by Jamie Foley
The people lit up, brightening the hall just as much as the dancing flames.
Lysander didn’t care to keep the disgust from his face. It was like looking into a mirror from his own past, just a different culture where apparently shirtlessness was a thing.
“He comes to take the hand of our chieftess in marriage and add the might of the Darkwood warriors to our own!”
The crowd’s response bellowed through the sound waves, but Lysander didn’t need to feel it to understand their clueless joy-filled faces. Anyone with half a brain would know that a woman like Brooke wouldn’t want to marry a boy like this. But of course, what she wanted didn’t matter.
Lysander turned and headed for the door behind the throne. Someone caught his arm. He turned back and met the gaze behind an orange mask. The soldier shook his head and pointed toward the grand double doors on the far side of the hall, beyond the crowd.
Lysander frowned. So he was just an ordinary citizen now with no access to the Great Hall? No, just a foreigner.
He’d never been average before. From prince to Zamara’s right hand to nothing.
No. He was still Emberhawk royalty, even if that didn’t mean much any more.
“I need to speak with Brooke,” Lysander said.
The soldier shook his head and pointed again to the far doors.
Thankfully, the translator jogged toward him. She didn’t seem quite as cold as she’d been in the prison. She signed the soldier’s words: “Did she summon you?”
“No, but she’ll want to speak with me.”
“That’s for her to decide.”
“I’m an herbalist—I’ve been aiding her recovery from dreamthistle.”
“You’ve been doing that from a safe distance, by speaking only with her healers, correct?”
Lysander opened his mouth to retort but stopped when the translator began her own conversation with the soldier. Lysander couldn’t see the man’s lips behind his mask, nor could he see the woman’s as her back was turned to him, so he waited and hoped.
A moment later, the translator turned back to him with a victorious grin. “We’ll escort you.”
He returned her smile. “Thanks.”
Tapestries that told stories of generations past adorned the wooden hallway. Lysander tried to distract himself with them as they passed one of the elders’ chambers. One he’d snuck into before. And if anyone ever found that out, his newfound freedom would surely meet its end at the edge of a Katrosi blade, asha’ai or not.
He clenched his fists as sweat slicked his palms. What if Brooke wouldn’t meet with him? Or what if she refused to teach him the magic of thought-speak? Could he find someone to teach him in Quin’Zamar? Or should he dare to show his face in the palace ever again, since Xavier had called him a traitor and was surely halfway to the border by now?
Lysander nearly tripped when he noticed that the translator had stopped in front of him. She knocked on the door.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. Why was he so nervous? He wasn’t used to feeling emotions so . . . intensely. How long had it been since he’d cared about anything?
The door opened, and the translator welcomed him inside the chief’s chambers.
Lysander’s blood surged faster than it should have as he entered. These people were idiots to trust someone like him in the most secure place in Jadenvive.
Brooke stuffed bundles of cloth and leather into a satchel. She didn’t bear any face paint, and her braids were tied up in a long strand of ribbon. She wore common clothes, and a long hood trailed down the dark cloak on her back.
Lysander frowned. Where is she sneaking off to?
Brooke glanced up and waved the translator away. Her words were plain on her lips. “I don’t need translation, thanks.” She pointed at the soldier. “You, stay.”
So not all of them were idiots.
Lysander cleared his throat as the translator left behind him. “I, uh . . . They granted me asha’ai.”
Good. Brooke’s voice rang like an angel’s song through his head. You deserve it. She continued packing with haste.
Yearning billowed up inside him, smothering all fear. It wasn’t like hearing again, but it was so close. So beautiful.
He needed it. He’d do anything.
Lysander swallowed. “Please teach me your thought-speak.”
Brooke only paused for a half-second. I can sense your feelings along with your thoughts, you know.
Horror dawned on him. “Y-you can?”
Was that a smirk on her face?
First you’ll need to learn to harness aether, then to craft a sort of shield around your mind to protect yourself.
Lysander straightened his back. “I learned those things as a boy to prevent spying and manipulation on the monarchy.”
Oh, good. That’ll save a lot of time. Brooke grabbed an etched knife from the wall and slipped it into a sheath. Assuming you’re not lying. You have no mental shields at all even though you know I’m a thought-reader.
He felt his face flush and cursed his pale skin for showing it. “I didn’t know you were an empath as well.”
There’s a lot you don’t know.
Lysander clenched his jaw as she took a long spear from a mount on the wall. “Where are you going?”
To the Emberhawk Sovereignty, and you’re coming with me. We’re putting your brother on the throne.
She might as well have slapped him in the face. He mustn’t have heard her right, and yet her voice in his head was as clear and apparent as a sunny day.
“Shouldn’t you be recovering from dreamthistle?”
Illiana refuses to join the Alliance or take responsibility for Zamara’s actions. She seized the throne, upending the proper line of succession. Brooke wrapped twine around a bundle of cloth, cinching it tight. Since you abdicated, the crown should fall to Coriander. Isn’t that right?
Foreboding lodged in Lysander’s chest. “Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Illiana was Zamara’s chosen heir since she branded Cori a traitor.”
Doesn’t that fly in the face of your laws? Brooke said. Didn’t you say your people always need a king and queen to rule, and that one cannot rule without the other?
“Yes, so I’m sure Illiana is seeking a husband and will marry quickly.” He lowered his voice. “My people do not get a say in politics as yours do, unless they are a noble house bound to the monarchy through marriage.”
Well, we’re going to give them a voice. Brooke shoved the bundle into her bursting pack with excessive force.
Lysander watched her for a long moment. “It’s a fool’s errand.”
Then you can ask the Elder of Aether to teach you.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” Lysander blurted.
Brooke wrapped the leather strap around a bone hook, wrenching the pack closed. Oh, you prefer me to teach you? She smirked up at him. The elder has half a century of experience and taught me everything I know. Why me?
Lysander grasped for a response that wasn’t a complete lie, as she would certainly discern it. “You don’t have a beard.”
Her laughter flitted through his mind, rich and deep. See my requisition officer for any supplies you’ll need. She slung the pack over her shoulder. We leave before nightfall.
“What about the Darkwood prince?” Lysander regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. But he’d already stepped in it. “You must know he just arrived.”
Brooke’s expression soured. She grabbed the spear and inspected its metal tip. Thank you for saving my life.
Lysander blinked. She had a habit of evading topics she didn’t like. Definitely a politician.
He shrugged. “I didn’t have anything better to do.”
Brooke fell quiet for a long moment as she ran a hand along the polished spear, paying special attention to the knots in the glazed wood. I know I’m asking a lot of you. She looked up at him and caught him in an enrapturing copper gaze. Can I trust you?
Lysander
forced himself to look away, glancing at a shelf full of scrolls and books instead. “I think you already know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t have asked me to come.”
It was her turn to flush, though it didn’t show as strongly on her tanned complexion. Perhaps his eyes deceived him.
That remains to be seen. Brooke stepped close and stared up at him, spear in hand. Regardless, I do not fear you.
Nothing about her composure gave him any reason to doubt her words—she stood strong and unwaveringly confident before him despite their vast difference in height. The lines of stress that faintly graced her face did little to hinder her beauty.
But perhaps because of their former relationship, or perhaps because of the bond lashing them together, or perhaps because of his former aether training, Lysander sensed she was lying.
Brooke opened the dark pantry and inhaled the scents of dried beef, scarlet long pepper, and mesquite smoke. Strips of jerky, too numerous to count, hung by hooks above racks of cranberry pemmican.
She allowed herself a moment to relish the fond memories the scents evoked. Hunting trips with her father. Camping with her mother. Her solo expeditions into the Gnarled Wood, hoping to slay two d’hakka and wear their tail spikes in her headdress if she could pass the trials and be selected as chief.
The size and complexity of that confounded headdress took up an entire pack on its own. Bringing it was a risk and a burden, but she’d decided it was necessary in case she needed to reveal herself or prove her identity to Coriander. Dimbae could carry more bags than an ox, anyway.
How many provisions to pack, though? Two women—herself and Nariellyn—but Nari had a taste for sweets, so she’d have to pack extra honey drops to keep her from griping along the trail. And three men—Dimbae, another azure mask, and Lysander. The trip to the Emberhawk border wasn’t far, but where was Coriander’s hideout? Surely not so far as Quin’Zamar on the southern coast, as he’d want to keep his family as far from the palace as possible.
Brooke rapped her fingers on the pantry’s doorpost. Probably no more than a week’s worth of food was needed. So she’d pack for two. She didn’t want to spare the time for hunting or foraging.
“Here’s all the journeycake we’ve got on hand,” said the plump chef from the kitchen island. She folded cloth over yellow bread with dizzying speed and tied the corners. “If you’ve got a half hour to spare, I can make a dragon’s weight in anything you’d like.”
Brooke did a quick calculation and grabbed several pounds of jerky and pemmican. “That’s all right. I’ll just take some nuts and dried fruit.”
A servant girl took Brooke’s handfuls as another dashed for a stack of baskets near the ovens. The chef finished her wrapping and stacked the loaves. “Aye, and we’ll send some fresh jomoco—they’ve got a good shelf life. First of the harvest came in just yesterday. The winds are with you, Stillwind.” She winked, then put a hand on a voluptuous hip. “You could stop by Monty’s if ya need more provisions in a hurry. I happen to know he’s well-stocked at the moment.” Her eyeroll delivered more meaning than her words.
Brooke couldn’t help but grin. “He kept you up late cooking again? Luckiest man in the city.”
The chef sighed as she moved to stir an iron cauldron over the wide hearth. “Why don’t you tell him that on your way out? Of course demand is high right now as people stock up, and that’s all right, but a woman’s gotta rest when she gets home from a hard day’s work. Don’t you agree?”
Brooke prevented a selfish retort from tumbling out of her mouth. Instead she hoped her genuine smile was still intact. “Completely.”
The chef’s mirth dimmed as she stepped forward and laid a soft hand over Brooke’s. “You’re doing a great job, my lady. These tough times won’t last forever.”
Brooke relaxed a fraction. She’d never been able to hide anything from the master chef, whose cupboard she’d stolen biscuits from as a child. She’d normally been caught with a laugh instead of a reprimand.
She placed her other hand over the chef’s. “Thank you.”
The chef bowed her head. “Aeo leywa ai shea.”
“There you are.”
Brooke turned at the sound of Lysander’s voice. He stood at the kitchen doorway, apparently wary of entering the fray. Brooke ensured that Dimbae gathered the provisions as they were prepared, silently adding them to a bag with care.
She crossed to Lysander and did her best to prepare for whatever bad news he was bound to deliver. First an attack on the city by his unit, then one of his friendly assassin comrades trying to kill her, and now his deformed family tree would have to be uprooted and replanted by her—the unluckiest woman in the cosmos. Now what other lovely circumstances would he deliver?
“It would be great if you could give me a mask or badge or a letter with a seal of authority or something,” Lysander said as she approached. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to even get within speaking distance of you?”
Brooke summoned her aether to speak her thoughts directly to his mind. Her energy brightened within her soul and filled her body with gentle peace. Strange, she said to him. It’s almost like assassins are trying to kill me and the guards are on high alert or something. She eyed a small satchel in his hand. What is it? Are you ready to go?
“Yeah. Ready when you are.” Lysander held the satchel out toward her. “Here’s an antidote blend for your tea.”
Brooke shouldered past him without taking it, relieved that Lysander wasn’t associated with pandemonium this time. “Thanks. Help Dimbae carry our provisions if he needs it, please.” She said it both out loud and in her thoughts, creating a strange echo.
She suppressed a shudder. Hopefully Lysander could read lips instead of that becoming a regular dizzying sensation for her.
“I don’t need help,” Dimbae’s deep voice sounded behind her, as expected.
Lysander’s footsteps followed her into the hall. “I can read lips most of the time. I learned it for my . . . previous occupation before I lost my hearing.”
Brooke stopped and looked back at him. I didn’t send that thought to you.
He shrugged. “Well, I heard it.”
Alarm unsteadied her. That wasn’t normal. Either he had more previous aether training than he’d let on, or he was some sort of prodigy with thought-speak.
Perhaps she should work on her own mental shields.
Lysander held out the satchel again. “You should take this now if you want to feel well tonight,” he said. “Without it you will probably start to feel the side effects again. It’ll take a few days for your body to rid itself of the dreamthistle completely.”
Brooke gave him a sidelong glance over her shoulder as she strode toward Nariellyn’s quarters. It doesn’t look like tea.
Lysander looked confused. “I said it’s a blend for tea.”
She turned a corner. Do you expect me to chew dry herbs?
“Have you forgotten how to brew tea, Your Majesty?”
Brooke stopped short and turned on her heel. I’ve got a few more important things on my plate right now. If you’d like to help, perhaps you could pull your own weight.
Lysander glared down at her with maroon eyes. “Sorry, I guess I wasn’t pulling my weight when I saved your life.”
I thanked you for that. Brooke clenched her teeth. Look, I’m grateful for your remedies. Just have it brewed if you want me to drink it. I’m kind of busy. All the time. I thought that was obvious.
Lysander leaned to one side. “I didn’t sign up to be your servant. I just got away from Zamara, and I’m not doing that again.”
Anger ignited within Brooke, smothering her inner peace. Are you accusing me of treating my servants like Zamara did? My grandfather abolished slavery in the Katrosi tribe at great cost of life.
“Skies, you’re defensive. Do you not realize how lucky you are to have survived dreamthistle poisoning? You must not if you think the antidote isn’t important enough to take two minutes to brew some tea
.”
Brooke snorted and wished she had her warpaint and headdress on. Perhaps then he’d show some respect. I had a feeling you’d make this trip difficult, but I didn’t anticipate you’d start before we even left.
Lysander stared at her, motionless, for a long moment. “Why do you hate me?”
Responses swirled in Brooke’s head, each fighting to be selected. Because he complicated everything. Because he was a dark stain on her childhood memories. Because he was the definition of untrustworthy. Because he made her feel uncomfortable in the strangest way. Because he had no responsibility on his shoulders while she carried the world on hers.
Because his thoughts were woven with fondness for her, but only because she could help him “hear” again. He was selfish even in his shallow version of love.
Too late. About fourteen years too late.
Brooke released a hot breath. I don’t hate you.
Lysander’s eyes widened. “You still . . . ?”
Panic lanced through her. Surely he couldn’t sense her emotions, too?
No, there was nothing for him to sense!
His sharp features softened. “It’s all right. We were just kids. I’m sure I hurt you, somehow . . . I’m sorry.”
Brooke’s throat squeezed shut. “No, it’s not like that. I don’t . . . It was a long time ago. And I never did. Really.” She could feel herself sweating despite the element-enforced chill in the air. She realized after she’d blurted it out that she hadn’t used thought-speak and he probably didn’t understand her mashed jumble of denial.
Lysander shrugged. “Okay.”
Humiliation crashed down on her. Clearly he didn’t believe her. But wasn’t it obvious she detested him? He’d said so himself! She’d severed any attraction to him years ago.
Muffled shouting down the hall provided a blessed distraction. “Sir, you can’t go back there!”
“If you won’t tell me where she is, I’ll find her myself!”
Brooke felt her blood drain to her toes. That was the voice of Prince Soaring Heron.
He rounded the corner, coming into view too late for her to react. Sharp, dark eyes latched onto her and traveled up and down her features.
