Roark nodded, still scanning the hangar. “This is all very interesting, but I’m wondering when you’re going to tell me why I’m really here, your majesty.”
For a long moment, the conversation stalled. The machines chugged away around them, straining to fill the hush. “What gave me away?” he finally asked quietly.
“Everything.” Roark turned back around and slipped his hands into the pockets of his new sweater, offering the monarch a pitying smile. “But mostly, I never told Easton I was the third of my name.”
“Rookie mistake,” he muttered. He sighed, letting his bag slip from his shoulder to the floor with a solid thunk.
“Is it true?” Roark asked. “Are you her father?”
Darius Alezandri nodded, his expression unreadable. “I believe so.” He held up a finger and reached into the deep pocket of his pants, withdrawing a worn, yellowed photograph. He held it out for Roark to see. The paper shivered in his grasp. “Is this her mother?”
Roark felt his stomach vault. He pursed his lips and took the faded picture in hand. It felt strangely heavy pinched between his thumb and forefinger. In the photograph, a younger version of the man who stood before him had swept a young woman off her feet. She was plain but charming with wild dark curls and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. The last time he had seen Layla, she was yellow-eyed and snarling like an animal. A mutt.
Here, she looked like the girl he loved.
“Layla,” Roark found himself saying quietly.
“The love of my life,” Darius said. He took the photograph back quickly, as if afraid Roark might rip it up. “Is it true she named her Ronja?”
Roark looked up at the exiled king, studying the plains of his face. “Yes,” he conceded. “Ronja Fey Zipse.”
“Zipse?” Darius asked, his brows knitting. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, she changed it,” Roark answered carefully. He was not sure how much Darius knew about what had happened to Layla after his departure from Revinia. Whatever the case, he felt it was not his place to relay the story. “You never came back for her, for either of them,” he said. Anger he knew did not belong to him simmered beneath his skin.
“The Kev Fairla forced me to leave. They were trying to protect me, but I begged them to let me stay.” Darius reached up to scratch his temple, looking guilty despite his excuse. “If I had known Layla was pregnant, I would have returned no matter what it took.”
Understanding dawned on Roark, melting his secondhand rage. “You didn’t know.”
“No.” The king shook his gray head. “I did not.”
“Why did you bring me here? I’m not the person you should be having this conversation with.”
“Cowardice, I suppose.” Darius smiled wanly, looking over his shoulder at the hangar. Roark followed his gaze. Half a dozen soldiers marched single file toward a hulking tank belching black fumes. Ahead of them, one of the mammoth doors was rolling into the side of the mountain, ushering in gray sunlight. “I am not a father, Mr. Westervelt. I know nothing of my daughter. I swear, I will go before her and beg for her forgiveness, for a chance to know her. But first, will you tell me about her?”
Roark dragged his fingers through his hair, forcing out a tense breath. “Ronja is . . . ” He paused, unsure where to begin. “Ronja is strong. The strongest person I’ve ever known. She’s loyal, fiercely protective, funny, bullheaded. Beautiful.”
“You love her.”
Roark nodded, looking Darius straight in the eye. “I do. And I’ll protect her with my life.”
“You seem like a good man, Mr. Westervelt. I’ll admit I was wary when I heard your name.”
“I am not my father, or my grandfather.” Roark drew himself up to his full height. He had half an inch on Darius, which felt important in the moment. “I have spent my life trying to undo what they did to Revinia.”
“The Anthem is still active, then?”
Roark froze. “You—you know about the Anthem?”
“Know about it?” Darius chuckled. “How do you think I met Layla?”
15: Serve
Ronja awoke from a nightmare she could not remember. Her muscles were coiled, her skin coated with stale sweat. When she was under the influence of her Singer she had trained herself to block out dreams of any sort. They ran the risk of triggering The Quiet Song. She sometimes wished she could still force them away. That was the price of freedom, she supposed. She was free to feel anything. The trouble was, she usually felt everything.
The Siren sat up slowly, yawning and stretching. Her arm flopped over to the place Roark should have been. Her hand cut through air, landing in the depression his body had left. She looked over, her brow puckering. Where are you? She disentangled herself from the blankets and planted her feet on the stone floor. Dizzy, she made her way to the bathroom and flicked on the light.
No Roark. She itched her nose anxiously. He would not have gone to any official meetings without her. He was off sulking somewhere, then. The thought set her on edge. She shoved the shower curtain out of the way roughly and cranked the knob all the way to the right. Icy water shot out of the shower head. Ronja cursed, leaping away from the spray.
After a few tentative tests with her hand, she climbed back into the shower. She was not usually one to bathe every day, but she still felt grimy from the voyage. For a few minutes, she stood beneath the hot stream, allowing it to raise color in her skin. It did not soothe her as it had the night before. Rather, the heat stoked her paranoia. She snatched up the soap and began to scrub her body viciously. As soon as she was finished she shut off the water, hopped out of the stall, and grabbed the damp towel she had used the night before. Wrapping it around her torso, she stepped back into the bedroom.
“Skitz,” she muttered when she caught sight of her pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed. The second she put them back on she would reek, no matter how hard she scrubbed her skin. Ronja weighed her limited options, hugging herself as a little puddle of bathwater pooled at her feet. A tentative knock at the door made her jump, clutching the towel higher around her breasts. “Who is it?” she called, her voice cracking.
“Elise,” came a soft reply, thick with a Tovairin accent. Ronja raised her eyebrows at the unfamiliar name. As if registering her confusion, the visitor elaborated. “I have for you clothes.”
Ronja could not help it. She smiled. Holding up her towel with one hand, she padded over to the door and pulled it open. A pretty girl with a round face stood in the frame. Ronja quickly identified her as the girl who had led them to their room the night before. Today, she wore a warm brown shift that fell to her knees and black winter stockings. In her arms was a bundle of fresh clothes.
“Thanks,” Ronja said gratefully, pinning her towel to her chest with her forearm and reaching out for the garments. Elise handed them over, then turned to leave. “Wait,” the Anthemite yelped. The girl stiffened, peeking over her shoulder with eyes flown wide. “Uhhh . . . ”
Ronja did not know why she had stopped Elise from leaving. She was not in the mood to socialize, particularly with a stranger. Hugging her clothes to her chest with one arm, she stuck out her free hand. “Ronja,” she introduced herself. “Perlo.”
Elise stared at the offered hand blankly. Ronja kicked herself internally. Tovairins did not shake hands. She was about to exchange one greeting for another when Elise gripped her fingers lightly.
“Pevra,” she said in a whispery voice. She retracted her hand at once, as if the touch had shocked her. Ronja let her arm drop.
“I . . . ” Her stomach growled as if on cue. “Kann,” Ronja blurted the Tovairin word for food. She laid her hand flat on her stomach. “Hungry.”
“Yes,” Elise said, brightening up. Ronja had started to wonder if she was capable of smiling. “Hungry,” she repeated, rolling the word around on her tongue.
“Great,” Ronja said with a relieved sigh. She opened the door wider and scooted aside. “Come in, just give
me a minute to get dressed.”
Elise paled. She shook her head fervently, her black hair rippling. “Nis,” she muttered, casting her eyes to the floor.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Ronja assured her. Elise shifted from foot to foot, tucking a strand of hair over her ear. The Siren shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She shut the door, letting her towel crumple at her feet. Stepping over the sopping cloth, she carried her new clothes to the bed to examine them.
They were simple and well made. Thick brown leggings with a drawstring at the waist. A knit navy sweater with soft fur around the collar. Clean woolen socks, underwear, and a cotton undershirt. Ronja felt a surge of longing for the leather coat Evie had given her after their return from Red Bay. Her chest tightened.
Evie. Brave, impulsive, smart as a whip with a right hook that could dent steel. Somehow, Ronja had started to take her for granted. Iris, too. Now, they were . . .
Ronja snapped the thought in two. Food. She needed food. Then she would find Roark and they would force Easton to make up his damn mind. Sparking with sudden resolve, she dressed quickly. Part of her feared Elise would evaporate if she left her alone for too long. She tugged the sweater over her head. It was a bit loose, but then maybe it was supposed to be. The leggings fit her perfectly and the undergarments and socks were surprisingly soft. She found her boots at the end of the bed, laced them tight, and hurried back to the door.
Thankfully, Elise was still waiting for her outside, chewing her lip. “Thanks,” Ronja said as she shut the door. The Tovairin girl nodded, then started down the hall. The Anthemite followed, her footfalls bouncing down the corridor. No one else was around. For that, Ronja was grateful. She was not in the mood to be gawked at like a circus animal. “So, what do you do around here?” she asked Elise.
The girl did not reply, nor did she turn around. Her long black hair swayed against the small of her back.
Fine, Ronja thought gruffly. She was not usually one for small talk, anyway.
“Serve.”
Ronja blinked. “What?”
“Serve,” Elise repeated without turning around. “I serve.”
“Elise, triv el ent la?” a stern voice called.
Elise scraped to a halt, her muscles bunching with fear. She wheeled around, her eyes flown wide and her tanned skin bleached. Ronja stiffened as warning bells pealed in her head. She spun to greet the owner of the voice.
A young man with night-dark skin and short dreadlocks was striding toward them confidently. White reshkas crawled up the side of his neck, branching all the way to his right temple. He scraped to a halt, his deep set eyes darting back and forth between them suspiciously. “Hist fen?” he asked, clearly speaking to Elise.
“Ronja,” she answered in a tiny voice. She angled her face toward the floor and twisted the fabric of her dress.
“Go,” the man ordered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Elise hurried away without so much as a glance at Ronja. The Siren watched her go with narrowed eyes. The entire exchange had left her feeling unsettled.
“You must be the Anthemite.”
Ronja looked at the man, her pulse stumbling. “Who are you?” He did not appear particularly threatening, yet Elise had trembled before him as if he were ten feet tall. Just like she did with Easton, she realized faintly.
“My name is Paxton,” he answered, pressing a polite fist to his forehead and chest. “Personal assistant to Commander Easton.”
“Ronja,” she replied shortly. She jerked her chin in the direction Elise had taken off. “What did you say to her?”
Paxton cocked his head, considering her. “Is that really your business?” Ronja did not have a good answer for that. The man smiled tightly. “Elise was due to report to her grav twenty minutes ago, and she was not cleared to approach you.”
“Grav?”
“The closest word you have would be boss.”
“Right.” Ronja gave Paxton another quick scan. He was clean cut, strong, a bit on the short side. He appeared to be about her age, maybe a few years older. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”
“Commander Easton is deliberating your request,” Paxton answered, adopting a formal tone. “He sent me to show you around.”
“I’m not a bloody tourist,” Ronja seethed. “I need you to take me to the commander, now.”
Paxton shut her down. “The commander is not receiving guests at the moment.” His tone was even, but his eyes were sharp as flint. “He has requested you and your partner be shown around so that you might better understand our way of life.”
Ronja raised an eyebrow at him, her thoughts thrumming. His accent was a blend of Tovairin and something else she did not recognize. His grasp of the common language was as good or better than Easton’s. “My partner,” she said. “Where is he?”
“On his own tour,” Paxton answered. “You’ll see him soon.”
Ronja did not reply at once, chewing on the new information. Her brain threatened to spin out with panic, imagining Roark being tortured for information, or worse, dead on that black sand beach. Jonah would never let that happen, she reminded herself. But why the tours? What the hell was Easton playing at?
There was only one way to find out. “Fine,” she said, surrendering. “Give me the grand tour. Maybe you can answer some of my questions.”
Paxton smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Perhaps.”
16: The Burning Ones
Paxton led Ronja through the meandering corridors of the temple. He was easier to keep up with than Roark and Jonah, but still they moved at steady clip. It was impossible to tell which direction they were headed—all the halls looked the same—but she got the sense they were moving toward the edge of the compound. The air was growing steadily colder, the tunnels busier. She did not see any soldiers today, mostly just Kev Fairlans in civilian clothes similar to her own. They whispered to one another in their native tongue as she passed.
“They’re just cautious around newcomers,” Paxton explained. Ronja glanced at him sidelong. He must have sensed her twinge of discomfort. He was perceptive, maybe too perceptive. “They’re not saying anything unsavory.”
The Siren shrugged. “Whatever it is, I promise I’ve heard worse.”
Paxton tilted his head to the side, clearly expecting her to elaborate. When she did not, he changed the subject. “The Temple of Entalia has been here for generations,” he said. “The main room you entered through is carved from the volcano, Entalia.”
Ronja raised her eyebrows. “The volcano is named after the goddess?”
“No.” Paxton shook his head, his dreadlocks flopping against his temples. “The ancients believed the goddess was the volcano.”
“Huh.” Ronja paused, chewing her lip. “What do you believe?”
Her guide smiled vaguely, but did not answer. It seemed she was not the only one prone to skirting around personal questions.
“Why set up your headquarters in a volcano?” she asked, curiosity bleeding through her agitation. “Is that not a little . . . ”
“Dangerous?” Paxton passed her a wry smile. “No. Entalia has been extinct for thousands of years. I am not sure when the last eruption was, you would have to ask Cas. He’s the keeper of the temple.”
Ronja nodded. “Yeah, we met last night.”
Paxton chuckled under his breath. “He likes to greet newcomers, wants to make sure they’re not here to steal the treasure.”
“Treasure?” she repeated dubiously. “Jonah said the Kev Fairla was broke.”
Paxton grinned, revealing a small gap between his front teeth. “Just an old legend, but it occasionally draws treasure seekers crazy enough to walk through a war zone.”
They rounded a sharp corner that dumped into a narrow hallway. It was considerably dimmer than the one they had come from and was entirely vacant. Ronja tensed. She struggled to keep her anxiety off her face, but felt as though her guide could smell it on her skin. “The beach
we arrived at seemed pretty quiet,” she said in an attempt to distract him. “Not how I pictured a war zone.”
“Most of the fighting is on the other side of the island, or on the water,” Paxton explained. “The Vintians took the main port, Yeille, a few months back. They’re basing out of there.”
Ronja hummed thoughtfully, intrigued despite herself. “Why did you choose this as your base?”
“Difficult to bomb, easy to get lost in these tunnels. We set bonfires in the crater every now and then. As far as the Vintians know, Entalia is ready to blow.”
Ronja could not help but smile at that, thinking that Terra would be impressed with their tactics. “Smart.”
“That was all Easton,” Paxton said, his voice surprisingly tender. “He has a knack for that sort of thing. Part of what makes him a great leader.”
Ahead of them, a door opened, spilling cold light and raised voices. Ronja stopped, her muscles coiling. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and narrow shoulders stepped into the corridor, his eyes on a stack of papers. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but had an official air about him that made her think he might be some sort of general.
“Silas,” Paxton called. Silas looked up, surprised. He started to smile, but faltered when he caught sight of Ronja.
“Hist fen?” he asked, directing the question at Paxton as he approached them.
“Ronja,” the Siren answered before he could. She was getting tired of others introducing her. Remembering the Tovairin custom, she tapped her fist to her forehead and chest. “Nice to meet you.”
“Silas,” he introduced himself, copying her greeting. He looked vaguely impressed. “You are the Revinian.”
“Yeah.”
Silas smiled, his honey-brown eyes illuminating with intrigue. “I would talk to you, sometime. Revinia is . . . ” He trailed off, rifling through his knowledge of the common language. “Strange.”
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