand. “I’ll go pay him a visit.”
“Not today you won’t,” Alaric said. “Father’s banquet is tonight.”
Vylaena blinked at him. “So?”
“So Thyrian is the guest of honor,” Alaric explained. “And as his personal guard—not to mention a Protecter of the Realm—you’re expected to attend.”
“Dinner’s hours away,” she scoffed, turning for the door. “I have time.”
“Vylaena,” Alaric continued, drawing her gaze back. A queer look had overtaken his face; Thyrian wasn’t sure whether he was smiling or grimacing. “The king is honoring you, too—for your part in bringing Thyrian here safely. You’ll be sitting at the high table, in full view of the entire court.”
Vylaena remained as still as the gargoyles that crowned the castle parapets as she worked out what Alaric hadn’t said. Thyrian struggled to keep from laughing as he watched understanding, and then irritation, surge across her face.
“I can be honored in my leathers,” she snapped, her voice hard. “I don’t care what you fussy nobles think is presentable.”
“I know. But Father does. He’s commanded me to make sure you look like a proper lady.”
“But I’m not a proper lady.”
Thyrian couldn’t help it. He let out a strangled laugh and the others turned to glare at him. “Merciful goddesses,” he managed to choke out, “I can’t wait to see this.”
✽✽✽
It was quickly apparent why Vylaena would have had no time to visit her contact, for the next few hours were spent enduring a kind of torture she had never been trained to endure: two thorough washes in perfumed water, an attempt to douse her in scented oils (which ended with two ladies’ maids in tears and an entire basket of crystal bottles tossed out a window), and a whole hour devoted solely to brushing the tangles from her thick wave of hair and trimming the ragged ends.
Vylaena snarled and cursed and threatened, but the women who attended her seemed much more afraid of disobeying orders than angering a Shadowheart—much to Vylaena’s deep frustration.
She flatly refused the boned contraption they tried to bind around her chest, and she ignored their protests when she strapped her arsenal of blades to their usual places, leaving her borrowed clothes woefully bunched in places. After an arduous battle with the head ladies’ maid, a compromise was agreed upon: no corset, and the blades stayed, but she would be quiet and still while the women plaited her hair.
The women coaxed her thick waves into something resembling the current court style—swallowing another hour—and then, mercifully, left. Vylaena cursed the existence of the door that connected her suite to Thyrian’s when he strode into the room soon after, as pleased as a full-bellied cat.
✽✽✽
“It got so quiet in here I had to make sure you hadn’t murdered them all,” he explained. He found her, stiff as a corpse and scowling, leaning against the lone windowsill, and grinned.
Silk. She was dressed in actual silk. It comprised an off-the-shoulder evening gown: low neck, narrow waist, flowing skirts. Her split sleeves trailed down to the floor in a tumble of dark emerald. And her tattoo, which he could now identify as some sort of leafy tree, curled up her back and over one muscled shoulder in a rather graceful accentuation of her toned figure.
“Ether take your rutting corpse,” Vylaena hissed. “Don’t say another word or I’ll cut your tongue out.”
He only laughed.
There was a sharp knock at the door to Thyrian’s suite and he retreated back to his rooms to answer it, still chuckling. Vylaena followed stiffly, shadowing him through his bedroom and into the front sitting room, but the door opened before they could reach it.
Alaric appeared in the doorway, dressed in a fine brocade surcoat. A gold crown perched atop his bronze wave of hair, lending him a look of authority Thyrian had never before seen his friend carry. Alaric caught sight of Vylaena over Thyrian’s shoulder and stared, his jaw dropping.
“I know,” Thyrian said, grinning at him. “They managed to get her into skirts without any casualties.”
“We can change that,” Vylaena snarled.
Alaric blinked rapidly, then turned to Thyrian. “My guards are outside. Are you ready?”
Vylaena pushed past them, refusing Thyrian any more time to tease her. “Let’s get this night over with,” she growled.
✽✽✽
Vylaena had never attended a royal ball, or any sort of event that required formal dresses and jeweled combs in one’s hair—as a guest, at least. The gown she’d been forced into stifled her movements and made walking awkward, but at least the silk felt nice against her skin. Cool and malleable, like wearing a cascade of river water. Sounded like it, too, the way the skirt swished around her ankles.
The banquet was held in the palace ballroom, a temple devoted to marble and hammered gold and delicate porcelain. And—rutting Ether—more of those dreadful peacocks. Their cries echoed through the oversized chamber, still audible over the polite hum of a hundred noble voices.
Alaric entered first, accompanied by two guards in polished silver plate, silence falling over the room as the gathered nobility bent a knee to their crown prince. Vylaena and Thyrian waited just outside the main doors, side by side, until the noise rose once more and the herald announced their names.
“Prince Thyrian Lothar of Galiff and Vylaena Azrel, Protector of the Realm.”
The title made her wince, but she stepped forward with Thyrian and made her way down the long center aisle toward t
he high table, where Alaric had settled between his father and brother. The queen’s chair remained at the king’s other side, vacant and long-cold.
Vylaena barely noticed the eyes of the nobility as the two of them strode across the room; goddesses knew she was used to people staring. Instead she took in the view, half-blinded by diamond-tipped chandeliers that hung from the ceiling like cold, miniature suns. Ether-forged, too—she couldn’t make out any candles. Instead, light bloomed from giant crystal bubbles, as pure white as a midwinter moon.
She returned her gaze forward and frowned. Those great pieces of reckless extravagance were horrifyingly expensive. A single bulb might be worth a farmer’s entire market day haul. And in a farmer’s hands, they were much more useful—such a thing could light his entire house for over a year, with no need for wood or oil or peat. How many decorated the king’s ballroom? Fifty? A hundred? More than was necessary. More than was tasteful.
He doesn’t care, if he even realizes it. And neither should I. This is how things are. People aren’t selfless creatures. Generosity is not a trait of kings.
She released her irritation, allowing it to dissipate into the brilliant, crystalline air.
As Vylaena and Thyrian approached the king’s table, Vylaena noticed Prince Eyren regarding her with a look she knew all too well—part hunger, part excitement, part sly humor. The look of a man who coveted flame, even knowing he’d burn for it.
One of the few things she knew about Eyren was that he had a face that women—and no few men—regarded as irresistible. She’d always thought him overly pretty herself, but there was something about the way he regarded her that made her understand why the women of this realm fawned over him; he possessed a compelling aura—piercing, like a crossbow bolt fired at close range—that pinned her attention when their eyes met. His gaze drew her in and held her in place long enough to notice the hard cut of his chin and the playful quirk of his smile. This, she thought, is a man who knows how to play up his strengths.
Ether-Touched (The Breaking Stone Trilogy Book 1) Page 26
