by M. L. Greye
She sighed and shut her eyes. “Emry.”
Trezim blinked. Not the answer he’d been expecting. “Pardon?”
“If I hear one more pompous noble call me Emerald tonight, I might explode,” she retorted. “So, if you’re going to refuse to leave, at least call me Emry.”
“Emry,” he said, testing it out loud. He liked it. The name actually seemed to fit her far more than Emerald. And maybe her sharing her shortened name with him made him brave, because he smirked. “This isn’t you exploding?”
“No, it’s not.” She glanced up at her little orb of light. “If I wished, I could cast that entire ballroom into darkness. A useless ability. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m still so utterly helpless in any real fight.” Her voice grew softer with each word until it was barely more than a whisper. “What’s the purpose of having all this power if everyone coddles me and doesn’t let me try anything to save them? It’s like I’m nothing more than a little mouse – preyed upon and driven by the eddies of intelligent, powerful men and women.”
Trezim frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure where this outburst stemmed from, but he suspected it was from her brother’s death. Perhaps she wished she could have been there to help stave off his attack. Yet, she thought she was helpless? Had no one taught her how to defend herself? There was something else she’d said ... about her power. She knew she was powerful. Strong. Trezim could still see it leaking out of her back – in swirls that glimmered in the light.
He only knew of one other Silver – Varamtha, the Warrior of Perth. Such darkness had emitted from her as well. Emry could be as strong as Varamtha – an asset to her weak, volatile country.
And he could teach her.
The idea popped into his head, startling even himself. Him? Train this girl? He’d never trained anyone in his life. Had avoided it, actually. Not because he wasn’t capable, but because that put him into a position of responsibility, and he wasn’t meant for that. At least, his father believed he wasn’t.
“Would you like to learn how to defend yourself, Emry?” He asked hesitantly.
“More than anything.” She gazed out toward the palace, over Trezim’s head.
“Would you accept me as a teacher?”
Her breath caught as her attention snapped back to him. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she breathed. “My father would never allow it.”
Trezim stood slowly and stepped over the soft grass that served as the maze’s floor, closing the distance between them. When he was about a foot away, he stopped. She was short, barely reaching his shoulders. But her eyes narrowed up at him, catching that silvery light, and shimmered. Trezim found himself smiling. Her eyes were lovely.
“My father requests a delegation from Enlennd. To promote positive relations. I think he would be incredibly offended if no Jewel, as your people would say, were to join the group.” He paused. “I’m going to personally ask for you. It will incite rumors of a preference between the two of us, but if you can stand the gossip and the journey to Heerth, I will teach you the Turanga.”
Emry tilted her head to the side. “What’s the Turanga?”
He grinned. “It’s a dance.”
“A dance,” she repeated, clearly unimpressed.
“A war dance.” He chuckled. “It will help you defend yourself and those you care for.”
She didn’t return his smile. “Why?”
He knew what she meant – why bother with the sad little princess? It was a question he couldn’t fully answer himself. So, he said honestly, “Because I hate being helpless just as much as you do.”
The princess let out a short bitter laugh. “I doubt that.”
“Is that a yes?” It was his turn to tilt his head.
She didn’t answer him right away. He let the silence linger between them as she chewed over his offer. A moment later, though, she replied quietly, “Yes.”
“Good choice.” He winked out of instinct, even though she might not have seen the gesture.
“Thank you.”
Those two words held such sincerity, borderline desperation, that Trezim suddenly felt the need to lighten her mood. He offered his arm and as she took it, he said, “You may not be so grateful once you’re making the voyage to Heerth. But come. Let’s go spend the rest of the evening together to get your father’s hopes up for an alliance. That should make him willing to send you to Heerth.”
:::::
It was the throbbing in his head that woke him. That, and the cold.
Ryde moaned as he tried to remember what had happened. He knew something had changed, wasn’t right. There had been yelling. A lot of yelling … by his father? Ryde lifted his hands to rub his eyes but was stopped. His wrists were constrained behind him by something icy and clinking. Chains. He was in chains … Ryde remembered. His eyes flew open.
Outside it was pouring rain, and Ryde was on the inside of a moving wagon.
The rain beat down on the wagon, seeping in through where the canvas wasn’t pulled tight enough along the sides and through the open flap at the back. Ryde was fastened to the back left corner of the wagon, which meant that he was thoroughly drenched. He had no idea how long he’d been there or how long it’d been raining.
But he did know his worst nightmare was in front of him. At the opposite end of the bouncing wagon, Steffie was huddled in a soaked, thin nightgown, sobbing. Her blonde hair was plastered to her head, dripping water, and she was shivering, hugging herself with her arms. The entire right side of her face was swollen, flaring into shades of blue, gray, and brown.
They weren’t alone, though. A beefy, pink-eyed man was reclining back against the opposite side of the wagon from Ryde, separating him from Steffie. His gaze was locked on Ryde, assessing him, even though his legs were sprawled out in front of him as if he were relaxing. Ryde held the man’s eyes and discovered thick veins of black within them.
“Awake yet?” The man snickered, a few locks of his chestnut, shoulder-length hair falling across his forehead.
Steffie’s attention snapped to Ryde. Her eyes were wide and terror blared out of them. Yet, she stayed silent. Shivering like mad, but silent.
Ryde’s heart was racing as he recalled his father’s threats to make a warrior out of him yet. Everyone knew Ryde was terrible with blades – really any sort of combat. He’d never cared much to learn the stuff when he was surrounded by a plethora of soldiers and guards back in Spectra – the Quirl capital. His father had never seemed bothered about it, either. At least, not until Ryde started giving Steffie his attention.
And now Steffie was here – held captive. What had his father done? Ryde assumed his father wanted to make some sort of statement with her, but taking an innocent citizen of their country against her will … That was too far, even for his father.
“Well, you look alert enough for me.” The Pink eased up to a crouch. “Let’s begin this.”
He wrapped a hand around Steffie’s wrist, and she whimpered. She didn’t scream – as if she’d already done so and had paid a price for it. Was that why her half her face was a bruise? Ryde clenched his jaw. “Release her!”
The man didn’t even turn around. “Relax, Rand.”
Rand? The name jolted through Ryde. Not Prince or Ryde, but Rand. He’d never been called that before.
“She won’t be hurt.” He smiled at her, sickeningly sweet. She cringed, and he tapped the side of her head with one finger. Steffie collapsed onto the bed of the wagon, unconscious.
“What did you do?” Ryde demanded.
“She’ll wake up none the wiser in an hour or so,” he smirked, rolling her onto her back – her arm smacking into the wood with a small thud.
Ryde had not experienced such horror in his life as when the man started reaching for the hem of her nightgown. “Stop!” He begged, his voice breaking.
The man laughed. “Make me, Rand.”
He knew Ryde was incarcerated. He wanted Ryde to watch this! Was this commissioned from his father
? Ryde was going to be ill.
No. That wouldn’t save Steffie. This was all his fault. She hadn’t known what he was. Who had sired him. He’d hid it to protect her. He’d selfishly made the choice for her – keeping her in the dark – and it had clearly blown up in his face.
Rage filled him as the man rubbed his hands up her bare calves. Ryde had to do something. Anything. He couldn’t just sit here!
Ryde’s focus turned inward. To that place deep inside himself. To where the wind he could sometimes call stirred. He grabbed hold of a wisp of it and rallied his entire being behind that tether, grasping onto it with all his strength. He felt the wind rise up within him. The hairs on his arms rose with it. He’d reached his limit. He couldn’t hold onto the wind, bending it to his will, any longer. He released it all at Steffie in one enormous gust. His wind tore her away from the man but flung her against the opposite side of the wagon. Her shoulder hit the wood with a loud crack that made Ryde wince.
The man only cackled. “Not much good you did there, Rand.”
Panic pooled inside of Ryde, coating his throat. He struggled to breathe as the man rose to reclaim her. There wasn’t a thing Ryde could do to stop him. Forming the wind had left him shaking and panting. He didn’t use his abilities often enough. He had servants to do everything for him. Ryde was weak, and it showed.
The Pink prowled towards Steffie again. Ryde desperately reached out his consciousness into the sky. He knew other Grays could summon storms. Maybe he could call down something to him. But all he was aware of was rain – cold, bitter, blinding rain. And then he felt it. A small charge in the air, high above his head. It sizzled the brittle edges of his mind. Lightning. Or what would eventually become lightning. Ryde just hoped it was enough to help Steffie.
Not thinking of the consequences, Ryde latched onto that charge and yanked it downward, summoning it to him. Bright, white-hot lightning responded almost immediately – ripping through Ryde’s body, causing him to scream as it seared into his veins. Ryde couldn’t control it – had barely been able to guide it out of the sky. But Steffie was there, and the man had twisted around at the flash of light as the lightning filled Ryde.
Letting out a roar, Ryde glared at the Pink and urged the charge out of him.
The man flew backwards, right through the canvas of the wagon and out into the mud and the rain. Through the shredded canvas, Ryde watched his charred mass land as the horses pulling the wagon went wild, stampeding forward. Whoever was driving didn’t notice the absence of the Pink – the driver’s shouts were trying to calm the startled team. The wagon bounced and swayed, going up onto two of its side wheels before crashing back down to all four.
With the death of the Pink, Steffie was now awake and clinging to the side of the wagon bed. Ryde watched her with clenched teeth – his wrists rubbed raw from the chains as the wagon tossed him back and forth. He swore.
Ryde’s body was shaking uncontrollably. He’d killed a man. For Steffie, he’d found a charge in the sky and called it to him. He’d used that charge to burn a man to a crisp. He’d killed a man. Him. The lazy Quirl prince.
He leaned his head back against the sopping wood post behind him and released a sob of his own. What had his father done?
CHAPTER TWO
It had been six months since Ewan’s Funeral Ball. Six months to the day, actually. Emry knew because she’d been counting.
Emry was now sixteen, finally an adult. All those months at the palace had made her long for the freedom of her estate. In Court, there were too many manners and protocols and Jewel worshippers. Too many people following her around at social gatherings, calling her dearest princess.
True, it’d been nice to be near Citrine again, but her sister lacked the restlessness Emry suffered from – the need to be doing something, usually outdoors. At the estate, Emry had tended a vegetable garden, rode her own horse, read, picked wild berries, mended clothing, pushed herself with her abilities ... whatever kept her busy that day – usually in the fresh air.
In the palace, she was watched. She was restricted to wandering the palace gardens, beneath the eyes of anyone spying from one of its many windows. The gardens were only so big. She could only spend so much time walking the same pebbled paths before she grew outrageously bored. It was one reason why since leaving the estate she’d lost the golden sheen to her skin. She’d paled from her lack of exploring. It annoyed her.
The months had been long. She’d nearly given up on Trezim, figuring he’d forgotten all about the hope he’d offered her at the Ball. But then, two months ago, her father received an epistle of sorts from the king of Heerth, asking for them to exchange children for a year. A solid year.
A year for each royal heir to experience life within an allied nation. To learn the language. To learn the culture. To become someone each king could trust. Someone who could possibly form a true alliance within each court. A true alliance meant marriage, naturally.
Emry was just excited that Trezim had pulled through. He’d even somehow convinced his father to request her over her sister. Not that Cit would have agreed to travel. Either way, Emry was glad for the opportunity. Emry would go to Heerth, and one of the Heerth princes would return home with Onyx to Enlennd.
A little more than two weeks ago, she had hopped on a ship with her father, heading for the nearest Heerth port. They’d arrived early that morning to bright banners and a greeting party that was to escort them into the capital city of Heerth: Zyntar.
Emry hoped that her next year in Heerth would be different than the near imprisonment and propriety of the palace. Her father would only stay a week – sign the exchange papers and depart with a Heerth prince. Emry would then belong to the Heerth court for a year.
She would be given a throng of maids and be treated like a princess of Heerth. She’d dress like one, attend Heerth functions like one, interact with other members of royalty and nobility like one. It was the most involved in politics Onyx had ever permitted her to be. That alone pleased her.
It’d taken her and Onyx – and the delegation they’d brought along from Enlennd – two hours to reach Zyntar’s gates. They’d had to ditch their horses and carriages there. The roads winding up through the city to the actual palace weren’t wide enough to go by horse or carriage. Instead, Emry and her father were each given a stuffed seat topped with lavish colorful pillows and covered with fluttering thin, white fabric that draped overhead across a frame held up by four posts. The seat was mounted to a large, rectangular wooden base that had been covered up by rich braided rugs of bright orange and yellow – the colors of Heerth. At each base corner, a long wooden pole jutted out, two on the front and two on the back.
At first glance, Emry had questioned the mobility of these chairs – palanquins as the Heerths had called them. It wasn’t until she was seated and four brightly clad black-eyed women in Heerth attire hefted up each pole over their shoulders that she realized how she was going to be transported to the palace. The women raised Emry into the air, bearing her weight on their shoulders. Four burly black-eyed men lifted her father’s chair. To have four Blacks on each palanquin was overkill when just one would have more than sufficed for both her and her father. Having four each was obviously for dramatic effect.
Then they began the climb up through the twisting streets of the city. Streets that were paved in dark red brick – red like wine or a rose.
Emry quickly became hot in her muslin Enn dress. The translucent cloth above her did nothing to shade her. She couldn't wait to change out her Enn clothes for some Heerth attire. The air here in Heerth was thick and moist and sticky. She’d never felt anything like it. For once, it was as if she could actually feel the air – like she could reach out and run her hand through it. Was this how Grays felt all the time? It was exhilarating. Even though she could sense the sweat trickling down her back, she was invigorated. Heerth air made her feel alive, filling her lungs. Up until now Emry hadn’t realized how starved her lungs had been in the thin air
of Enlennd.
She was carried through a market. The aroma hit her before she saw any of it. Sweet and spicy at the same time. There were brightly clad merchants and vendors – selling rugs and clothing and breads and incense and spices and exotic fruits and vegetables and cooked meats. Literally anything anyone could imagine. Emry couldn’t take it in fast enough. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen.
And it was filled with people – clad in the brightest colors Emry had ever seen worn. The crowd was crushing. Yet, the women who carried her still somehow made progress. Emry’s mouth watered as the various scents confronted her – waking her. It was as if it freed her senses, allowed her to see more clearly. The colors here were so vibrant – the hot, sticky air rich with flavors Emry had yet to taste.
This place was nothing like Enlennd. A small portion of her shriveled at that thought – that there was nothing familiar – but the vast majority of her was shouting for joy. There was more to the world than she’d ever imagined.
Once through the market, they reached rows and streets of mansion townhouses. Two stories high with flat roofs, gardens on top – vines and flowers dangling over. These were wide homes. More like little estates, really. These were for Heerth’s court – Zyntar’s wealthy elite. They were the people with whom Emry would soon be associating.
Then, up ahead, finally visible on the winding road was Zyntar’s shimmering Solar Palace. It was constructed of white marble. In the center was a lone, circular tower. Its roof was gold. Emry wasn’t sure if it was actually made from gold or simply painted that color. Either way, it was as radiant as the sun – nearly blinding. Emry gaped. Her home in Enn was called a palace, but by comparison, it was more like a dreary little manor. She’d never seen such opulence.
Emry frowned. She’d always been told that Enlennd was a prosperous nation, but now she questioned her country’s wealth. Most of the commoners she’d passed in the market wore some sort of gold jewelry – either flashy earrings or a dozen tinkling, golden bracelets up their arms. The common people of Enlennd rarely had enough coin for jewelry, and never gold. If the Heerth low-born indulged in such luxuries, she could only imagine what finery the truly rich wore.