by Jamie Foley
Ulysses turned and exited, leaving the Great Hall empty except for the unlit braziers, guards, and Shaya as she quietly returned. And the invisible Dimbae, who was probably leaning on his favorite pillar.
Brooke adjusted her headdress and groaned, wishing she could remove the heavy wyvern horns and aether stone. But the annoyance was probably helping her stay awake.
“I’m going to be late, aren’t I?” Brooke asked Shaya as she stood and took her leave.
“Very,” the handmaiden replied. “I’ll have your tea sent as soon as it’s ready.”
“Thanks. Dimbae, are you going to follow me to the . . . uh . . .” She really must be tired if she couldn’t remember the name of one of her favorite places in the city.
“The Grove of the Ancients?” A tall, thick figure shimmered into existence on her left. “You should know by now that I follow you everywhere.”
“You don’t have to. The Elder of Aether is one of the most powerful beings on the continent,” Brooke said. She’d heard some interesting reports about how the Emberhawk attackers who’d crossed him had fared.
“The Elder of Aether is an elder,” Dimbae said. “Yes, he held his own in the battle, but it left him exhausted. Does anyone know how old he really is?”
“Respect,” Brooke warned as two guards opened the massive, intricately carved double doors for them to pass through. Outside, wooden steps led down to a wide platform that glistened with frost. Brooke made a mental note to let the elementalists focus their attention elsewhere now that the threat of fire had passed.
She smirked up at Dimbae, appreciating the head-and-a-half of height difference. “Although he’s probably old enough to have tended to Vanya as a seedling.” She gestured at the giant birch holding the platform aloft—one of three great trees that supported the city-in-the-sky.
Dimbae’s grin stretched wide. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
The headdress drew both smiles and glares as Brooke made her way to the elevator—another reason she wished she’d removed it. Only half as many Katrosi civilians could recognize her in plainclothes without warpaint.
Dimbae kept all but the children at bay. “We’re gonna get the bad guys, right?” a young boy asked with fire in his eyes.
Brooke reassured the child with a heavy heart. Why did no one acknowledge that most of the Emberhawk attackers and Zamara herself had already been killed? Did they not realize what a miracle it was that a foreigner—a teenage girl, no less—had vanquished a false god with a harpoon and the shards of a broken elevator? Would her people not be satisfied until they crushed the entire Emberhawk tribe in another bloody war? Would they not rest until another generation of men was wiped out?
She tried to clear her mind as she strode under the vined archway that signified the grove’s entrance. The elder might chastise her for projecting such troubled thoughts into a sacred place.
The path wound around ferns and fig trees, comfrey and chamomile. Each section of the garden had been planted with care, placing species that complimented each other together. Corn, beans, and squash flourished in the sunniest spot as if fire hadn’t blazed overhead just days ago. Only flecks of ash on a few leaves betrayed the façade of peace.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” Nariellyn said from her cross-legged position on a large sandrock beside the pond. She opened a mischievous eye and grinned.
“Sorry. It’s not like I was busy leading the tribe or anything.”
“Aish, you two.” The elder shooed Nariellyn away with a leathery hand. “You’re done for the day. Practice your mental shields.” He stood with obvious effort and brushed at his long, white beard. “I’m sorry, Brooke, but aether training is over. The tribe may need you, but my lunch also needs me.”
Brooke frowned. “I understand. Sorry, Master.”
“It is all right.” The old man placed a hand on her shoulder and squinted at her under unruly eyebrows. “You are troubled by many things today. Sit by the water and clear your mind.”
“Actually, Master, I . . .” Brooke swallowed as she watched Nariellyn go. “I was hoping I could at least speak with you for a moment.”
He sighed, and clacked his cane on the gravel until he arrived at the sitting stone by the falls. “What is it?”
Apprehension tightened Brooke’s throat. “We’ve both seen inside Lysander’s mind.”
The Elder of Aether watched her, still and silent.
Brooke swallowed. “He’s not innocent, but he was used. Manipulated. Forced to obey Zamara’s commands. Didn’t you share that with the other elders before the vote?”
The old man’s gaze wandered to Dimbae, then back to her. “I did. It is not accurate to say he was forced. He was not bound—he chose to obey her.”
“Zamara was threatening his sister. She’d murdered an innocent to control him before.”
“And he allowed himself to be controlled out of despair and shame. He did her bidding for years and spilled blood in her name.” The elder leaned on the cane beneath his beard. “Why do you argue this now? His fate has already been decided.”
Brooke clenched her fists. “Because this is more mob rule than it is justice.” She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “He could be the key to peace with the Emberhawk. You felt his heart just as I did. He is broken, but he could help us. He wants to help us.”
“And what do you want, young one? I can see your soul more clearly than I can see your crooked headdress.”
Brooke froze. The weight on her head did feel a bit off. She adjusted it and straightened her spine. “I want healing for my people. I want to honor my father’s and grandfather’s legacy. To avoid more bloodshed. And for us to all sleep without worry for tomorrow.”
The elder stared at her, motionless, until she had to fight the urge to look away.
“This is called lying by omission,” he said in that slow, crackly voice. A snicker-bird chittered from the nearby fig tree as if to laugh at her.
Brooke bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay, I also want a family, just like everyone else. Why is this suddenly about me? Perhaps you could appeal to the council for Lysander. He is the rightful king of the Emberhawk; he could be a great asset—”
“Perhaps you are more attached to him than you should be, since you were promised to each other at a young age.” The elder tilted his head. “Do you share an aether bond with him?”
Brooke recoiled. “Not in the truest sense. I . . .”
He just stared at her, those hazy eyes piercing her to the core. Like a butcher removing her heart with swift precision and displaying it on a plate for the world to see.
Brooke remembered her training—his training—and took a deep breath, then released her unease with it. Most of it, at least.
“I formed a bond with him as a youngling,” she admitted. “I thought it would have deteriorated by now.”
“Spirit bonds do not diminish with time or distance,” the elder said. His gaze softened. “The death of someone you are bonded to is always difficult. I am sorry for that. But it is your responsibility as chief to enforce the will of the people.”
Brooke nodded. “Always.” She crouched before him, her boots sinking into the rich soil. “Please, then, tell me what to do. Our people thirst for Emberhawk blood, and I don’t think Lysander’s will quench them. Illiana has stolen the throne from her brother Coriander and refuses to join the Alliance. She’ll be every bit the tyrant her mother was while the Malaano grow more threatening by the day—who knows how they will react to the loss of Vylia? It looks like this was all a manipulation to push us closer to war. And our city is in ruins. How can I possibly resolve all of this? Or any of it? I’ve agreed to marry the Darkwood prince but even that sacrifice may accomplish nothing in the end.”
The elder listened quietly, then spent another minute stroking his beard in thought. “Our situation is dire indeed. I will beseech the creator for wisdom on your behalf.” He placed an aged hand on her arm. “For now, go to the prison and tell Lysande
r goodbye. Acknowledge whatever he is to you, or whatever he was. Then you must let him go. Clear your mind. For the sake of our people.”
Brooke nodded slowly as a grim determination settled over her heart. “Yes, Master.”
By the time sugary citrus tarts had been served for dessert, Kira had almost forgotten about Lillian. Almost.
Her future mother- and sister-in-law were too good to be true. Wasn’t she supposed to not get along with in-laws? Gwyneth’s heart seemed as kind as her cooking was divine, and Aegwyn must have inherited a dash of the same light-hearted humor that Ryon had. Kira wondered what their father had been like and wished she could have met him.
“All right, off to bed with you.” Aegwyn shooed the orphans from the table to a chorus of disapproval. “Tell Miss Gwyn ‘thank you’ for dinner.”
“Thank you,” the children echoed.
Kira grinned as they left, little Mayla lagging behind with her floppy ragdoll. They functioned like a family . . . Kira wondered how they’d feel if any of the kids were actually adopted out. Ryon said a year had passed since the last adoption, and the older the orphans got, the lesser their chances became.
Mayla looked back and waved at Kira, who grinned and returned the gesture. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to grow up in the root tunnels, beneath the treetop city and all its toils. With a loving matron, half a dozen playmates, and the best cooking this side of the Silvermead River. And Ryon bringing them stolen delicacies from afar.
“Thanks, Mom,” Ryon said as he pushed an empty plate away. “You could open a restaurant, you know.”
“Oh no, I’d be much too rushed. And having to stop every five minutes to settle a dispute adds to the flavor.” She winked and gathered the dishes. “Thanks for the venison. The rest is drying in the oven. If you can gather some berries, I’ll buy some fat tomorrow, and we’ll have plenty of pemmican for the winter.”
Ryon’s expression hitched, but Kira couldn’t determine why. She stood to help Gwyneth with the dishes but was waved away.
“Did you . . . shoot this deer?” Kira asked Ryon.
He smirked and tapped the edge of the lenses Felix had given him. “It’s easy to forget Zamara messed up my sight thanks to these. Just have to get used to holding my bow differently.” His chair scooted across the smooth stone floor as he stood and held a hand out to her. “How about a tour?”
Kira felt her cheeks warm as she took his hand. He never mentioned the blemish Kira had received from that same battle: the scar she bore in the shape of Zamara’s handprint around her neck. She hated the bumpy feel of it and felt certain people noticed. She’d planned to hide it by wearing her bandana around her neck, but this season was too hot for a neck-scarf.
Well, if her betrothed didn’t mind, she didn’t care what anyone else thought.
“Haven’t you given me a tour already?” Kira asked.
“You haven’t seen the half of it, my dear,” Gwyneth called from the kitchen. “Thank you for joining us for dinner. It has been a pleasure getting to know you.” Her proud smile shone under hanging garlic braids and drying herbs. “My Idryon chose well.”
The warmth in Kira’s face spread to her ears. “Thank you. It has been wonderful getting to know you as well.” She was certain she’d butchered the Phoeran word for “wonderful.”
“Visit us as often as you like,” Gwyneth said. “You two have fun.”
Kira’s fingers tingled in Ryon’s hand—he hadn’t let go. He moved toward an opening behind the children’s playroom, pushed it aside, and beckoned her forward with an excited light in his gaze.
Her own excitement mingled with a timid flutter in her chest. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” Ryon chuckled as he watched her from the corner of his eye. “Your nervousness is adorable.”
Kira pursed her lips. “Is there any emotion I can have that you don’t think is adorable?”
“Nope.”
Kira sighed. She’d walked right into that one. Of course, her fiancé thinking she was cute wasn’t a bad thing. She’d just like to be respected every once in a while, but most people only saw the short, harmless girl she appeared to be.
Except Brooke, who seemed to appreciate the intellect that Kira sharpened beneath. Tall, muscular, intimidating-as-a-wyvern Brooke.
“Everything okay?” Ryon asked.
Kira cleared her throat. “Yes. You?” She ducked under a twisting root as she followed him. “You seemed a little off when your mom was talking about pemmican.” She dared not mention Lysander and hoped that wasn’t what his strange reaction had been about.
“Ah. You’re a perceptive one.” Ryon forged onward, not turning his face back to her as he spoke. “No big deal. It’s just not as easy to find the time to hunt and forage now that I’m Brooke’s advisor. But with the pay increase, I can just buy the berries she needs. Assuming anyone is willing to sell food right now . . . Everyone is hoarding whatever they can.”
Kira searched for the source of emotion behind his tone. “But you were able to bring that venison home.”
“Yeah, and I still feel guilty about how long that took, even if most of the time I spent hunting was before dawn.” Ryon turned down a path that broadened beside a shriveled root. As they roamed farther from the light of the orphanage, he withdrew a candle from his belt. He snapped, and the wick burst into flame.
“Sounds like you’ve got the new job jitters,” Kira said.
“Well yeah, and Brooke is dealing with a lot of problems right now,” Ryon said. “As if a third of the city being damaged or destroyed wasn’t bad enough, the Malaano princess is a huge problem. And Brooke agreed to marry that d’hakka-of-a-prince from Darkwood. He’ll arrive soon.”
Kira had heard a surprisingly small amount of gossip about the royal wedding. Perhaps people had too much else to worry about at the moment. “So you’re concerned for her mental state?”
“Overall health is more like it,” Ryon muttered. “I’m shocked that the Emberhawk didn’t try to assassinate her during the attack.”
“They probably did,” Kira mused. “I heard they killed the former vice. But isn’t Brooke always surrounded by a bunch of invisible guards—the most skilled warriors in the tribe?”
“Not always.” Ryon tapped his foot, and little ripples in a puddle underfoot reflected the candle’s light. “Watch your step.”
Kira noted the slick spots on the tunnel floor and avoided them. “It’s good of you to think of her safety, but you’re not her bodyguard.”
“Yeah, my job is more important than that. I guard her mind . . . and her heart, if I can.”
Kira tugged at Ryon’s hand, and he stopped to look back at her. His brow knitted like storm clouds overshadowing the happiness he’d shown with family only minutes before.
“Is that in your job description?” Kira asked, trying to keep any jealousy off her face.
Ryon’s expression softened. “No,” he admitted, his rigid stance relaxing. “I just . . . she’s been more than my boss for a couple of years now. She’s one of my closest friends. That’s why I think . . .” He clenched his jaw for a long moment. “I think she made a huge mistake making me her advisor.”
Kira frowned. “Is that what’s been bothering you? You think you’re not good enough?”
“I know I’m not good enough. Advisors are supposed to be old—you know, wise. They’re supposed to have a flicker of a clue what they’re doing.”
Kira’s heart ached for him. “I thought only the elders were supposed to be old. How old was the last advisor?”
“Older than me.” Ryon looked down at her hand in his. “I just . . . There are probably hundreds of people in the tribe who’d have been a better choice than me. She just picked me because I’m her friend. And she was wrong.”
Kira took a step toward him and placed a hesitant hand on his jaw. His short stubble was scratchy, but she loved the way it felt regardless. “Maybe she wanted someone who knows the land and its people better
than anyone else. A scout who knows the hearts of the tribes because he’s travelled to each of them. A spy who knows the enemy more intimately than any city dweller.”
Ryon’s eyes widened a bit, then hardened. “She doesn’t need someone who ‘knows hearts.’ We’re on the brink of war—she needs someone with strength and experience.”
“Doesn’t she want peace?” Kira asked. “She has an entire city full of enraged people. Maybe she needs someone to remind her that her enemies are human. And as an Emberhawk yourself, you are a constant reminder to the Katrosi people that not all Emberhawk are violent. An Emberhawk royal, at that. You represent a hope for peace that otherwise seems impossible right now.”
Ryon stood still for a long moment. He said nothing.
“Doesn’t the creator say to love your enemies?” Kira whispered.
“Yes, but . . . it’s complicated. There is forgiveness, but there is justice, too.”
“You are the perfect person to find the balance.” Kira pushed up on her tip-toes and kissed his cheek. “I believe in you.”
Ryon turned his head and found her lips with his. He kissed her gently, then deeper as he pulled her close. Kira’s skin alighted, pulsing a yearning energy through her veins.
He pulled away far too quickly, still holding her tight as he grinned down at her. “Thanks, balemba. What would I do without you?”
She didn’t want to catch her breath. “You’d have died from infection.”
Ryon smirked. “Or I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place.”
“Would you shut up and kiss me?”
He chuckled and released her, leading her with a gentle touch. “This way.”
Kira grumbled after him through a winding maze of caverns bored by massive roots. An intersection of an ancient taproot and branching rhizome had been washed clean by an underground river, creating a spacious room. Mushrooms clung to the cave walls, glowing with faint teal, aqua, and green light. The water reflected the glow and harmonized with its own luminescence from the small fish darting beneath the surface.
Kira’s breath faltered as Ryon’s candle snuffed out with a whisper of elemental frost. He watched her awed reaction with a hopeful expression. In the absence of the firelight, the mushrooms seemed to glow brighter.
