“You’re impossible.” She laughed a little.
“Nah, just hungry. Come on, I brought you some of those little pastries.”
Before she could offer further protest, Finn spread the napkin open on the lower-half of the bed and edged up to have a seat beside it. He patted the mattress across from him expectantly, tilting his head and leveling her completely with an irresistible grin.
She only hesitated for a moment, curling her fingers over the throbbing cuts across her palm and then making her way to the seat he’d patted. Without a word, he began nibbling one of those pastries, holding another one out for her to take. She accepted it, reluctantly, and though she probably would have just held it in her hand and never brought it to her lips, the look he gave her told her he would stand for no such thing.
She ate it slowly, flaking bits of the pastry crust between her lips and chewing with great care. It really was delicious, the flavor stimulating hunger and prompting her to take another bite and then another.
Finn stared down at the hand she still held clenched in her lap, flecks of blood drying across her fingernails catching his attention. “What’d you do to your hand?”
“Something stupid,” she muttered with a sigh.
Reaching out, he took her wrist and lifted the fisted hand to have a look. Gentle thumb brushed across her knuckles, urging the fingers to unclench. Clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth, it was a sympathetic sound that reminded her of the gentleness and care with which Pahjah always tended to her scrapes and bruises when she was a reckless little girl.
“How?”
“I told you already, it was stupid. I was angry and…” The words faded, like the foolish anger that drove her to try and tear the amulet free. “I felt really dumb, so I did something equally idiotic.”
“You’re not… Why do you feel dumb?”
“I don’t know. I just…” The words were there, tainted with shame that tilted her gaze toward the bed for fear he’d actually see just how foolish she was if he looked into her eyes. Without a thought, he reached for her chin and drew her head back up, his intense blue eyes urging her wordlessly to share her foolishness with him. “I got really angry with Rognar,” she confessed. “It was my own fault, I suppose. I let myself fall prey to Logren’s kind words about the man, but all the evidence was right in front of me all along.”
“Evidence?” That word confused him, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”
“He didn’t care for his children. I mean, it was right there how little he obviously cared about my brother and his first wife. He just set them aside so easily and took up with my mother and only the gods know who else in between…”
“You don’t know that, Lorelei.”
“I don’t have to know it. I can feel it. Your people,” she started, hesitating as she tried to find the right words without sounding like a fool. She hated drawing a line of distinction between the U’lfer and herself; after all, in some small way she was one of them thanks in no small part to her promiscuous father’s inability to commit. She supposed she should thank Rognar for that, after all, she was alive, but at the moment she didn’t feel much like thanking her father for anything. “The U’lfer mate for life, beyond life as they run the hunt in Lohaloth, but Rognar didn’t care about the mate bond. He probably didn’t even care about my mother. Had he lived, he’d have set her aside just like he did with Galisa when she no longer piqued his interest.”
“You have no idea what happened between Rognar and Galisa, or with your mother, for that matter. Only Logren might know, but I doubt even he has a clue. He was just a kid.”
Lorelei ignored him, allowing the full brunt of her own emotions to swell and escape her. “And you know what really gets me? I spent my whole life fighting against the way Aelfric used us, my sister and me. We were little more than pawns in some game he played, and no matter how much I protested and begged for the right to make my own choices, I didn’t matter to him until I won him the right alliance with my hand. And then I find out he wasn’t even my father and like an idiot I let myself get drawn into this noble idea of a father who might have actually cared about me because I was his child. He was no different. I was just a game piece to Rognar too. A bargaining chip he offered over to the Heidr to save his people…”
“Is that what you really think?”
“That’s what Gwendoliir said, Finn. I know you were busy stuffing your face down there, but I wasn’t. I was paying attention. Rognar sold me out to Heidr before I was even born…”
“He didn’t sell you out,” he insisted. “Maybe he knew in his heart you were going to be this amazing heroine, the blood of his blood. Maybe the Light of Madra paid a visit to him too and told him it was what he was meant to do.”
That thought struck her, confusing her mind enough that she didn’t say anything for a long time after he spoke. Instead, she nibbled quietly on the pastry in her hand, barely even tasting it before she swallowed.
“I don’t know, Finn. All of that stuff still feels too unreal inside my mind. I mean, if what Gwendoliir said was true, and Heidr was somehow involved in the crafting of my soul it would make sense, I guess, but why can’t I just be…”
When she didn’t finish her thought, he asked, “Just be what? Normal?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Why can’t I just have a normal life like everybody else?”
“Bah,” he withdrew his hand from her chin. “Who wants to be normal? Normal is boring.”
Her childhood was filled with grand imagination, thoughtful daydreams of a future filled with excitement and adventure. As per her daydreams, she was in the midst of an adventure so grand she wasn’t even sure she wanted it anymore. On the other hand, she didn’t want to live a quiet or submissive life she had no control over. It was all so confusing and terrifying, and every time she heard Pahjah’s voice inside her mind, reassuring her the gods gave the world nothing it couldn’t handle, she didn’t quite believe it.
“Look, Princess, for reasons we will probably never understand, your father gave you two gifts. Your wolf spirit and a tie to the All-Creator. You can look at it like a curse if you want to, but I’d say you’re pretty damn lucky to have advantages the rest of us can’t even begin to imagine.”
“Advantages like this come with so much responsibility,” she pointed out, “and expectation. There’s no instruction manual for them. I don’t even know what I’m capable of, Finn. How is that an advantage?”
After a moment’s careful thought, he shrugged his shoulders, popped the last bite of pastry into his mouth and started to chew. Mouth half-full, he said, “You’ll always have the advantage of surprise.”
She started to laugh, the absurdity of his logic a strange relief amid the chaos of the entire situation. Laughter had great power, and as it trembled through her entire body she felt lighter than she had in a long time. It was absurd, but it was true. Not knowing what she was capable of meant the possibilities were limitless; until proven false, anything could be accomplished.
Sobering with the realization, their laughter ebbed, but she was still smiling. When Finn reached over to take her hand again, uncurling her fingers and looking down at the surface wounds caused by her own temper and stupidity, he shook his head.
“Looks like it stings a bit,” he noted. “We should probably get a healer to look at it. Bandage it up, or whatever. You won’t be able to wield a proper blade if you can barely grip it, and even if you are shite with a blade for now, a shite swordsman is better than no swordsman at all.”
“Hey!” She brought her free hand up and slapped at the thick muscle of his arm, a playful swat that deepened the dimples in his cheeks as he grinned. “I am not a shite swordsman!” Laughing, she confirmed, “I’m a shite swordswoman! And only because I’ve had so little practice or opportunity. I do try, though.”
“Well then, let’s get you bandaged up and practice your moves in that garden out back. I’m sure all those stuffy Alvarii serv
ants will absolutely love it as you’re hacking and slashing your way through their delicate plants.”
“All right,” she conceded.
“That’s my girl.”
It struck her when he said that, just how true those words were. She was his, just as he was hers. And maybe the bond between them was only superficial, the barest thread holding them together until the time was right, but that bond was the only reliable thing she had in her life.
Finn was the one thing that made sense.
“I am, you know,” she told him. “Your girl, I mean.”
“Oh, I know you are,” he said, pulling back his hand and lowering it onto his thigh. He winked at her before rising from the edge of the bed, repeating, “I’ve just been waiting for you to figure it out.”
“You are such an egomaniac.”
“Princess, you have no idea.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Gwendoliir slowed enough for Brendolowyn to catch up to him, the two of them walking side by side in silence through the streets of Nua Duaan for several blocks before the mage finally worked up the courage to ask, “Is Jonolov Silver-Tongue hiding something?”
The old seer did not appear shaken, not on the surface at least, but when he turned a squinting eye in Bren’s direction the look he wore was far more telling. The King Under the City was hiding something, something substantial, judging from the sharp sheen of Gwendoliir’s gaze, which he just as quickly diverted back to the bustling street before them.
“It is for His Majesty to determine whether or not you know his secrets, not me.” His pace quickened just enough to suggest the faster they were in the king’s council room, the more quickly he could alleviate the burden of that secret from his shoulders. “You will have to take up your suspicions with him.”
“I will,” Brendolowyn assured him, increasing his own stride and maintaining pace with Gwendoliir.
He felt the eyes on him, derisive, distrusting, disgusted. It was not a new feeling; every visit to Nua Duaan humbled him in ways that sickened his stomach and tied his self-worth into nervous knots inside him until he breathed air aboveground again. Sometimes the degradation of those necessary visitations lingered with him for weeks after he departed, other times he was so grateful to be out of the company of his mother’s people it was a relief to put distance between himself and his broken ancestry.
The Silver-Tongue begrudged Bren’s refusal to take up residence in Nua Duaan, and he liked even less how unwilling one of elven blood seemed to be to join the fight for Alvarii freedom. Each time he arrived in the city, Jonolov either refused to see him, or humored him with disinterest before sending him on his way again.
Pride and unity, the pinnacle of Jonolov’s philosophy, and yet Brendolowyn refused to unite or feel pride in his origins. He left his home and his people for an amalgam of reasons, first and foremost to find his father. The only person he owed explanation to was his mother.
Nua Duaan may not have been home, but the people there were as judgmental, crass and cruel as the Alvarii that hadn’t accepted him as one of their own when he was a child. Bristalv; it was all he’d ever be to any of them and he knew he was better off alone than subjected to their disregard for his existence.
The only place in the world he’d ever felt the slightest bit comfortable was among the half-bred U’lfer of Dunvarak. Hodon didn’t just accept him, he welcomed him and so did everyone else in the wayward city in the tundra. He was one of them. They were his people. At least until they needed him to deal with the Alvarii. Then it was his obligation and duty to keep the lines of communication open between his… people.
Still, it didn’t wash the slate clean of depression on those rare occasions he found himself among his mother’s people. The overwhelming perfume of remcii and cirielle blossoms, their falling petals drifting on the breeze like pink and pale cream flakes of snow to litter the walk. Crushed beneath busy feet hustling through the streets, the scent was so strong it made something inside him ache. Mingling with the pungent salt of the sea, the endless chatter of a language he barely even used anymore, it was nearly enough to create perfect memory of a home that was never really his.
All Alvarii were born of the same source, hand-woven on the loom of life by the loving fingers of Heidr’s firstborn daughter. Their feet the first to touch the precious ground, they sowed life into the soil with their footsteps as their ears became the first to hear the song of birds and the call of the sea. Bringers of life, they were called, singers of the song that brought forth all that grew beneath the loving light of Heidr’s bright eye. They shared a deep connection to the trees and grass and flowers, the birds and animals, to all life, and yet they had so little respect for one of their own simply because his blood was tainted and impure.
He did his best to ignore the impolite and self-important stares, staying close to Gwendoliir once they reached the palace of the King Under the City. He didn’t show his disgust when the guard at the gates insisted upon searching him, insinuating without words that though he was an emissary of peace, he could not be trusted. After determining he was harmless enough, they cuffed his left wrist in a red moonstone bracelet meant to block the power of his magic in the presence of the king.
It was protocol, required by all who came into the king’s company, but it only added fuel to the fiery list of slights against his person. Nevertheless, he held his head high, followed Gwendoliir through the palace and avoided eye contact with everyone they passed, perfectly mimicking the air of self-importance he learned from his mother’s people.
Jonolov Silver-Tongue, King Under the City, held court in the outdoor topiary. Seated upon an old throne the stories said he’d stolen from Rivenn before fleeing bondage, he dismissed grieving citizens with little more than an elegant gesture of his hand when he saw them approach. One by one they reluctantly withdrew, eying both the seer and the guest suspiciously as they passed from the topiary.
He rose from the throne, stretching his long legs as he reached his full height of nearly seven feet and tossed the sleek, black chin-length locks of his hair out of his face. Every one of the King Under the City’s features was precise, his long face gaunt, cheekbones chiseled and nose sharp. His eyes were narrow and his mouth a bow-shaped pair of red lines that stretched appreciatively when he saw them.
“Brendolowyn Raven-Storm.” His lingering gaze fell upon the moonstone bracelet clinging to his wrist, only rising when he approached and lowered his head in a gesture of trust and greeting. His adviser, Lenoriiv, was not but three steps behind him. The stiff Alvarii could barely stifle the sound of his gasp when his monarch gripped Brendolowyn’s shoulders in greeting as he lifted his head and then embraced him.
He had never done that before, and though it seemed a natural maneuver on the part of the Alvarii who’d performed it, for Bren it was awkward and uncomfortable.
Stepping back, Jonolov confessed, “We have been expecting you for some time.”
Curbing his tongue, Bren withdrew from the self-proclaimed ruler’s arms and tilted his own head downward in respect. “I come bearing an urgent call for alliance between the people of Dunvarak and the army below the cities.”
“All business, Brendolowyn,” the king tsked, took a step back and gestured with his head for the party to fall into step behind him. Walking through the topiary, they followed his lead, passing larger-than-life sculptures of great Alvarii kings and heroes flanking the walkway. “I sympathize with the urgency of your visit, believe me. And I do, of course, apologize for making you wait until this afternoon for an audience. It is my understanding the people of Dunvarak verge on war with a forcible number of Mennesefth from the north. The Tyrant King’s army.”
“That is true, yes, though we have reason to suspect the Light of Madra’s coming has set other events in motion, that Aelfric’s army will be joined with forces from Hofft.”
Holding up a dismissive hand to stop him from going on, Jonolov interrupted and said, “Let us retire to my council
chamber. I will read over the missive you bear and then we can discuss the matter in greater detail.”
“As you wish, Sire,” he conceded, finally lifting his head.
“Gwendoliir, please join us so you might provide further counsel on the matter.”
“It would be an honor, Majestic One.”
The path they followed led them through the castle, across the marble floors and into a spacious room with a round table, open in the center and with thirteen chairs placed around it. The guards attending to the king closed the broad double doors behind them and presumably perched themselves outside the room. With a wide gesture of his hand, Jonolov offered his guest a seat. Brendolowyn did not oblige until after he retrieved the alliance request from inside his robes and passed them to the king’s advisor.
“I was not sure you would be here,” he confessed, glancing back to the king. Aelfric’s forces never attempted an invasion on the cities below, but in order to ensure he was never in one place too long, he traveled often between the underground network. At least he could be certain Hodon’s request would reach the proper hands in a timely manner.
Settling into the high-backed chair across from his visitor, Jonolov reached for the pitcher in the center of the table, poured himself a drink of water and quenched his thirst before addressing the matter at hand.
He was not old for an Alvarii, perhaps a hundred years older than Brendolowyn, but scarcely comparable to Gwendoliir, who possessed an agelessness that seemed to defy time itself. But there was something about the Alvarii warrior king who’d breathed life into the underground resistance that made him look older, far more grizzled and experienced than the seer who sat on his right.
He wore his hair short, the sharp slices of it clinging to his chin and often hanging in his face even though the platinum, sun-jeweled circlet he wore should have held that hair bay. Brendolowyn suspected he wore his hair that way to hide the thin scar carved into the left side of his face that nearly cost him his eye because he’d allowed the wound to fester, rather than retreating from battle to see a healer. True testament in some eyes on his commitment to the cause.
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