The mayor sipped from his glass. “What games would those be?”
Vallnor scowled. “Your elections. Your council. All these pretensions that people really know what’s best for themselves.”
“And what if they do?”
He snorted. “People are sheep. Most wish to be led and those who do not are the ones born to be shepherds.”
“Hm. Perhaps they do know and perhaps they don’t. But what makes you think one man knows better than a collective mind? What happens if the shepherd is corrupt and selfish?”
Vallnor narrowed his eyes, feeling the phoenix stir. Fire roared in his veins, grip tightening on the tumbler nestled in his palm. Unfazed, Sandson stared back, eyes a bright burnished gold in the dripping light from the great hall’s chandelier. A commoner could clean themselves up well, if they draped themselves in the finest of kobi made from a deep burgundy and gold, contrasted with a crisp white undershirt and bowtie. His dark hair had been slicked up with gel, glasses nestled in his breast pocket. There was something about the man that burrowed beneath his skin, hitting the fizzing nerves below the flesh.
“Even a corrupt leader knows how to defend his people from enemies. If he is trained in warfare and economics, it should not matter.”
A small smile crept its way onto Sandson’s face and it only rattled Vallnor further. His free hand tapped against his leg to relieve his body’s itch for action. From the way his golden eyes flickered, Sandson could read him like an open book. It was Viktor’s fault. Vallnor had been better at this game, once. But Viktor was as unrestrained as a punch to the face, and about as subtle as one, too.
“Yet a good leader must also keep his temper when pressure is high, no?”
“Sometimes anger is a useful tool. A good leader is angry on behalf of his people. His righteous anger helps him seek vengeance when they are wronged.”
“But what if his people grow weary of blood and war? What if they desire peace and prosperity? What happens to a leader, then?” Sandson leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “What happens to a shepherd when his sheep no longer follow him?” He pulled back and Vallnor wanted to rip the mocking smile right off his face. Pluck those shiny teeth one by one until there was nothing left but swollen, dripping gums. See how pretty his words sounded then.
As if sensing the way the energy was building around him, Fyera swooped in between them, looping her arm through his. “I thank you for attending tonight, Sandson-shai. I know you are a very busy man.” Her painted lips parted around a sharp smile.
“Never too busy for an event as grand as this. You have really outdone yourself with the renovations. Why, I remember visiting this palace when it was naught but a relic of the past.”
Vallnor felt nails dig into the meat of his arm through his kobi. “Yes,” said Fyera, “it is quite amazing how things can change.”
“And how quickly,” Sandson agreed, raising his wine glass.
“But there are some things that last. That transcend time itself.”
“Ah, I find I must disagree with you, my lady.”
“Oh? Pray tell.”
The three of them together had drawn others into their orbit, sidling in closer and closer like Myrish crabs waddling across the sand. Vallnor couldn’t tell in whose favour it was to have an audience. Certainly Fyera desired the attention – the whole event was to remind the people who they were – but to go toe to toe with Sandson while their situation was still so precarious seemed dangerous. Not that Fyera appeared concerned, leaning forward to hear whatever the man might say.
“What on these islands ever remains? The seasons shift one by one. The leaves fall from the trees. The stone is worn away by the ravaging of a ravenous sea. Buildings crumble. Flesh rots away. One day we will all die and wither. That is the only truth of this world, is it not?”
A few in the crowd tittered. “How depressing for dinner conversation.”
A nobleman pushed his way in. “But our souls will travel east until they are reborn. The same wheel continues to spin. Everything is as it once was, it only appears different to our eyes.”
Sandson nodded. “Forgive me, Relldar-wei. I was not born on these islands and was not raised in the ways of your church. But I find we are of a different mind on this.”
“Perhaps you are the one who is in the wrong. You Dusklanders are just too different to understand the way of the Myrish.”
A hush fell over the surrounding lords and ladies, all gazing uncertainly between Fyera and Sandson. It was true that the mayor was not of Myrish descent but he had made his life and career as one of them. In truth, he spoke the language with more finesse than Vallnor could ever hope for, and knew the city of Tsellyr better than most natives. At this moment in time, when he and Fyera had still to solidify their presence once more, Vallnor feared that between them, Sandson was the one the people knew. The one they identified with. To single him out now for his heritage could be construed as cowardice, and like circling sharks scenting blood, the onlookers seemed to sense it, too.
“I suppose it is inevitable that there are things I will miss, even after all my years learning my city. But I find it makes me no less Myrish than yourself, Siklo-wei. For that is the beauty of these islands, is it not? That we may travel so easily between them and share the best of our cultures. I see not what my birthplace matters, truly. It is but dust and sand and these materials do not make for steady foundations.”
Vallnor’s grip on his glass tightened, white knuckles showing through bronze skin. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, soaking into his undershirt. A shrill warning cry rang through his head, beginning as a distant murmur that rose in volume with every barbed word and exchanged flash of teeth. He wasn’t made for this. For the heavy drapery weighing him down and the noose tightening around his tongue, fearing the words he could not find. Vallnor was just a man. Just a boy. Just a pretender who had snatched a phoenix feather and called himself its master.
It was the other way around. It always had been.
“Excuse me,” said another voice, barely audible over the screeching between his ears. Power and control. Fire and ash. He was the prince, king, emperor, guardian. All that mattered was ensuring his victory. “Might I join this conversation?”
“Riki-all,” said Sandson, catching his attention.
Vallnor glanced up, into the face of a tall, pale woman with hair as red as a wildfire and a smile twice as dangerous. A black patch covered one eye, the hint of a scar peeking out the end. Dressed in a more ostentatious version of the Sonlin military coats, a variety of medals pinned to her breast gleamed in the light, winking at him. He had seen this woman before, back when he had still been… an older version of himself.
“How pleasant of you to attend, Riki-all,” said Fyera, lips pressing together.
“Yes, it’s quite the event. I suppose I just had to see for myself, the prince and princess reborn. How could I resist, when I have heard so much about you recently?”
The phoenix fought him for dominion but Vallnor’s fear leant him the strength to wrestle it back. The images were so vivid, of standing inside the council room as his anger took over. She had to know. She had to know who had killed General Nevi. About what he had done in a moment of madness and fury.
“I was actually hoping to speak with you, Sandson-shai,” said Riki, eye sliding towards the mayor. Irritation flitted over Fyera’s face before she smoothed it over, looking at him pointedly.
“Ah,” said Sandson, glancing between them all, “and might I congratulate you on your new promotion, General.”
Riki’s smile sharpened. “Thank you.”
Before she could pull Sandson away, Vallnor grabbed her arm and tugged her around. He threw a panicked look at Fyera and then said, “Dance with me, Riki-all. It would be a show of good faith for all.”
Her one eye, a deep golden brown, flickered up and down, mouth pinching. She pushed past him towards the floor in the centre where couples swayed to the music provided by a live band. Then spin
ning, she cocked her head at him with a raised brow. “I hope you are a sufficient dancer, Prince, because I find my own skills lie in other areas.”
Wiping sweaty palms on his kobi, Vallnor – if he was still truly Vallnor in this moment – stumbled towards her, realising when he had to tilt his chin that she was taller than him. His hands rose slowly as if afraid she might react, snaking around until it hovered over where her coat tapered at her waist, the other resting on her shoulder. This close he could see the freckles dusting her cheeks and the ragged lines of the scar creeping from the ends of her cloth eye patch. Her flat expression told him she knew exactly what he had done and in this moment he couldn’t help but fear the fallout. Vallnor, the phoenix; they thought him meek and cowardly for even thinking it. Mocked his morality. But it wasn’t guilt that riddled him now – it was the knowledge of retaliation.
As Riki’s hand grabbed his and yanked him around violently enough to make him trip over his own feet, Vallnor could only think of the time he had been young and desperate enough to attempt to take one of the older boy’s spoils. It had been nothing but a hunk of bread, hardened enough to cut up his gums when he had chewed it, and blackened on the edges. But it had filled his belly, staving off the hunger that plagued him most nights, holed up in odd shacks dotted around the city where he had been able to find shelter. Of course, it hadn’t mattered that Viktor had been only a boy, and one of their own. The boy and two of his friends had kicked him into a bloody heap and left him to die. His blood had run into the street, mixing with the rain pounding from the sky, and on that day Viktor had learned a valuable lesson.
“You should beware, young prince, who you choose to make an enemy of.”
Vallnor couldn’t hold his tongue. It had always been a problem for Viktor, too. “As should you, General. I am not merciful to those who wrong me.”
Her lips curled and she spun him, the room a blur of colours and sparkling lights until his vision settled once more upon her face. Her perfume was light, just the hint of something musky and sweet, but it overpowered his senses. Impossibly, she pressed in even closer until they were nearly cheek to cheek. A shiver ran through him and he hoped she didn’t feel it.
“I know what you did. So hear me when I swear I will see you reap your rewards,” she murmured into his ear. Then she pulled back and twirled him again, her grip tight enough to crush his hand.
Anger was always his crutch in moments like these. He didn’t want to be so dependent on it but it was hard to fight. “Sometimes lessons have to be learned. You do not belong here. These are not your islands.”
“Oh? Are they yours?”
“My family have ruled the Myrliks for centuries.”
“That’s funny, because until very recently no one knew you were even alive. Nor, might I add, did they seem to care.”
Vallnor’s grip tightened around her waist in response to the vice clamped around his hand. “Do you think they will weep for you, when you die? Because I do not think they cry for Nevi. In fact, I think many rejoiced in their freedom from her tyranny.”
“Is that a threat, Prince?”
He shook his head, settling into the fire. There had to be a balance somewhere, between Vallnor and Viktor and the phoenix raging between them. “Merely a reminder. I do not die like you mere mortals. When you wither and die I will live on. The Siklos will live on, always and forever.”
Riki narrowed her eye at him, nearly pausing in her sweeping circles around the dance floor. Her steps were too quick for the beat but Vallnor barely noticed. The crowd around him had long faded until there was but the two of them, representatives of two warring sides refusing to back down and admit to their weaknesses. She wasn’t that old; certainly not old enough to be the acting general for so many forces on the island, but he supposed he had played a part in her ascension. Fate had a funny way of making its hand known, sometimes.
“Your family disappeared once. I’m sure it can be done again.”
“I would not be so sure. There are forces at play that you don’t understand, Riki-all.”
“Hm. Your otherworldly powers, you mean?” He tried not to show the surprise on his face but she must have caught it, for her smile grew. “I know enough of it, to understand. There are older natives on these isles who like to talk and I have long found that one must understand a place if one is to rule it. No?”
“Folk tales and legends? You understand nothing.”
“All bonds can be severed, Siklo. Everything will die, one day. That is the only truth in life. Even you and your sister have a weakness and I vow to you I will find what this happens to be.”
Vallnor gulped. There was a doggedness in her expression. She wasn’t the kind of person who would simply give up. With the resources of an empire behind her, she could prove to be a thorny enemy. One Vallnor had made for himself, in a fit of rage and thoughtlessness. A prince he might have been, but going to war with the might of the Sonlin Empire was a daunting prospect, even for a man who wanted to believe he could not die. He could not be sure yet, however, if that was the truth.
“Understand this,” she said, slowing her pace until they were simply standing at the edge of the floor, staring at one another, “the only reason I have not acted yet is because I do not know what happened and I must follow the proper processes. Once I do know what really happened to General Nevi – once I have it confirmed – I will stop at nothing to make sure she is avenged. Then I will rip apart your family’s legacy, piece by piece, until all that is left of it is tatters.”
Fire flickered to his grasp, flaring between their skin. The rage was hard to fight, when she dared to speak to him like this. He ought to teach her her place, just as he had Nevi. But Riki only gripped his hand tighter before she pulled away, skin pink but ultimately undamaged. She learned forward again, long red curls brushing his neck. “You may be the prince of the flame, Vallnor, but I am unafraid of the fire. So please, prove me right. I am not afraid to die for the Sonlin Empire. But understand the monster you unleash when you give way to your baser instincts. Because I can see it in you.” She pulled back, one-eyed gaze stripping him bare. “You are nothing but an animal, at the whim of your demon. That is fine. It will make it easier for me to put you down.”
“I am not a monster!” he snapped, loud enough to draw heads over the trill of the music.
“Excuse me, but I really must speak with Sandson-shai.”
Vallnor watched her sweep past him, fists clenching at his sides. She must have sensed the anger radiating from him in waves because Fyera rushed to his side and took his arm to lead him aside of the dance floor, both of their eyes upon the general as she marched up to the mayor and pulled him away. Anxiousness wove through the rage, leaving him stiff with his tumultuous emotions. Somehow the conversation had tumbled away from him, leaving him feeling stupid. Vallnor hated feeling stupid. He was supposed to be better than tripping over the words of a foreign soldier.
“Stop looking so rattled, brother. They can scent blood here.”
He glanced at her, at the dark, kohl-lined eyes scanning the room and the pursing of her painted lips. Gems shone in the circlet perched atop her curls, so much like the ones that would attract his attention as a boy on the streets of Nirket. Pretty girls of good birth would walk the streets of the wealthier neighbourhoods with flowing skirts and shining jewels dangling from their ears, like beacons for a boy desperate enough to make a living from thievery. Girls who had never needed to worry about where their next meal would come from, or what the cost of stealing a single gem could be if caught.
“Vallnor? Are you all right? You look a little peaky.”
He swatted away her probing hand, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck. It was so hot in this room with so many bodies. So many eyes all around him, catching on his with looks of curiosity and judgement. So many voices, rising higher and higher over the clash of the music. It was all too much. His heart raced and fire coursed through his veins. Vallnor thought he might exp
lode with it all.
“Vallnor,” she murmured in reproach, hand wrapping around his wrist. He could feel their bond with the phoenix jerk, siphoning away the fire dancing atop the skin of his palms. It made him angry; that she thought he couldn’t handle it, that she was trying to mediate his relationship with the phoenix as if she was his keeper. But he knew the thoughts were not entirely his own so he tamped them down. More people were beginning to look, including a sharp eyed Riki.
“Maybe we should get some air.”
He shook his head, gasping for breath he couldn’t seem to keep in his lungs. “Stay. I need to go.”
After so long fighting he could hold it back no longer. Vallnor tore through the hall, welcoming the cool embrace of the corridor beyond. Muffled through the door, the music still pounded in his ears, chased by laughter and conversation. His footsteps rang out against the marble floor as he sought the gardens at the centre of the palace, a sigh pressed through his teeth in a sharp whistle of breath, nostrils trailing smoke. A hand fell upon one of the crumbling pillars and he collapsed against it with a heaving chest, peering up into a bright, cloudless sky. The moon bleached the gardens of their usual colour, spindly trees like skeletons, the fountain the shade of exposed bone.
“You used to enjoy parties.”
Starting, he whirled around to see Yurak Demjor cast in the shadow of the overhang. Stepping out next to him, he looked a wraith in the silvery light of the moon, eyes so pale they reminded him of Rook. The man raised his face to the sky, leaning casually against the pillar on his other side. From the doorway warm light spilled across the floor, the music from the quartet trickling through.
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“I remember the times when you used to dress up in all your finery and parade around with your sister like the two of you owned the entire world. The old you, that is.”
Too weary to argue, he said, “Those were different times.”
“Indeed they were.”
Conversation fell away from them, replaced with the burble of the fountain and the chatter of a few guests looking to escape the overwhelming heat of the grand hall. Vallnor enjoyed the saline breeze washing over his face, wishing Demjor would speak or leave him in peace. The hovering was making him anxious and he was already wound too tight as it was.
The Rising Tide Page 27