To her relief, Mckenzie and Brax both let it go, diving right into the story of how Brax had found out about the whole thing, the guest list—which made Gandrett’s eyes widen—and Joshua’s ignorance of their mother’s intentions. Not Joshua’s, for Lady Linniue Denderlain was dead. Dead, not at Gandrett’s magic but at her own hands with the dagger she had driven into her heart. Gandrett hid a shudder by reaching for a piece of cheese and chewed while she listened.
And when Mckenzie told her of the Aucrosta heirs, how she had done her best to appear like more trouble than she was worth, about Leonidas’s reaction as she had pushed over that water glass, Gandrett grinned. A real grin that was half for her friend’s bravery and half pity for the other heirs Lady Crystal had invited.
So Gandrett shoved her heaviness aside, the apathy that had held her down like lead the past days, and climbed out of that hole. For Mckenzie. For Brax. For the future King of Sives. And for a people who deserved peace.
Addie didn’t join when one of the Brenheran sentries came to escort Armand to meet with Lord Tyrem Brenheran. No. Addie remained in the guest room, nibbling on the food Joshua had requested for them, and stared at the trunk, the contents of which she now couldn’t unknow.
The lost crown of Sives. For the gods’ sake. What was he thinking, bringing it here? Even if it belonged here. If anyone saw it? Would Joshua approve? Would the heir of Sives even want to use it? Would it be a bad omen to bring back the crown that had once sat as a trophy of death and destruction, for the downfall of the kingdom of Sives, in the Dragon King’s chambers?
Was it safe?
Addie got to her feet and paced between the door and the windows—practically a half-circle around the single bed that took up a major part of the room. That bed was the least of their problems.
A soft knock on the door had her rushing to the trunk and sitting on it, skirts spread wide enough to cover half of it before she called for whoever to come in. Stupid, she thought, to draw attention to the trunk by protecting it.
But the servant who hurried in merely brought a folded piece of paper and bowed before he held it out for her. “A message from Lord Armand Denderlain, milady.”
Addie almost laughed out loud at his words. She, a lady. “Thank you.” She picked the paper from his hands and opened it, eager to read what was so important Armand couldn’t wait to tell her in person.
Only when the servant cleared his throat did Addie realize she hadn’t dismissed him. And he waited, the way Addie had been waiting for a year in Linniue’s chambers, anxious to make a mistake, scared of becoming visible.
“You may go.” The words hardly left her lips. She had heard them spoken so many times, had had them spoken to her more often than she could count.
The man bowed swiftly before he retreated, and Addie’s hand began trembling, not only because of the crown she was sitting on top of but because she was so painfully lucky to have gotten away—from the prison in the north, from Linniue—and to have found a friend in whom she could confide and who confided in her. It had to be enough.
As she turned her gaze to the message, her heart became a bit lighter.
I won’t be back before dinner. Be ready when the clock strikes seven. I’ll be there to escort you to the solstice celebrations.
Beneath the message and his name, another line sat crookedly as if scribbled in haste: I would put a rhyme here about asking for a dance, but whatever I come up with is so bad, not even I would put it into writing.
Addie smiled at the note and glanced at the clock above the fireplace. Three more hours before he would come back to the room. But he would come. And her friend was going to ask her for a dance.
With a sigh, she got back to her feet, opened the trunk, and pulled out the velvet-wrapped crown before scanning the room for a hiding place. The room was elegant with little furniture save for a wide dresser, table and chairs, and that bed, which loomed there by the dark, wood-paneled wall across from the fireplace. But the fireplace…
She ran her hand along the mantel, the dark marble cool under her touch, then reached beneath into the firebox, searching on top for a hook or a protrusion. Ash rained down her fingers, which had caught on a piece of metal that appeared strong enough to carry the crown. This would do. Until they knew if Joshua even wanted the ancient piece of metal. She slid in the bundle in her other hand, turning and twisting it until it caught on the protrusion. To her surprise, it held, and when she removed her hands, ashes covered them, and more fell onto the wooden floor as relief spread an inch in her chest.
Even if now she needed to clean all traces of her maneuver off the floor, her hands, and her dress, at least, she wouldn’t worry anyone would accidentally find it.
So, Addie marched to the bathing room where she washed her hands, rubbed the ash off her sleeve, and picked up a towel and a bucket of water. The sensation of lifting the bucket instantly put her back a month, and the searing pain in her shoulder blazed into life as if Linniue was carving her up all over again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gandrett didn’t object when Brax offered to escort her back to her rooms after Mckenzie had taken her leave with an eye-roll that would make Leonidas Aucrosta wonder if his hair turned blue.
“You’re watching out for her, aren’t you?” she asked and couldn’t help but take a closer look at him as he nodded. Sincere, she decided as he returned her gaze, holding out a hand to let her hook hers into his arm. Gandrett did. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but somehow, Brax was different. He seemed older even if his mischievous grin remained the same, even if he still sauntered along, obviously knowing the women in their path were stealing glimpses at the youngest Brenheran son, he had matured.
“I will do what I can to help,” Gandrett said as they turned the corner into the hallway that led to her chambers. “If any of those heirs becomes pushy—” She patted the spot on her hip where her sword usually hung, and judging by how his smile broadened, Brax understood exactly in what horrible ways she might hurt them.
They were almost at her door when Brax slowed and eventually stopped, making her halt and face him, to watch his features smoothing, grin fading, and what was left was an unexpected glimpse into his soul.
“I know that there is nothing you can give me, Gandrett, but allow me one thing.” Gandrett’s heart beat faster at Brax’s words, his emerald eyes intense, solemn almost. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or excitement rising in her chest. “Let me take you to the Midsummer Solstice celebrations tonight. Come as my guest and make me a happy man.”
An avalanche of thoughts barreled through her as Brax slowly released her arm, his gaze unyielding. The least of them that she wasn’t supposed to let anyone court her. And the way Brax was behaving—even if his words had been cautious, carefully chosen as if not to compromise her position—it seemed the intentions behind them were indeed more than that guest he asked her to be. As a Child of Vala, her life belonged to the goddess as did her love and her loyalty, to the Order and the Order only.
And yet, Gandrett found herself wondering if it was right—if an organization she had been forced into when she was so young that she didn’t even understand what loyalty was—
She held Brax’s gaze, her breath shuddering as only one answer filled her mind.
No. The Order of Vala didn’t deserve her loyalty. Not like that. Not with the methods they used to break and shape their novices to their will, not with the path they determine for each and every child who was sacrificed into their service. No, they didn’t deserve it. Not like that. Not to a full extent. Gandrett had seen in Ackwood how quickly things could change, how a supposed enemy could turn into a friend, and how family could turn into evil. Lines blurred everywhere. The black and white of her childhood, the straight path the Order had set her on, it was crooked. She could feel it as it ran through her as Brax studied her, not a hint of impatience on his features, just calm.
And she … She wasn’t the same girl who Nehelon had brought to A
ckwood months ago. She had gotten a real taste of hope … and devastation … and she had magic. She was an abomination as the people of Sives—the people of all of Neredyn—would say. As if in response to her thought, her blood stirred with magic. But Gandrett bit it back, tasting blood as her teeth clamped down on the inside of her lip.
The truth was, Gandrett Brayton no longer had a place in Sives or anywhere else in Neredyn, other than the forests of Ulfray. No matter how much she tried to push the thoughts aside, her time was bought until someone figured out she had magic, and then she would eventually be dumped at the borders of the Fae lands. So what claim did the Order of Vala have to her and her life?
“It would be an honor.” Gandrett curtseyed, and Brax’s face warmed, smile genuine, open, no trace of that arrogant, lazy smile from their first encounter. Maybe they both had changed.
And just like that, the leash that had been put on her ten years ago began to disintegrate.
When Brax strolled through the palace that afternoon, nothing could disturb his mood, not even as Taghi Saza Brina cut off his path, looking like Nyssa’s darker twin clad in sand-colored tunic and pants, ornate gold embroidery climbing up his shoulders and chest to form patterns of water and birds and battle. His kohl-lined eyes were like black stars in the colorful light of the hallway.
“Welcome, Prince.” Brax bowed at his waist out of respect for what the Saza Brina dynasty had established in Khila.
Taghi, however, cocked his head and said, “Is it true?” Brax wondered what the prince meant, but he didn’t need to ask for specification, for the prince stepped closer and whispered, “That people are worshipping Shygon here in the north … is it true?”
There was tension on his young, handsome features, and if Brax believed what Joshua had told them about Lady Linniue Denderlain having had access to a temple of Shygon under Eedwood Castle, that Gandrett had saved Joshua from being dragged further into that cult—even he’d been part of it against his will; it had done something to his brother.
“This is something that affects all of us,” Taghi urged, and Brax was half-sure that if he hadn’t jerked his chin at the next best door and led the prince into an empty room to be able to speak the truth, Taghi would have drawn that scythe-like weapon at his hip and introduced it with a painful slice.
“How did you learn about this?” Brax asked, debating to call for guards, but Taghi didn’t make one aggressive move.
The prince just strolled past him into the sitting room, not giving one of those attentive glances to the luxurious interior, and braced his hands on the high backrest of an armchair. “Just because our kingdoms are separated by Fae lands, deserts, and mountains so massive it would take an airborne army to invade, doesn’t mean we don’t hear about things in the south.”
He had chosen his words carefully, pointing out how well protected Phornes was by its geographical borders. It would, indeed, take an airborne legion to invade—or a fleet. Khila, the capital was quite accessible through the coastline.
“Does your concern for our beliefs originate from fear someone will invade Phornes, or do you actually worry about what happens to those poor bastards who get sliced open in the rituals?”
Brax had learned enough about Neredyn’s history to know that Shygon prayers involved blood and lots of it. And after what Joshua had shared about what happened to that servant girl—he couldn’t remember her name, but she would have been dead if it hadn’t been for Gandrett and the young Lord of Eedwood.
Taghi’s face turned harsh as he took Brax’s statement exactly for what it was: the accusation that the prince was implying that the north planned to invade Phornes.
Brax stared down the prince. “Shouldn’t you be having your sentries with you at all times,” Brax said with an unbothered grin.
“Says the unarmed boy,” Taghi countered, and this time, his hand wandered to his belt until it rested on the gold-and-ebony handle of his scythe.
But Brax simply shoved his hands into his pockets. “You want to talk politics? Talk to my brother. Haven’t you heard there in the south? I am just the playboy of Ackwood.” He let his grin turn feral. “Any chance you brought your sister? I’m sure she’d enjoy my tour through the palace.”
Taghi looked like he was about to draw that scythe and shove it down Brax’s throat when the door burst open and the Chancellor strode in … and stopped dead the moment he’d crossed the threshold.
Stupid child. Nehelon couldn’t believe his Fae ears when the discussion hit him in his study. How had the younger Brenheran son managed to get into trouble now?
It was only two rooms away from where he had been sitting at his desk, debating whether or not he should raise the topic of Gandrett’s birthday. She didn’t know he knew, and the way he had gotten to know her, she would shove her flames up his ass if he pried.
So the bold—and stupid—words of Brax Brenheran were a welcome distraction, and he leaped from his chair, damning the consequences of darting through the hallway like a bolt of lightning. Gandrett moved to the back of his consciousness, and he became the warrior that was forced to slumber in this human form. But only until the door was open. The moment Brax was within sight and his opponent across the room identified as an easy target—a heartbeat, not longer—Nehelon smoothed over his expression and slowed only to measure his pace and stop. Too fast for those humans to seem relaxed. They stared at him, wide-eyed, but Nehelon didn’t give them a moment to gather their thoughts. Instead, Nehelon simply beckoned for Brax to follow him. “Your presence is required elsewhere, milord.”
Brax, not without surprise but with his grin in place once more, turned on his heels and followed Nehelon out the door, leaving Taghi Saza Brina standing with his hand on his scythe.
“You fool,” Nehelon hissed at Brax as he led him into his study, well out of earshot of the Saza Brina heir. “What were you thinking?”
The words barreled out of him, and he couldn’t tell why he even cared to scold Lord Brenheran’s youngest. And the words he was using… Gods, spending the past weeks with Gandrett, he had let his perfectly composed human masquerade gradually slip, and now it was biting him in his behind. He was completely out of character.
To his surprise, Brax didn’t complain. He didn’t say a word other than, “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust anyone but your sister,” Nehelon spoke and wished he’d chosen a better moment to let all his frustration show.
Brax shrugged. “When you look around the palace,” Brax said, so cold, so serious it surprised Nehelon that Brax was even capable of those kinds of words, “can you blame me?” He sauntered to the bookshelf behind the door and ran his index finger over the spines of some Sivesian classics Nehelon had put on display. Just to fill the shelves. When those authors had written stories, Nehelon had already been centuries old. He had even met one or the other noteworthy poet on his travels through Neredyn. But that story, even if it would impress the young lord whom Nehelon had spotted with an open book on his knees countless times over the years, was nothing he would ever share within these walls.
Brax stopped and turned under Nehelon’s pointed stare, but his face showed no trace of fear—even if his scent gave away that Nehelon’s sudden appearance had startled him quite a bit.
“I assume you are talking about Joshua not actually being a full Brenheran,” Nehelon said, more to fill the space between them.
But Brax chuckled darkly. “That’s old news.” He prowled over to the desk and dropped into Nehelon’s chair, all arrogant noble and not even a hint of gratitude on his face as he folded his hands in his lap and tipped the chair onto its hind-legs, swaying back and forth with surprising calm. “My mother is seeking an alliance for Sives through marriage.”
What? “They want to marry you off?” Nehelon assumed and earned a laugh that was laced with the promise of a slow death if he ever mentioned that side in public.
“My sister is to be sold to the highest bidder, so it seems.” Brax gazed a
t the wall as if he could see through it and the room behind it all the way to where they had left Taghi Saza Brina, the heir of Phornes….
Nehelon felt the wheels in his head turn. “That’s why you provoked Taghi Saza Brina? And I thought you had a death wish—”
Brax surveilled him with uncomfortable attention.
“He was being nosy,” he explained with a shrug, the arrogant boy Nehelon had observed so many times a well-built facade, almost as good as the one Nehelon had glamoured on to protect his own secret. “Besides, if he hates us, it’s unlikely he’ll bid for Mckenzie’s hand.”
Nehelon took a long breath. Child. Foolish child. “You insulted a Prince of Phornes.” He stalked toward the desk and braced his hands on the clean, wood surface. “This is not your call to make. If you want to help your sister, fine. We’ll find another way. But don’t jeopardize the future of Sives”—of Neredyn—“for your mind games.”
Brax’s gaze was like ice, but his shoulders sagged. He knew he had messed up, and he wasn’t going to admit to it easily.
“How did you know to burst in and rescue me?” Brax asked out of the blue. “Not that I needed rescuing.”
Of course not. Nehelon snorted. “One of the guards saw you walk in there with the prince. I thought I’d check in on you.” Not that he particularly cared about that Brenheran son. Especially not with the way Brax looked at Gandrett. Nehelon shoved the thought into the deepest pit of his Fae mind. There was nothing Gandrett could want from him. Nothing he had to offer her but misery. She had been dead right about that.
Brax blinked and let the chair drop back onto all of its legs. “So, what do you suggest I do about Mckenzie?” he asked with a knowing look. “I remember the way she used to look at you … you used to look at her.”
Nehelon felt his face go pale. He had thought no one had noticed. That that one kiss had been their secret.
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