A jolt of warmth down the bond. A pulse of raw power, tugging me away from that dark edge.
Penn.
His presence cuts through the fog of panic in the interlude between two instants. I sense him with sudden clarity—as though he’s been shielding himself but, in that moment, allows the shields to fall away. He is here, just ahead, not far at all. The tether tightens around my heart, reeling me in, urging me forward. I latch on to it, allowing Penn’s reassuring strength to shore up my own flagging resolve.
My head lifts, eyes seeking him out, but he is nowhere to be found. At the end of the aisle, the crowd of courtiers to either side is replaced by two orderly rows of foot soldiers in starched brown uniforms. Standing at attention at the front of the brigade,a mountain of a man watches me approach through shrewd hazel eyes. The golden epaulettes at his shoulders give away his identity.
General Yale, who leads Dyved’s armies in the northern provinces.
He is younger than I’d envisioned when the men spoke of him—no more than a decade or so older than myself. But those years have not been entirely kind. His dark hair is streaked gray at the temples and a ridged red scar runs the length of his left cheek from temple to jaw.
He surveys me with detached interest as the distance dwindles between us, his emotions unreadable. I get the sense there is not much his golden eyes miss. I breathe easier when we pass out of his sight line.
Beyond the brigade of foot soldiers, twenty elite members of the Ember Guild line the throne platform, their maroon-and-gold uniforms identical to those worn by the men beside me. The dais itself is lofted several steps above the main floor. At its center is a heavy throne, crafted of the same dark metal that cages the fire at the base of each ceiling column. It is currently unoccupied. To its left side, one step down, on a smaller seat of similar craftsmanship, sits Queen Vanora. A position of honor—one befitting a kingdom’s steward.
But not a true queen.
No wonder she does not often use this room, I think as her cold eyes lock on mine.It is a perpetual reminder of her shortcomings, her lack of full sovereignty on display for all to see.
“Wind weaver,” she acknowledges when we come to a stop before the platform. Each syllable is scathing as it leaves her purse-string mouth. Her eyes sweep me head to toe, and I see a glimmer of undeniable fury as she takes in the lack of sulfuric ruffles. She herself wears a resplendent gown of deep red, with abevy of rubies to match. Her crown sits heavily atop her sleeked-back silver mane. “You are unforgivably late.”
The hall goes utterly silent at her condemnation. Beside me, Cadogan and Jac both bend into swift bows. I sweep into a rather flimsy curtsy, more than happy to steer my gaze toward the floor.
“Apologies, Queen Vanora,” I tell the stones.
“Do you think yourself more important than a warding ceremony that keeps all of us alive?”
“No, Queen Vanora.”
“Do you think yourself above the protection of this city and its people?”
“No, Queen Vanora.”
“Then be seated,” she hisses, “before you delay us further.”
I feel a different sort of pulse through the bond as I rise again—not reassurance, but rage. Wherever he is, Penn is close enough to hear his sister’s vitriol. Yet, when I risk a glance into the shadows beyond the throne, I still cannot see a single trace of him.
My guard detail leads me away from Vanora’s narrow-eyed scrutiny to a section of pew-like benches built along the bottom level of the dais. Carys and Uther are there, baby Nevin swaddled in his father’s strong arms. I recognize several other highly ranked members of the Ember Guild in attendance, their wives tucked close by their sides. I smile at Carys; she grins back, green eyes dancing in delight as she surveys her handiwork.
Jac and Cadogan find an empty stretch of seating near the end of the pew, next to Farley. I frown at the redhead, noticing his crutches have been swapped for a simple cane. I’ve told him time and again, he ought to wait at least another week. The man is going to set back his recovery in an irksome display of masculine prowess. He merely shrugs, unrepentant under the force of my glare as I take my seat beside him.
My skirts have barely settled when Queen Vanora begins to drone, briefly welcoming her subjects before launching into a recitation of all she has done for the kingdom since the previous Fyremas—her allocation of funds to clear a tract of land by the North Sea where a new generation of farmers might homestead, her assignment of fresh troops to the southern borderlands where the Reavers threaten, her recent clearing of the Forsaken Forest, where the ice giants had nested in previous weeks.
Her, her, her.
Nothing about Pendefyre. Nothing about General Yale. Nothing about the Ember Guild. She speaks as though she singlehandedly carries the kingdom upon her back. As if every victory is hers alone, rather than the combined efforts of dozens, hundreds, thousands of Dyvedi citizens. After ten straight minutes of her self-accolades, Jac feigns a soft snore from my left.
I bite my lip, stifling a giggle.
Finally, the old crone runs out of steam. The hall seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief as her voice tapers into silence. Her hands curl around the arms of her chair, tension apparent in every arthritic joint as attention shifts away from her in one great whoosh of light and heat and sound.
All eyes soar upward, to the wall of shadow behind the throne platform, following the twin trails of fire as they streak from the floor trenches upward to the ceiling in two crackling lines, illuminating the back wall of the cavern…
And, with it, the Crown Prince of Dyved.
Chapter
Twenty-nine