“We. Us. All of us.” My cheeks flood with color. I wish suddenly I had something to sip—spiced wine, mead, ale, anything would do. “Farley, Mabon, Carys, Uther…” I trail off helplessly, swallowing down the final name that sits on the tip of my tongue.
“Well, Mabon pulled patrol duty at the tunnel tonight, the poor bastard, so he won’t be back until dawn,” Jac says, scratching at his collar.
“Farley looks a bit preoccupied at the moment…” Cadogan smirks as his eyes travel over my shoulder briefly, to the chaise lounge. The pair of admirers are now perched on either side of the cushioned seat, their bodies blocking most of our view of the reclining redhead. “But I’m sure we could peel him away—”
“No.” I sigh. “No, that’s not necessary. Forget I said anything.”
“Ace…”
I wave off their concern. I feel rather foolish for harboring anything resembling disappointment. Never in my life have I attended a festival such as this. Back in Seahaven, Eli and I paid homage to the start of spring by taking a late-night stroll through the Starlight Wood, examining the new silver buds that gathered along the low-hanging branches, leaving blessings for the gods beneath the ancient Aurea Tree at the center of the grove. An honorable if unexciting tradition.
By comparison, Fyremas is a feast for the senses. Music everywhere. More food and drink than one could ever consume. Garlands of pine and juniper interwoven with the early blooms of spring, perfuming the smoke-hazed air. And firelight—firelight everywhere. Burning on torches and crackling in metal basins, reflecting in the eyes of everyone as they dance and drink and laugh. It all feels like a dream, some rapturous conjuring of imagination. And yet, beneath the joy that sizzles in my bloodstream, I cannot quite dispel the faint chord of discontent at the very core of me.
Penn’s absence bothers me far more than I’d anticipated—far more than it has any right to, given the way we left things during our last encounter. After his vanishing act during the warding ceremony, I assumed he would eventually rejoin the festivities. Yet, he was not present during the feast, nor during the fire-lighting procession through the streets that followed, led by afleet of red-robed fyre priestesses bearing torches, casting blessings to the God of Flame. Even as the musicians took up their strings and the dancing began, there was no trace of him—neither before my eyes nor through our bond.
I cannot feel him at all, even when I cast out my senses as far as they will reach.
Now the clock marches toward midnight, and his continued absence itches at me like a scab on a freshly healed wound. I don’t want to ask his men where he is. To do so would be to admit that I actually care for him…and that is something I am scarcely able to confess to myself, let alone Jac and Cadogan.
So I keep silent, keep patient. Any minute now, he’ll no doubt walk out of some shadowy corner and say something equally infuriating and impenetrable…
“He’s not coming.”
My eyes jerk to Cadogan’s. His handsome face is grave as he watches me. “What?”
“Pendefyre. He’s not coming.” He glances at Jac, who hovers by my side. “I’m sorry, we…we thought you knew…”
My face must betray my stunned disbelief, for Jac moves closer and chucks me lightly under the chin. “Don’t take it personally, Ace. It’s not you he’s avoiding. He never takes part in the festivities.”
“But…” I shake my head to clear it. “Where is he, then?”
They trade another glance.
“No one really knows where he goes—only that he does,” Cadogan says, a hint of apology in his words. “We won’t see him until dawn at the earliest.”
It’s a surprisingly crushing blow to know that the moment I’ve been holding my breath anticipating all evening is never to arrive. I try to hide it, but I’m sure they both can see the disappointment that suffuses my features.
“Come on, Ace. Let’s track down another cup of ale.” Jac’s shoulder bumps mine playfully. “Then we’re heading back out on that dance floor whether you like it or not.”
Summoning a smile, I cast my eyes heavenward. “Gods help me.”
Minutes before midnight,a towering form materializes from the shadows beside me. My heart leaps in my chest…until I register eyes of lightest hazel, not dark ember; hair of peppered black in place of sun-streaked chestnut. His epaulettes shine bright as midday sun.
“General Yale, sir,” Cadogan and Jac chorus in unison, both nodding in respect.
Yale’s scar lends him an unearthly look in the wavering light of the torches as he nods back. His eyes are fixed on me. “I was hoping I might steal the wind weaver away for a waltz before the fireworks begin.”
He phrases it like a request, but I know better. So do my guards, for they say not a word as I place my hand in Yale’s proffered one and allow him to lead me onto the floor. He clears a path toward the center with ease, never releasing his grip on me as we maneuver through the crush of inebriated revelers.
The fiddlers strike their first note of a fresh waltz, a screech of bows on strings. On cue, Yale’s other hand finds my waist. I suck in a sharp breath and try to focus on the steps. Keda and Teagan taught me the basics of some of the Northlanders’ dances, but I am no expert. It did not matter so much when I was dancing with Jac. He is a friend. Yale is…
I am not yet certain what Yale is.
“You seem to be enjoying your first Fyremas,” he says as we move in time with the music. It is a slower tune, a welcome relief from the constant lineup of lively jigs. I follow his lead, a marionetteon strings. He moves with surprising grace for a battle-hardened warrior.
“I am,” I agree, though he has not really asked. He has a habit of phrasing his inquiries as declaratives, as though he knows the answers to his own questions long before he puts words to them. “And you?”
“Fyremas is seldom a dull evening. This year is no exception. Though perhaps for different reasons.”