by Mary Weber
Until a grown man strolls by, slim and sleek, with dark hair and pale skin. And a gait that tells me he’s someone who’s rather important and oddly familiar.
The young man is looking at him, and even without noise to the dream it’s clear the other boys begin snickering. The gentleman doesn’t give them or the boy the time of day, however. But as soon as he passes, the youths turn their laughter onto the child. They point at his skin, which is paler than theirs, followed by his eyes that have a reddish glint in a certain light.
Abruptly the vision becomes clear enough to see an expression flash across the young boy’s features that is uncomfortably more recognizable than anything else in this mirage.
Hulls. It’s Myles.
The other boys are goading thicker now—their lips forming the words illegitimate and Cashlin blood.
I want to turn away at how hard my chest wrenches. The look on Myles’s face as he sits in the corner, a grown man temporarily out of control with his ability. He’s accidentally revealing his deepest secrets for all to see. And here we are watching.
Focus, Nym. I firm my jaw and stare through the mirage until it wavers and fades from my view, then walk over to Myles—aware that, even as I do, there’s a gasp from the soldiers for whom the vision is still very solid. Apparently I’ve just strolled through the young Myles’s sword coming down.
Bending near him, I say, “Myles, stop this at once.”
He doesn’t respond.
“He’s been at it for the past fifteen minutes,” King Sedric murmurs. “Practically scared the hulls out of the guards.”
I lean down and place my hand on his arm and not-too-harshly smack his cheek with the other. “Myles!”
He gives no indication he’s heard me.
“One of my men saw Myles focusing on using his blackening hands to create mirages. The guard said it was as if Myles was doing it on purpose.”
I glance at Myles’s hands only to see they really are blackening, the veins popping up like roots from a thorn tree. They’re so dark his skin almost looks scorched from his fingers to his wrists.
I rub my own hands as King Sedric waves at the room. “Except it appears he apparently lost control and it erupted into this.”
The soldiers in the room begin swearing, and I flip around to find the vision has shifted to one of war along one of the southern Island Cairns from what I can tell. Was Myles in one of those battles?
Beside me Myles utters a low moan. He grabs his head, and the moaning turns to cursing as five half-dead wraiths drag their bodies across the floor toward the man who is him in the mirage. Behind him is a woman who clearly has the plague. She’s weeping from the looks of it, but it’s Myles’s real-life screams I hear.
It’s so horrific, so ear-shattering, I turn to grab him, to shake him, but it does no good. He’s gone somewhere inside himself and all that’s left is his body with eyes that have black around the edges.
Litches. Not yet. Not now. It’s happening too soon.
I look up at Sedric. “Get Eogan and Lady Isobel now,” I whisper.
“Lady Isob—?”
“We need both.”
The king gives orders to his soldiers as Myles’s vision ripples again and reveals his mirage-self hovering over someone. In this version he’s clearly using his mind abilities to confuse a squad of Bron soldiers heading toward a hovel he’s crouching beside. The soldiers scan the area, then move on. When Myles straightens, there’s a woman and her baby staring wide-eyed and shaking. She looks almost as terrified of Myles as she is of the soldiers in the distance.
“That’s Kendric,” Sedric whispers.
I spin around. “Who?”
“One of the ladies at the Court who went to the Island Cairns with her husband, who was a general. He was killed there.” Sedric looks at me. “I assume these are memories?”
I nod. Then tip my head toward the woman. “Did she survive?”
“She was sent to a convent asylum where she died last year from illness. As did her child.”
The vision shifts yet again, but this time it goes back to the laughing boys and Myles’s father ignoring him as he strolls by.
I want to be sick.
“I had no idea,” Sedric says, more to himself than to me. And there’s a measure of pity in his tone.
Three minutes pass and Eogan is walking through the image toward me. My chest shivers a moment as the butterflies inside welcome his presence. His calm. Even if the rest of me is still angry with him. “How long’s he been like this?” he asks in a voice scratchy from sleep.
I glance at King Sedric. “Not long.”
Eogan crouches in front of Myles and sets his hand onto his skin, and within moments the vision weakens and dims, then disappears. Eogan stands and mutters for the king’s and my ears only, “Do we know what brought it on?”
“Hewasusingtheabilityheconsumedtotrytostrengthenthem.”
Sedric looks down at Myles, then back up at Eogan. “May I ask how your ability stops it?”
A tinkle of beautiful laughter ripples and it’s the first indication I have that Lady Isobel has also been brought into the room. “King of a nation and yet hasn’t the slightest idea how Uathúil abilities work? Shame, shame, Your Majesty. No wonder your Elementals were killed off in droves. Such lack of knowledge always displays itself in fear.”
King Sedric glances from her to me.
“It appears Eogan’s ability isn’t simply a block but also has healing properties,” I say quietly and peer up at Eogan. “Perhaps he’d like to explain.”
“Oh, not just properties, my dear,” Isobel chides. “I’d say he’s quite good at many methods of touching, wouldn’t you?”
My throat sours as Lady Isobel switches her stare back and forth between both kings. Although I swear it lingers longer on Eogan. My stomach coils in annoyance.
Eogan ignores her. “It does act as a block, but in this case I’ve merely replaced his overreactive sensitivities with something that soothes.”
“I thank you for that.” Sedric nods. “And if you don’t mind, the lady raises a fair point. May I ask what exactly is your ability, then?”
Eogan glances my way, then stiffens and smiles politely at King Sedric. “Drat if I know.”
Right. I frown and, ignoring them both, stride over to Lady Isobel, who’s standing between four guards with her hands tied behind her back. “I asked you before how to help Lord Myles.”
She shrugs. “You could ask the Luminescents. I imagine they pulled a tiny share out of me. Nothing of importance, of course.” She flashes a sly smile. “Although, I wonder how willing they are to help an illegitimate like him.”
The expression on her face says she’s hoping to get a rise out of me, except her tone is laced with a roughness that sounds remarkably similar to insecurity. I raise a brow as it prompts an unwilling pity.
“The Luminescents could help him?” Sedric walks over. “Is there a way?”
She scowls. “Oh, there’s a way. Maybe a few, in fact. But you won’t like them.”
I look up at the king, then at the Bron guards, and nod for them to take her since I was clearly wrong—she’ll be of no help to us.
Two seconds later I’m turning back toward Eogan—my lungs hopeful, starving to speak with him.
Unfortunately, the Bron king is already striding out.
CHAPTER 21
WHEN I WAKE AGAIN, AFTERNOON HAS FULLY dawned and Kel is seated next to my head swinging his feet off the side of the bed.
“Finally.” He jumps down. “I’m fami
shed as a ferret-cat.” Without waiting, he pulls the bell cord I showed him this morning before I returned to my beautiful blanket cocoon after Myles’s breakdown.
To the boy’s obvious delight, the maid appears within moments, carrying a lunch tray, which she sets up while I wash my face in a fresh bowl of water before forcing Kel to do the same.
“Pardon, miss,” the pretty, brown-eyed maid says when I hand Kel a drying cloth. “But King Sedric was rather specific about your costume for tonight. And your hair.” She eyes my white tangles I haven’t brushed in more days than I care to count.
I raise a brow. “A costume?”
“The dress hanging in the right side of the armoire, miss.”
Uh-huh.
“The Assembly starts in a little over two hours.”
I chew my lip before nodding. “In that case I think I’d like to take a walk first.”
“Very good, miss. Let me know if you need help.” She gives a small curtsy and steps toward the door.
A costume? I shudder, turn to the window, and open it to let the breeze in before scooping up an orange and a cup of tea as I peer into the courtyard. The sounds of guard units being organized and banners for the Assembly being tamped into place float up as does the scent of good, old Faelen soil and sunshine. I inhale deep before finishing my orange.
Nine days.
Nine days to raise and equip an army we will likely be leading to death, rescue Rasha, and hope Eogan returns before all hulls breaks loose. I glance toward the Elisedd channel where we saw the single airship floating above the warboats.
Then I turn to catch Kel wolfing down an entire meat pasty.
“You have good food,” he says around a giant mouthful. I snort. It’s probably the first actual bread he’s ever eaten. He shoves two inside his pocket and grins. “So where we going?”
“To get to work.”
If I thought the courtyard was bustling with noise, the Castle hallway is even more so, but of a different kind. Weapons are being carried down the corridors in loads on top of carts already piled high with every piece of armor imaginable. And Rolf is giving orders to have more commissioned from the sound of it.
“Kings Sedric and Eogan?” I ask.
Rolf points down the stairs. “War Chamber.”
“What do you want them for?” Kel asks while we walk.
“I just want to know if there’re any further preparations needed for tonight.” I swallow. “Or for Eogan’s trip tomorrow.”
“I hope he doesn’t die.”
I stall and stare at him, unsure whether to scold or laugh.
“But if he does—” He clamps his mouth shut.
I shake my head. “Then what?”
“Nothing.”
“Kel, back on the ship you were bothered about him. Does this have to do with that?”
His face reddens brighter than a beet berry and his fingers get fidgety.
“Kel?”
He shuffles his foot against the carpet and looks down. “I just don’t think he’s good for you, that’s all.”
Right. I wait until he looks up.
“He just . . . he just better treat you nice or he’ll have me to answer to.” He spits it out all in one rush. His blush spreads down to his neck, and the next thing I know he’s walking away from me.
Oh.
Oh. I grin. That’s it?
The poor boy has a crush.
I follow behind him, giving distance and a moment for his embarrassment to dim down, and by the time we reach the War Room, he’s back to normal.
“If you’re looking for either king, both are going over their joint speeches for this evening,” Tannin says, exiting the room.
Oh. My shoulders deflate even as my eyes search the room for Eogan anyway.
“However . . .” His voice breaks off as he nods down the hall. I follow his gaze to find Gilford, the male Cashlin guard, striding toward us, flanked by three of our own.
The guard tips his head at Kel when he reaches us. “Young master.” Then he turns to me. “The Luminescents are currently attempting to read Lady Isobel again, and I asked to come find you.” He stops and glances around at the guards and Tannin before lowering his voice. “I was wondering what plans they have of rescuing Princess Rasha. Has it been discussed?”
I shake my head. “I brought it up last night, but they were still trying to catch up to speed on the war and bring the rest of Faelen on board. However . . .” I look at Kel. “I was hoping the information the Luminescents get from Lady Isobel might help us pinpoint where exactly to find Rasha. I have an idea, but if we can have confirmation, then we can request to pursue her.”
He scowls.
“Or not request.”
“And if they can’t get it out of Lady Isobel?”
“Then I’m prepared to follow my hunches and do whatever I need to. Even if it means finding a few wraiths to interrogate and crossing the waterway back toward Tulla.”
A glint of relief eases his features just as Kenan strides up, flanked on both sides by his own set of Bron and Faelen guards.
“Not gotten into too much trouble, I hope?” he says to Kel before giving me a nod. “I can take the boy now—we’ll prepare for the Assembly this evening.” His tone suggests he thinks Kel may be in need of more than preparation. Such as a good bath. I don’t tell him I’m inclined to agree, but what is with seven-year-old boys and their smell?
“Miss,” Tannin says behind me. “I believe you should be getting ready as well when you’re finished here. I’m told you have a speech to give.”
A speech? I turn to Kenan, who shrugs as if to say hulls if he knows.
I’m to wear a costume and give a speech. At least at Adora’s home, things were always overplanned. This is ludicrous.
“M’lady?”
“I’d like to see Rolf.”
“Very good, miss.”
Rolf is exactly where I left him, inspecting a guard unit and informing them which sections of the Castle’s banquet room he expects each to cover. I wait until he’s finished before intruding. “Am I to give a speech this evening, Captain?”
His expression registers surprise that is fast replaced by an apology. “I’m sorry if we overlooked communicating as much to you, miss—”
“You did forget.”
“Again, my apologies. His Highness mentioned it after you exited the War Chamber. I believe it is his belief that after his and Eogan’s speeches, a positive word from you could add extra weight.” Of course they did. And of course it would. “Anything in particular he’d like me to say?”
“Something about how you’re planning to lead them to victory?” His smile indicates he’s only half-joking. “I’m sorry, miss, I’m not much for speeches. Give me a sword, though, and . . .”
“You and me both,” I mumble. “I guess if you’ll excuse me . . .” I head for my room and arrive just as the maid is leaving with our luncheon tray.
“Will there be anything else? Your hair, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“I set the dress on the bed for you, miss.”
I nod and wait until she’s gone before I close the door and turn to the room. My gaze falls to the dress, and I actually choke on the air in my throat.
The thing is Faelen’s ancestral color—a green so deep in the flickering candlelight it’s almost black—with a corset top and jeweled back and lengthy taffeta skirt that is five times thick with material all cinched and bustled and looking very much
like a dress my previous owner Adora would’ve killed for if it had a skunk-skin hat to go with it.
Oh, look. It even has a train for me to trip over.
I stare at the dress in all its flamboyance. I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall out the top. And what in hulls am I supposed to say while wearing it? “I hope you’ll all join us in fighting—and some of you may die, but cheers!”
I groan and stride to the mirror to begin yanking a comb through my hair, in hopes that when I turn back to the dress, it won’t look as gaudy as I fear. Five minutes into it, though, I’m thinking I should’ve had that maid help me after all, because I’m just as bad at twists and hair twirls as ever, which makes me miss Breck and Rasha something fierce.
I swallow and pile the lot of it into a massive, messy coil on top of my head that Breck would’ve been proud of. Maybe that’ll diminish the dress’s opulence a bit. Then I turn back to slip on the fancy dress, using my good hand to tighten the laces that are, mercifully, on the side of the corset. I finish it off by sliding on a pair of matching slippers and tying my new set of throwing knives to each leg.
A look in the mirror tells me I am exactly what King Sedric is hoping for. Nice. Fancy.
Influential.
I straighten my shoulders and firm my jaw in order to appear exactly as I am hoping. Powerful.
Finished, I stride for the door, running through fifty comments in my head that I could say to encourage the High Court members to fight. Unfortunately, the only things I can come up with are swears I’ve wanted to say to the lot of them far too often.
Tannin is waiting outside the door when I step out. He grins but doesn’t say anything other than, “Feels familiar, doesn’t it?”
I nod and try not to show my nerves, nor to mention that this is about as far from the other week’s familiarities as possible. Because Eogan is no longer Draewulf. And Draewulf is no longer dead. And Rasha is not here to insult my life and clothing choices.
Once we enter the banquet room, however, it does, in fact, feel familiar, with its crammed balcony full of guests, most of whom are dressed in gorgeous silk layers and those silly pantaloon hats. The candelabras are illuminating the room, except rather than holding banquet tables and the noisy traveller’s carnival, the place is barren—even of furniture. Only a few tables are set along the back balcony wall, holding weapons and maps and piles of scrolls that appear to have been already written on and sealed. For runners to carry to the villages across Faelen, I’m assuming.