She smiles tolerantly. “It’s against our laws to send a military force through the portal. Not only is it difficult for so many to blend in with the mortals, they cannot bring their spirit animals—can you imagine the reaction to armored men with white wolves at their sides? Even if it weren’t for our laws, I told you once before that I wouldn’t fight your battles for you, dearest one.” She touches my arm gently. “You will never be in any danger. The aid you will provide is spiritual. It will be Alexander who will assume the risk. Still, I know what I am asking of you is no small thing.”
I rub my arm uncertainly. Is it fair to ask such a thing of him? Stop sympathizing with the enemy, I chide myself harshly.
There is no shame in empathy, Rowen says in my mind. It’s important to understand the emotional state of everyone involved—even your enemy.
I smile at him gratefully, only slightly unnerved he’d detected my thoughts. “But why should Alexander help us at all?”
“I sense in him a change in heart, a desire to right some wrongs,” Grandmother says, but her expression turns calculating. “In truth, though, I have the means to drag him back to his dungeon cell should he think to defy me.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “Heavens. Remind me never to cross you.”
“I’m only frightening when it comes to protecting my family,” she says, smiling though I know she is serious. “So, knowing now the truth about Centerius and his nefarious Order, will you help apprehend him?”
All I’m being asked to do is create a portal from my drawing, something I’ve already begun to do, and something I’m sure I can perfect now that I’m here. Still, this is much more of a serious undertaking than I had mentally prepared myself for. When first the concept of self-defense lessons came about—both from James and from Grandmother—the danger to my person or anyone I cared for had been an abstract concept. But deliberately attacking Lord Tyrell is very different. The mere thought of it, and the fear that if anything should go wrong, it will be my fault, has my stomach rolling.
And yet … what choice did I have?
“Of course I will help in any way I can.”
Grandmother nods approvingly. “I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Then shall we begin our lessons again in the morning? I confess I feel quite anxious to continue knowing just how much is at stake now.”
“Of course. But this time, Alexander will join us.”
I slosh a bit of my wine. I hadn’t expected to have to see him again so soon.
Grandmother takes a sip of her own wine. “Dearest, if only you’d realize that he is the one who should be nervous around you—not the other way around.”
TWENTY-ONE
I concentrate on the painting before me, adding more details to the bluebird until it looks real enough to fly off the canvas. I take a step back to appraise my work. Sunlight streams through the windows, making the blue paint shimmer. It looks almost like light reflecting off shiny feathers, and I tilt my head to see if there’s anything that needs to be added. I think of the difficulty I had before, and suddenly I wonder if I should add a rune to help. Grandmother never said I couldn’t, and I’m more familiar with bringing my paintings to life with them.
I take a clean brush, dip it in black paint, and make a swirling symbol—the one for life. I’ve used it before to make certain things jump off the page—twirling dresses, galloping horses, trees blowing in the breeze—but never as lifelike as Grandmother did. Compared to her arcana, mine is a cheap parlor trick.
I set the brush down carefully and hold my hand over the painting as she showed me. I hesitate, glancing at Rowen. “Perhaps I should have tried something a little less full of life,” I say nervously.
You were wise to add the rune. Don’t doubt yourself now.
I nod and close my eyes. I search for that thrum, that hint of life Grandmother taught me to look for. With a little inhalation of surprise, I realize I not only detect the thrum, I can hear the bird’s heartbeat, the beating of its tiny wings. Quickly, before I can lose the sensation, I reach out for Rowen’s bright energy—like a little glowing sun beside me. Taking his energy and transferring it to the painting must be something like a circuit feels when electricity travels through it.
Deep inside, I know I was successful, but even so, my hand shakes as I reach into the canvas and retrieve the bird. It takes a full breath before I realize I can feel the soft feathers against my palm and the beat of a tiny, frantic heart.
I let out a little yip of surprise and nearly drop the poor creature. It bursts out of my hand in a flurry of blue feathers, darting toward the window with surprising speed. Just before I’m sure it will bash its tiny head against the glass, it veers right and flits about the room. I watch it in awe—not just because I actually succeeded, but because the bird is acting like any other. Who would think that a creature that started its life as a pot of paint would have the same basic instincts as a wild songbird?
“I’m so happy to see you were successful,” Grandmother calls from behind me, and I turn with a bright smile … which fades the moment I see Alexander.
“I used a rune,” I say woodenly, staring at Alexander. He’s dressed in a long white tunic with a simple embroidery of golden thread, plain white slacks, and shoes that look more like slippers from Arabian Nights. It makes the rich color of his skin look divine, and I hate myself for noticing. He avoids my gaze—his eyes everywhere but me.
Grandmother’s eyebrow arches. “Did you now?” she asks, her tone impressed. “How clever. Did it help?”
Even with Alexander distracting me from the doorway, I cannot help but answer her with more than a little excitement. “It made it so much easier—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place. I’m much more comfortable using runes to transfer arcana to my drawings.” I risk a glance at Alexander to see how he’s reacting to my frank discussion of Sylvan things, but he would make a superior card player—I can tell nothing from his expression, and his eyes are on the bluebird flitting about the room. I nod to the little bird. “I’m surprised to see it behaving like any other bird,” I tell Grandmother.
“It’s understandable once you know where it really comes from,” she says. “As powerful as our arcana is, we never create something out of nothing. The painting you brought to life is a real bird—one that comes from the world around us. You simply transported it here.”
I watch the bird with a frown. “So I’ve stolen this bird from its nest somewhere? That seems a little sad.” I feel the press of eyes on me and turn to find Alexander staring. A flush creeps up my neck.
Grandmother nods solemnly. “Then perhaps you should learn how to send it back.”
“What must I do?”
“The easiest and most direct way is to catch it again and draw a rune of transportation above it.” She smiles as she watches the flitting bird. Serafino watches, too, from his perch high above us all. “But of course, first you must grab hold of the little thing.”
The bird must sense us discussing it, because it renews its efforts to find the way out—flying from wall to wall erratically. I watch in dismay, knowing my chances of catching it are slim, and I don’t relish looking the fool in front of Alexander.
Any advice? I think to Rowen.
He glances up at me with a wry expression on his face. I suppose you are asking me because I’m a fox. I smile sheepishly. Unfortunately, I am not a real fox. I don’t hunt, and I don’t have a single natural instinct.
I move toward the frantic little bird—perhaps I can corner it?—but before I can grab hold of it, a blur of movement races by me. As fast as a cobra striking, Alexander’s hand darts out and captures the bird.
I stare at him with my mouth gaping as though I am very ill-bred indeed. He walks over to me, the bird held gently in one hand. When I manage to close my mouth and meet his gaze, I’m surprised to see a hint of pride in his eyes. He’s enjoying how shocked he’s made me.
“Very neatly done,” Grandmother
says, voicing my thoughts. “Lucy, do you know the rune to send it back?”
“I think so.”
I take a step closer to Alexander until I can smell his familiar scent of cardamom and clove. As scents often do, it sets up a chain reaction of associated memories: meeting Alexander for the first time on the balcony, dancing with him, touring the National Gallery together. But most of all, it resurrects my emotional state during that time, leaving me feeling giddy and hopeful and ridiculously attracted to the man who shares so many of my interests.
Desperate to take back control of my emotions, I draw the rune in the air without thinking: two parallel lines, which represent transporting. At the same time, I draw heavily on Rowen’s arcana, just as I would if I were painting in the bright sunshine.
The rune bursts into life above the bird in a flash like a camera’s bulb, and both Alexander and I jump back in surprise. He opens his hand, and the bird is gone.
“Beautifully done,” Grandmother says with real feeling as Alexander and I stare at each other. “You didn’t hesitate.”
I let out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Grandmother.” I turn to Alexander to thank him, too, but stop myself at the last moment.
“If that is what your arcana looks like, then I have been wrong indeed.” Alexander’s eyes are full of regret, his voice with its slight accent drawing me in almost against my will. “You brought your painting to life.”
I glance between the two of them in surprise. “I had no idea you both were watching.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Grandmother says unapologetically. “I could see that you were deep in concentration.”
“I’d never seen a more lifelike bird,” Alexander says, his voice unmistakably full of awe. “And that was before you made it fly around the room.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, and I make the mistake of looking directly into his tawny eyes. And then I remember what was left unsaid in the dungeon, and my heart hardens.
“Lucy,” Alexander says, my name a plea on his lips, “might we talk for a moment?”
I glance at Grandmother. “I will step out and give you some privacy,” she says, but I wish she wouldn’t.
I’m afraid to be left alone with him. Afraid to forgive him.
She leaves the room despite my internal protests, and Alexander turns to me. “You gave me much to think about during our short conversation, and as I contemplated the fact that I am Sylvan as you say, I realized how very wrong I’ve been. Not only that, but I realized that no matter what, I couldn’t have hurt you.”
“And I’m to believe the Order isn’t really out to hurt any of us, I suppose.”
Shame floods his face. “There was a time I would have told you that the Order only wanted to neutralize Sylvani who are dangerous—but that was before I’d personally witnessed what Wallace could do.”
“Dangerous!” Anger ignites within me, flushing my cheeks and clenching my jaw. “How could you possibly think such a thing? If anyone, it is you who are dangerous.”
He stands unblinking in the face of my rage, even though I can feel the beginnings of that shaky-desperate feeling I get when I’m about to dissolve into bitter tears. “Because one of them killed my mother.”
I suck in my breath, my anger dampening ever so slightly. I try to hold on to it, even as my mind betrays me by sympathizing. How would I feel if my mother had been murdered by a group of strangely powerful beings and I didn’t have a loving papa or siblings to raise me? I wouldn’t bloody go around attacking innocent people, I growl back at myself.
“Even if that’s true, your argument is still weak. This spiritual power … is that how you found me that first night?” Before he can respond, I continue, confiding in him the one thing I’ve always wanted to. “I saw you before I ever met you … in a drawing I’d made of my debut. Of course I’d wondered how that could be or if I had truly seen such a thing, but now that you’re here, I see that it was all entirely possible.”
“It’s true,” he says, his eyes still full of disbelief. “Part of my ability is that I can sense others with strong spiritual power around me—I can track them. But with you, it was different. I could see your drawings as clearly as though I watched you make them right in front of me. This must have been what you saw in that first drawing: the moment we connected.”
“Then you were lying the night you met me.” Pain blossoms at this lie more than any other. “You acted as though you hadn’t seen me before, but you had.” I pause to think, remembering that drawing in particular. It was the first one that had pulled me within—that had created a temporary portal without my consciously calling forth arcana. “I was pulled into that drawing of my debut, pulled and nearly trapped.”
He looks surprised for a moment, and then thoughtful. “I sensed a powerful burst of your spiritual power that night, and when I sat down to draw, it was a throne room that filled my paper, and a beautiful woman in a white dress who captivated me.” He pauses. “It may have been our connection that pulled you through, especially knowing what I do now—that I am part Sylvan.” He says the words with some element of disbelief.
“Did you come to England just to find me?” I ask quietly, my whole body tense as I wait for his answer.
His gaze jumps to mine. “No, I swear it. I came because of my father’s funeral—just as I said. It was only while I was in London that I felt it—felt you.”
“So you tracked me, spied on my drawings, came to my debut ball—why? To report back to the Order that another evil Sylvani had been found?” He winces as my words and tone turn sharp.
“I never told the Order about you. I should have, I might have eventually, but I hadn’t yet. There was still too much I didn’t know, but I never thought you were evil, Lucy. Never.”
“How comforting,” I snap.
He sighs, rubs his face with his hand in frustration. “Once, I would have reported my findings immediately to Lord Tyrell—the head of the Order and the man who took me under his wing in India. He has been like a father to me. But ever since I saw what Lord Wallace was capable of … what Lord Tyrell sanctioned … I’ve had doubts about everything. Enough so that I wouldn’t risk your safety until I’d gotten to the bottom of them.”
“You keep mentioning Lord Wallace. What is it that he did?”
He shifts his gaze to the wall behind me. “There are those in the Order who have the power to drain away arcana from the Sylvani.”
My eyes narrow. “You think I don’t know that? One nearly killed my sister.”
He looks taken aback at that, but gamely presses on. “Lord Wallace is one of these, but I’d always been led to believe that draining away arcana never hurt the Sylvani—only rendered their power impotent.” He pauses, a haunted look entering his eyes. “I believed that right up until I found a girl dead—her face so ashy gray that I knew every drop of arcana had been drained from her until she died. It was Lord Wallace who’d killed her, but Lord Tyrell swore to me it was an accident. I couldn’t get Wallace’s expression out of my mind, though—that look that said he’d done it on purpose. That he’d enjoyed it.”
Great spiders of fear creep across my skin, and I rub my arms vigorously. I think of meeting Wallace’s cruel eyes across the pool at the Roman Baths, of how close I’d come to the same fate as the poor girl Alexander described.
“When Wallace confronted us at the National Gallery,” Alexander continues, “it was all I could do to stop myself from simply spiriting you away. I was terrified he’d get to you before I found the opportunity to warn you. I knew you were always surrounded by family, but I had no way of knowing if they’d be on their guard for such a threat.”
“And then you followed me to Bath …”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “I did. Wallace made it clear he had no intention of leaving you alone.”
Silence descends, thick with the weight of the many emotions hanging between us. I hate that my heart is thawing, that I so desperately want to believe hi
m. He betrayed you, I remind myself aggressively. He is your enemy.
“It seems that I should be thanking you, then, for being a secret knight in shining armor. Unfortunately, I cannot ignore your involvement in a brotherhood that tried to murder my sister, nor have you even denounced them in our conversation today—merely that you have doubts. Not only that, it seems to me that you led Wallace—whom you’ve freely admitted is dangerous—right to me.” I shake my head, my throat feeling uncomfortably thick. “And most of all, I cannot forgive you for making me believe you were someone who might understand me, for someone I might even …” I trail off, unable to finish. Even what? I cannot bear to hear myself say the words.
His face is stricken as I meet his eyes. The lump in my throat grows until I fear it will choke me. “You have no reason to ever forgive me,” Alexander says, “and yet I cannot stop myself from hoping one day you might.”
But the truth is, he’s right: I have no reason to forgive.
And yet, I fear that’s exactly the direction my traitorous heart is moving.
“I should call for Grandmother,” I say abruptly. “She’s waited outside long enough.”
I walk away before he can say another word, and Rowen joins me from the corner he’d exiled himself to.
There is no shame in forgiveness, he thinks to me.
Not even when the man is your sworn enemy? I think back.
He doesn’t reply, only leaves me to stew in my own thoughts darkly. The fact that Alexander’s mother was killed by a Sylvani has changed everything for me. It’s made his quest … almost understandable. Almost.
Except for the handing over of innocents to monsters.
Except for the fact that there is no proof he wouldn’t have done the same to me if given the right circumstances.
After sending Rowen to Grandmother to inform her that our conversation has come to an end, she has us meet her in the training grounds. They are like the rest of the castle: sky-high ceilings, bright sunlight spilling in, and organic—carved from the rock itself, with a little stream running through it. The water disappears below the window, and when I walk over to peer out, it seems we are directly above one of the waterfalls.
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 22
