Even Faythe recoiled at the way the general replied to the King of Olmstone. As if he wasn’t likely twice Reylan’s age and superior in status. Presumably, acting in place of King Agalhor granted him equal rank during his stay.
“Olmstone grows smaller with the Stone Men occupying the passes. There is simply not enough territory for my people. Rhyenelle has no right to that land.”
“What you do with your land and who you let run it is none of our concern. The borders remain. We will not surrender Fenher for nothing in return.”
Finishing his indisputable statement, Reylan’s eyes flashed upward. Faythe jerked back as they landed directly on her. She would have passed it off as coincidence, a simple bored gaze around the room, except his look lingered specifically on the vent she peered out of for a second too long. She felt doused in ice. It was irrational to believe he was able to hear her. She had put effort into being as still as the dead and was far enough away from the metal lattice that visibility was near impossible. Even for a fae.
She shook the thought as Reylan’s eyes returned to the king in front of him. Faythe could feel the tension rising in the room.
Orlon’s voice sounded next. “I think it remains to be negotiated,” he interjected as if to calm both sides.
“There is nothing to negotiate,” Reylan said coolly.
Faythe’s eyes widened at his misplaced courage. Going head-to-head with powerful royals was never a smart choice. Then again, Faythe supposed it was hypocritical of her to scold him for it.
Varlas slammed a fist on the table, rocking the few goblets of water as he seethed. “You have no authority to say that!”
It was a side to the king Faythe had never seen. She was a fool to think he could be any different, his sudden short temper reminding her a lot of her own cruel king.
Reylan didn’t balk. “I speak for Rhyenelle.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to admire his boldness or cringe at it.
The King of Olmstone braced his hands on the oak table and rose from his seat to stare the general down. Reylan remained unfazed by his attempt to assert dominance. Instead, he leaned back casually in his chair, and Faythe imagined his cool demeanor riled the royal even further.
“Agalhor cannot be too concerned with current affairs if he sends his dogs to speak for him,” Varlas hissed.
Reylan took the insult, rising slowly from his seat to level with the king in a deadly stare-off. Faythe’s heart was erratic in her chest at the growing suspense. She had no love for anyone in that room, yet she found herself rooting for the Phoenix against the two-headed wolf.
The general’s voice was lethally calm as he said, “I’ll ignore the disrespect just this once, King Varlas, and I don’t mean toward myself.” He stood proud in his colors of crimson, black, and gold, and Faythe could see exactly why the King of Rhyenelle entrusted him to act in his place. Even she felt mildly intimidated by the white lion despite not being part of the congregation below. Reylan went on, “So far, you have made demands but no offerings. The borders will remain.” His closing statement left no room for argument.
Varlas flinched as if to retort, but it was Orlon who cut in. “Perhaps we shall save such matters for when Agalhor himself can be present. As I’m sure you can respect, General Reylan.”
She didn’t expect her own king to be the voice of reason, but it seemed to work, for Varlas straightened and decided against pushing the matter. The general gave one short nod at the decision to postpone the obvious conflict—something it seemed was a long-standing negotiation between Olmstone and Rhyenelle.
“Then we are done here for today,” Orlon concluded.
The Phoenix and the wolf stared off for a moment longer as everyone else started to rise from their seats. Then, for a brief second, Reylan’s eyes once again drifted upward to land on Faythe’s inconspicuous position. She recoiled, pulse racing at the possibility he knew she was there the whole time. It would only add to his suspicions about her as he would no doubt assume it was by Orlon’s command.
When his eyes fell back down, he moved from behind his seat to take leave. Faythe held back her small gasp, knowing exactly where he would be headed next: to the stables, where they had agreed to meet yesterday.
Like a rodent outrunning a flood, she scurried back down the passageway. She swiped the discarded torch that still burned a bright blue and ran, not bothering to even try being quiet as it was clear now the passageways were long-forgotten and unused. She passed the intersection and hesitated for a brief second at the alternative route she didn’t have the chance to explore. Considering the hideout she’d found, she could only imagine what else might be down there that could be useful.
It would have to remain to be discovered…for now.
“You’re too tense.”
Faythe couldn’t argue with the Rhyenelle general’s observations as she sat on top of a large brown-and-white stallion. She must have looked as rigid as she felt.
They were the first words either of them had spoken since leaving the stables five minutes ago to stroll around the horse fields near the castle. They went at a painstakingly slow pace thanks to Faythe’s unease.
Next to her, Reylan rode effortlessly on his great black mare, Kali. His silver-white hair was stark against the obsidian of the horse’s coat, making them an alluring pair of darkness and light. A semblance of the lunar night sky. He sat lazily, his body partially turned to observe Faythe, holding the reins loosely in one hand.
Although she had raced to beat him to the stables after the council meeting ceased, she was baffled to find the general was the one waiting for her when she approached. He had even stopped to ditch the heavy formal attire he wore to the meeting. Mercifully, he didn’t seem apprehensive when she turned up. She felt confident he didn’t really catch her in her hiding place as she would expect him to call her out and solidify his claim that she was Orlon’s cunning spy.
“Riding requires trust on both ends,” he continued coolly.
She hated to admit Reylan’s calm voice worked wonders to slow her racing heart. A voice that could both inspire strength and invoke fear given the situation. She relaxed her shoulders and loosened her viselike grip on the reins. After another minute, realizing she wasn’t about to be thrown from the saddle, a small, triumphant smile tugged at her lips. She actually enjoyed riding. Sitting high above another walking creature—it was a powerful notion.
Faythe looked to Reylan. “Why do they call you the white lion of the south?” she asked, more as a distraction than anything else.
He huffed a laugh. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
Faythe didn’t respond.
“During the Great Battles, I borrowed the ability of a Shapeshifter for long enough to turn myself into an abnormally large white lion and take out a significant portion of an enemy legion.”
Though he passed the story off nonchalantly, Faythe gaped a little. She had never seen a Shapeshifter before and blanched at the thought of the fae beside her having the ability to switch forms into something that powerful and terrifying. It brought forth another burning question.
“How does your ability work, exactly? I mean, you said the Firewielder wouldn’t notice the power you took, but the first night at the feast, you took all of mine, didn’t you?”
He cast her a sideward glance, and she could see he was deliberating how much he could trust her to share. “I can sense an individual’s ability from across a room—what it is, how powerful they are—and I can take as much as I like. Temporarily, of course.”
Faythe stayed silent, soaking in the information.
“You can imagine my surprise at sensing you, a human, with more power than anyone in the castle and you don’t even realize.” Their eyes met, and Faythe swallowed hard at the intensity in the general’s look. “I’ve never come across anything like it in my four hundred years. So, I took it all, just to experience it fully. I’ve taken complete abilities before and been able to hold them for days, but your
s…it was draining. I don’t think I could have harnessed it for even a day. Not all of it anyway.”
Faythe broke the stare to look ahead. She felt herself sway a little and couldn’t be sure if it was from all the revelations or the horse’s uneven trot. First of all, Reylan’s age surprised her. A century may not be much in the lifespan of a fae, but considering he appeared no older than Nik, Faythe didn’t expect the age difference. Second, it unnerved her greatly to hear him speak of her ability. He sensed its full extent when she barely knew what that was.
She took a deep breath to calm her mind. “Can you only use one ability at a time?”
“I can hold several in smaller strengths. My record is four, during the Great Battles and others. It comes in useful to have so many options to call upon. But the more I have, the quicker I burn out. All magick has its limits. If it didn’t, I’m sure we would have all destroyed each other by now.”
“We’re not far off.”
“No, we’re not.”
Before the heavy mood could settle, Faythe said, “So, you’re a magick thief?”
Reylan chuckled, deep and genuine, and Faythe cursed herself for delighting in the sound. “A Mindseer,” he corrected her. “I’ve only come across a handful of others in my lifetime.”
At least he had a term to describe what he was. Faythe couldn’t decide if it was liberating not to be categorized or if it made her feel even more alienated from the world.
“People must fear you,” she wondered, “being able to strip them of their abilities.”
Reylan studied her as if gauging whether she spoke of her own fear for what he was capable of. She didn’t know why it pained her that he seemed to expect her to fear him, but not out of want.
“Those who don’t know how it works or aren’t strong enough to block me—yes, they can be…unreceptive of my kind.”
For a moment, Faythe felt connected to the general in some despairing way, as if they both understood what it was like to be outcast, different from any conformity that left people no choice but to bow to fear of the unknown.
He seemed to read the thought in her expression, adding, “There are usually two types of people: those who fear power, and those who want power. We’re often judged by what we are rather than who we are.”
Faythe said nothing though his words struck a chord. What she had come to discover about the general was that he was a puzzle of broken pieces, but it was on purpose, for even if one attempted to figure him out, he held the missing shards buried deep. He didn’t care what people perceived him as without those pieces. Faythe found herself admiring him, maybe even envying him, for that trait.
At risk of allowing her guard to slip, she diverted the topic. “How does someone block you?”
Again, Reylan took a deliberate pause but seemed to decide she wasn’t much of a threat. “Abilities like ours, like the Nightwalkers’, can always be blocked. We don’t attack physically; we go for the mind, the most powerful weapon of all. It has the capacity to defy us from taking what isn’t ours if the host is aware,” he explained, holding her stare. “I guess it all comes down to who is the strongest.”
“You’ve bypassed a block before,” Faythe stated.
Reylan gave a short nod. “Yes. But challenging someone to take their ability can harm them greatly. I’ve only ever had cause to in the face of an enemy.”
So, he isn’t devoid of morals. A soothing thought at last. Faythe doubled back to something that grabbed her curiosity. “How do you know when you’re close to your limit?”
His eyes narrowed a fraction, and for a moment, she worried she’d pushed too far for knowledge and exposed her lack of it. While she could feel his swirling essence of suspicion, her tension eased slightly when he continued to answer.
“It takes time and practice to recognize it. Those of us with abilities can push our physical bodies past their limit of harnessing power, and it can kill us. Think of it as nature’s fail-safe to stop us from destroying others or the world. Use too much of the power you’ve been blessed with, and it will consume you. There is no switch-off, no plug to pull to make you unable to call upon your magick anymore; you have to recognize when you’ve depleted your well, reached your own limit—and know when to stop.”
Faythe shuddered involuntarily at the notion. It made sense, and part of her was relieved to discover her magick wasn’t limitless or unchallenged. But it also terrified her that she didn’t have a clue about her own restrictions and might one day push herself beyond capacity without realizing. She didn’t respond, staring directly ahead, pale-faced in her cold dread.
Reylan pulled at his reins, and Kali came to a stop. Faythe’s horse walked a few more paces before she mimicked his action and halted in the same manor. Her heartbeat spiked as she waited in giddy anticipation for his reason to stop.
The general walked Kali a few more paces until he stood horizontal in her path. “Who are you really, Faythe?”
She shifted in her saddle at the question. Despite the cold winter air and her fear, her body flushed with sticky heat under his interrogation. “I was raised in the castle with—”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.” He immediately cut off the false tale of her upbringing. “But that’s not the truth now, is it?”
She swallowed hard, coming up short of convincing ways to back up the story of her childhood. When she didn’t respond, he continued.
“A human girl raised in a court of fae in High Farrow, yet she can’t ride a horse, doesn’t have the etiquette of a lady, seems to have every guard around her on edge, lives within the guest quarters, and has no idea about her own ability’s extents and limits.”
Faythe could only stare in panic as he called her out on every detail that discredited her story. While she thought she had done a commendable job of blending in and remaining inconspicuous, Reylan’s eagle-eye observations had picked up on everything.
He knew the lies, but not the truth.
“Who I am is none of your concern,” she said coldly.
“It is if you’re a threat.”
Her lips curled up in amusement. “Careful, Reylan. You wouldn’t want people finding out the great Rhyenelle general is quaking in his boots over a mere human girl.”
“You’re not just any mere human girl though, are you?”
“Am I not?” she challenged.
His eyes flashed, and she couldn’t be sure if it was in delight or warning. “It’s not I who should be careful, Faythe.”
She dismissed him with her eyes. “If you want to be the one to end my life, you can join the damn line.”
His amusement faltered, yet he said nothing further.
Tired of the teasing, Faythe tugged on one side of the reins, a little surprised but glad when the horse turned around and started walking back toward the stables. She got all of a few feet before Kali once again crept up like a midnight shadow beside her. She made no effort to turn to the black beauty’s rider.
“Where did you really grow up?” Reylan asked, his voice unusually soft.
While she wasn’t in the mood, she appreciated his efforts at a civil conversation. Her cover was blown—or, she supposed, had never really existed with him. He could hand her in for glory and prize any moment he felt like it, and sharing some of the truth would do nothing to change that.
“In the human town of Farrowhold,” she said, which felt liberating to admit. She had no reason to pretend she was something she wasn’t in front of Reylan anymore.
“Parents?”
Faythe winced. “My mother died when I was nine. I’ve never known my father.”
The general was silent. It was a long enough pause that she turned to glimpse his reaction, surprised to find his brow creased in his own deep thoughts.
Thinking perhaps she’d triggered dark memories of his own past, she said, “What about you?”
He met her eye then, and she detected his suppressed sadness. Before she could think anything of it, he wiped his expression blank. “They
died around the start of the war,” was all he said, in a way that didn’t feel right to press further.
But Faythe was quick to asses the timeline. The war began over five hundred years ago, and Reylan was four centuries old. She wondered how young he was when he was abandoned in the world, and it emitted a pinch in her chest.
“It seems we’ve both suffered at the hands of Valgard,” she said quietly.
Reylan nodded. “Us and many others.”
“Do you think it’ll ever end?” Faythe didn’t expect a realistic answer. Rather, she hoped for some insight from someone who was constantly on the front lines.
“Everything has an end. It is both the most feared and most anticipated part. Variable, uncertain, unpredictable. There are two sides: those who are fighting to live, and those who are fighting to conquer. But who wants it more? Whoever can answer that has already lost the war.”
A heavy weight settled over her. “It doesn’t sound as if you hold encouraging odds for us.”
“If you want the truth, Faythe, count yourself lucky if we hold out long enough that you’re not alive when the beginning of the end falls upon us.”
The beginning of the end. All too familiar words. Faythe’s hands trembled on the reins. Even though he spoke as if it wasn’t her fight, simply a waiting game to see if she would die before the worst came to pass, Faythe didn’t see it as such. She was human, inferior in almost everything when it came to the front lines of battle, yet she had never felt such a burning need to do everything in her power to fight back. While she could, while she was still alive, she knew she would give everything she had to stand up against the forces that threatened the balance of her world.
“Maybe it’s time to strike back instead of waiting like sheep for slaughter.” It came out as a bitter accusation, but it was not Reylan she directed it toward. She knew nothing about the tactics of war or the alliance, nor the formation and numbers of the kingdoms’ armies, but she felt a sudden rush of frustration that nothing was being done to counter the threat. In her lifetime, there had been no retaliation, no uprising, no talk of avenging the centuries’ worth of death and destruction at the hands of the enemy.
A Queen Comes to Power: An Heir Comes to Rise Book 2 Page 19
