With my senses so disoriented, I can hardly bring myself to care—to even summon a healthy dose of fear. But one thing is clear:
I did not travel through the portal alone.
ALEXANDER winces as he hears someone groan. For a moment, he thinks it might be Lucy, and he wills himself to fight against the powerful weakness keeping him pressed against the ground. When he hears the groan again, he realizes it’s coming from him. He grits his teeth to stop himself, embarrassed at the complete lack of control he has over his body at the moment. Horribly, it reminds him of when he was a boy and had nearly died of whooping cough. The pressure on his lungs is the same, as is the total inability to even lift his head.
I survived that, he thinks, surely I can survive a trip to another world. The thought is so ridiculous, of course, that he nearly laughs—or at least he would if he could do anything other than feel the soft, fragrant grass beneath his cheek.
He’d never intended to cross through the portal. The very existence of such a thing in Bath had shocked him, though he could feel the prana emanating from the place the moment he had set foot inside the Roman Baths.
But when he saw Lucy suspended above the water like some ancient goddess, he’d taken a step toward her as if in a trance, ignoring the very irate James Wyndam. Alexander’s uncanny reflexes were all that kept him from being punched square in the jaw. Alexander had ducked and swung around him, and before he’d quite made up his mind, had jumped into the Great Pool after her.
It was possibly the most foolish decision he’d ever made in his life, and Richard, left behind to deal with both James and Lady Thornewood, would likely kill him the moment he returned—if he returned.
It’d been a long time since anyone had mentioned a portal to Sylvania to him, and really, Alexander had always had his doubts. He knew the Sylvani came from there, of course, but he always thought of it as a one-way trip. But as the powerful spiritual power in the air keeps him flat against the ground, he has to concede that he isn’t in England any longer.
Instead of fighting the terrible pressure of the spiritual power, he decides to try a different tack through controlled relaxation. He methodically goes through each of the muscles in his body, relaxing each one while simultaneously taking deep breaths. By the time he reaches the muscles in his calves, his head feels clear enough to risk sitting.
The moment he pushes himself up and takes his first look around, he feels as though the breath is stolen from his lungs. The beauty and otherness of the landscape around him is astounding—from the trees and plants of such unusual color combinations that they hardly seem real, to the smells—like roses and hibiscus and lemon and verbena and yet none of those things, but rather a smell he’s never encountered before. He hears the roar of a waterfall in the distance and feels the warm sun upon his face, the soft breeze ruffling his hair.
Then, suddenly, the landscape is alive with other sounds: sounds of the imminent approach of others. Panicked, Alexander wills himself to stand. Lucy is not far from him, lying in a small heap upon the ground, no doubt as weak as he.
“Lucy,” he says, his voice coming out in a pathetic whisper.
He stumbles to his feet in a sheer burst of will, taking deep, restorative breaths. If not for his training, he wouldn’t have found the strength to fight the pressure of the powerful spiritual power all around him. The more he opens himself up to it, the more he can sense the sources of it: the ancient trees, the grass and earth beneath him, the stones, the mountains and waterfalls in the distance. And of course, the Sylvani hurrying toward them.
Movement draws his attention to the skies, and his whole body stills. A massive firebird soars above him, its wings the many colors of a sunset. But it’s not the bird itself so much as its rider that ensnares Alexander in an awe-struck stupor: a woman with Lucy’s eyes and mouth and hair so red and gold it looks like fire. The bird dives, and the woman’s eyes narrow, piercing and threatening all at once.
Before Alexander can dive out of the way, the bird stops, its powerful wings buffeting Alexander and Lucy with wind.
So distracted by this awesome display, Alexander doesn’t notice the advance of the other Sylvani until the sound of many men shifting in armor draws his attention away from the bird and the queenly rider.
Behind him stand twenty men and women dressed in armor so bright it’s like platinum. Runes and knotwork are engraved in the metal, and each soldier carries a three-headed spear. But it’s the enormous white wolves at their sides that exacerbate the fear already gripping Alexander’s chest.
Both the soldiers and wolves stand at attention, watching the woman in the sky. She remains astride the bird, her green eyes fixed on Alexander’s. With the armed soldiers and wolves at his back, and the obviously aggressive regal lady before him, Alexander suspects he may be in serious danger, though he does not yet know his offense. Still, his back is straight, his gaze unwavering.
A strange, sharp pain begins at the back of his head, quickly spreading to the front, until sweat beads at his brow. It increases in intensity as the lady’s green gaze remains on Alexander’s, and his hands clench into fists in pain. A torrent of memories flashes through his mind, things he never even knew he remembered: his mother singing to him as a baby of distant lands with tears in her eyes, the dark night after her burial, the many conversations he’d had with Lord Tyrell.
As suddenly as it had come, the pain stops. Alexander slowly unclenches his fists, though his attention never leaves the lady before him. He knows the memories were connected to the pain, and he knows neither of those things were coincidental.
“Arrest him,” the lady says, and Alexander’s fear becomes a metallic taste on his tongue. He pushes it away and resists the urge to fight or flee. Neither will save his skin.
“What is my crime, lady?” Alexander calls out to her.
She holds up a hand to the advancing soldiers. “Your crime is treason. You are a member of the brotherhood known as the Order of the Eternal Sun, which has made itself an enemy of my granddaughter and her family. Thus,” she says with a truly frightening smile, “you are an enemy of the Queen of Cascadia.”
Her gaze shifts to Lucy, who has managed to stir but not yet speak, and his quick mind fills in the pieces. This woman who looks so much like Lucy is her kin, obviously a Sylvani queen, which means Wallace and Richard have been right all along.
Lucy is Sylvan.
SEVENTEEN
NO! I try to scream when my grandmother’s soldiers take hold of Alexander. Their wolves flank him ominously, and as they do, silver shackles appear, binding his hands and feet by long chains.
Grandmother must have thought he was Wallace after all I’d told her, and in my cursed weakened state, I couldn’t tell her otherwise. I struggle wildly in my mind, but my body refuses to obey. Lifting my head has been the most I’ve managed to accomplish. I feel like I’m submerged beneath a turbulent sea—the very air filled with enough pressure to keep me on the ground. How Alexander has managed to stand, I don’t know—though perhaps it’s only I who feel the terrible press of arcana.
With sheer force of will, I push myself to my knees. “Stop, please,” I manage weakly, but the soldiers take him away unheedingly.
Grandmother dismounts Serafino agilely and comes to me side. “Dearest one, I’m so sorry. I knew the transition to our world would be difficult for you, but I’m afraid neither of us was prepared for quite how debilitating it would be.” Her gaze shifts to the retreating soldiers. “Rowen,” she calls to the little fox waiting nearby, “will you come lend Lucy your aid?”
The fox pads over to my side and presses his soft fur against my leg. A burst of energy fills me, as though I’m finally breaking the surface of the sea, as though I stand in a beam of sunlight. I take deep, restorative breaths and get to my feet.
“You will need Rowen during your brief stay here,” Grandmother says with a sympathetic look in her eyes. “Our sun is not your sun. It will not restore your arcana, but Rowen,
as an unattached spirit animal, is the perfect solution.”
Before I can address my many questions to the fox at my side, I jump to the most pressing matter. “Grandmother, that man you arrested, he’s not the one I was afraid of. You must call your soldiers back, for I fear you’ve made a grave mistake.”
The look in her eyes is one of deep regret. “I know who he is. Many times have I felt his presence attached to your arcana. I have seen the path he has chosen: he is a member of the Order of the Eternal Sun.”
I feel all the color drain from my face. Every sound becomes muted until all I can hear is the throb of my own heartbeat. “No, it’s Wallace who’s part of the Order,” I say. Tears sting my eyes.
You’ve always suspected, my mind whispers, and I squeeze my eyes closed as if I can block it out.
“This man you call Wallace is undoubtedly part of the Order as well,” Grandmother says, not unkindly, “but the gentleman who followed you through the portal is, too.”
My head jerks up at that. “Followed me through the portal … but I thought only those with Sylvan blood could travel between realms?”
She inclines her head, letting me come to my own conclusions.
“But … why? How could he be part of an organization that seeks out his own kind?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know,” Grandmother says in a tone that suggests she knows the answer.
“How could he not?” I ask, but then I think of his family history—his mother dead when Alexander was a child, his absent English father …
“Later we will interrogate him,” she says and I find myself grasping at that desperately. Yes, we will speak to him, and there will be an explanation for this, something that exonerates him from all blame … something that doesn’t involve him belonging to the very brotherhood that means me harm. “For now, come, the hour is late in your world. You should rest—unless you’d care to eat first?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m afraid my appetite is quite absent, but I’ll admit that rest would be welcome.”
Who is Alexander? How could I let myself be so taken in? It is clear now that he followed me through the portal.
My mind chooses that moment to remind me of everything that transpired just before I crossed over, and I freeze. The kiss with James … the fight … Alexander crossing over alongside me. Are Wren and James all right?
As though sensing my distress, Rowen presses against me again. The queen and I saw everything the moment you opened the portal. Your sister and her brother-in-law did not come to harm.
Thank you, Rowen, I think to him, my shoulders drooping with relief, and he nods.
It’s nice to feel useful again.
Grandmother walks to one of the ancient trees and touches its smooth, silver bark. With her head bowed and her eyes closed, her lips move but I cannot hear her words.
A whisper travels through the trees, the branches swaying and leaves fluttering as though in a strong breeze. The fine hairs on my arms rise as I sense a change in the arcana around us. And then two creatures step out of the trees’ shadows.
The closest animal I can compare them to I’ve only seen in books on Africa: an antelope, though these are drastically different in both coloring and size. Both are a dappled silver, and their massive backward-facing horns are as white as ivory tusks. They are as tall as horses, and their eyes are kind and intelligent.
Grandmother walks up to one and gently strokes its nose. “These are oryx. They will carry us to the city below. Can you ride?”
I watch her with wide eyes. “I can ride horses, but …” I trail off as she grabs hold of one of the oryx’s horns and swings astride. It prances in place, as if eager to be off.
The queen prefers the oryx when not flying on Serafino. You will soon see why, Rowen tells me, amusement clear in his eyes.
I approach the beautiful animal cautiously. Wren would adore them instantly, and probably be a natural rider, but I am not as skilled. I hold out my hand, and the oryx snuffles it gently.
“You must forgive me if I don’t have a proper seat,” I say, and it bobs its head, drawing a small laugh from me.
It lowers its horns, and I take hold of one as I watched Grandmother do. With a toss of its head and an awkward jump from me, I swing onto its narrow back. I pick up its silver reins, unsure what to do next.
“You’re doing a fine job,” Grandmother says encouragingly. “But you might relax your limbs and straighten your spine.”
I realize I’ve been perched there like I fear being thrown at any moment and force myself to do as she suggests.
Grandmother nods approvingly. “Rowen, will you join Lucy? Lend her the arcana needed to bind her to her oryx.”
Rowen leaps onto my mount lithely and settles into my lap like a cat. His arcana flows into me like warm sunshine. Soon, I feel the beating of my mount’s heart through my legs, the soft warmth of his sides, the strength of his back. It becomes difficult to determine where his body begins and mine ends.
I smile in wonder as his thoughts trickle into my mind: how proud he is to be transporting the queen’s granddaughter, the simple happiness of being useful, and the thrill of …
My head jerks up as I shoot a frightened glance at Grandmother. “Oh, but surely—!”
“Let’s be off,” she says with a smile and a pull of the reins.
Her oryx bounds away and mine immediately follows, his gait springy and breathtakingly fast. They approach the edge of the cliff that overlooks the city of Cascadia, and before I can suck in a breath to scream, we plummet over the edge.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the wind wrenches them open again. The oryx’s sharp hooves hit an outcropping of rock and spring away just as quickly. Only by the power of arcana do I stay on his back—the same arcana that keeps Rowen from flying out of my lap—as the oryx jumps from rock to rock, the city growing larger as we approach.
I risk a glance at Grandmother, and she’s smiling widely as she leans back, keeping her center of gravity aligned with her oryx’s. Serafino soars above us, back to his more compact size. Soon the rush of the waterfalls distracts me from our controlled plummeting, and I hold my breath in wonder.
The city shines like marble in the sun, no fewer than ten waterfalls cutting through the foundations of the buildings. The architecture reminds me of the Renaissance style, with dome roofs, eye-pleasing symmetry, and ornate columns. At the same time, it is rather organic, seeming to emerge directly from the rock, as though the mountain had grown a city. Though not all white-washed—the city is bursting with color, a riot of flowers and trees lend their beauty to pale stone in pinks and oranges and lavender. There are flowers I’ve never seen before—flowers so vibrant my eyes squint when I look at them, and so fragrant that I can smell them from here.
My oryx leaps one last time and trots over to the entrance of a wide stone bridge. Below us rushes the water from the waterfalls, sparkling like diamonds in the sun.
Grandmother dismounts, and I do the same. When my knees threaten to give out, I grab hold of the oryx’s horn for balance. Rowen comes to my aid again, pressing close and allowing arcana to flow into me.
“What would I do without you?” I ask the fox with a sheepish grin.
“I’d love to give you the grand tour,” Grandmother says, “but I’ll show you to your room instead so you can rest.”
The adrenaline from my frightening trip down the mountainside fades and fatigue sets in. “A pity, for I should love to see it all, but I know you are right.”
She touches the oryx’s neck and whispers a few words in another language. With a little snort, it bobs its head, and the bridle and reins disappear. She does the same to my oryx and both creatures incline their heads toward us before bounding off.
“Are all the animals here so intelligent?” I wonder aloud.
Grandmother smiles. “They are as they were in your world once, when man had no need of arcana to communicate with them.” She gestures for me to follow and we cross the bridge towa
rd the beautiful city. “Rowen will remain with you while you sleep to be sure your arcana does not fall to dangerously low levels.”
I glance down at the fox gratefully. “And this won’t change the way I use arcana? Here, or when I return?”
There is always that risk. We must take care to monitor your arcana at all times.
We fall silent as we approach the grand entrance to what can only be described as a castle. Sentinels with their white wolves guard either side, standing at attention as their queen passes through. I gaze up at the enormous doors—truly big enough to admit giants—and ornately carved with knotwork and runes. A rising sun shines at the pinnacle of the doorway, and by its glint, I think it may truly be gold.
But as we enter the castle, I realize just how foolish it was to stand and gawk at the doorway when such splendor awaits inside. The foyer is big enough for several carriages to fit inside with room to spare—the ceiling so high I have to crane my neck back to see the top. The floor is like white marble, only with shimmering gold veins that catch the light. Through it all runs a brook, which continues on and disappears through a hallway wide enough to pass three carriages abreast. I can only assume it ends in one of the waterfalls.
The hall is lit by countless floating orbs, their light as golden as the sun. Serafino flies ahead of us and lands on a white-barked tree sprouting from the middle of the foyer, its purple leaves hanging down like a willow tree. Massive paintings cover the walls in gilded frames featuring subjects I have only seen in mythology: a dragon soaring over a forest of unicorns, a harnessed gryphon perching in a tree above a cascading waterfall, its rider standing beside him, helmet in hand.
Grandmother leads me up a grand, spiraling staircase, and I continue to stare enviously at the paintings as we climb. Rowen stays quietly by my side, his energy becoming more and more familiar. When we reach the top, though, I come to an abrupt halt, my heart beating in my ears. Gently, I reach out and touch a painting, as though I could reach inside it.
It’s a portrait of my grandmother holding what must be my mother as a baby. They are in a garden full of flowers of every color and more of the wisteria-like trees. The image of my mother holds me captive; even then, her eyes speak of the wisdom of the woman the infant will grow into. A baby snow fox curls at her side as Serafino watches from a branch above them.
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 17