I ponder his question. And perhaps it is because I am tired. Perhaps it is because he has given me so much information without asking for anything in return. Perhaps I simply miss the sound of my name on someone’s lips…
“Rhya,” I tell him in a halting whisper. “My name is Rhya Fleetwood.”
“Rhya Fleetwood.” He repeats it slowly, as though tasting each syllable as it forms in his mouth. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I wait, but he does not return the favor. My nose scrunches in annoyance. “Aren’t you going to tell me yours?”
“No.”
“What?Whyever not?”
“Names have power. Especially full names. Never give yours to a stranger when you don’t know how they plan to use it.”
“But…I gave you mine!”
“And?”
“And it’s common courtesy to give back that which you’ve received!”
“Oh, I haven’t dealt in anything as common as courtesy in a century.” He grins, greatly enjoying my discomfort. “Your foolishness does not necessitate my own. And, anyway, I expect you’ll learn my identity soon enough, with or without my telling you.”
I glare at him. “Is every conversation between us to be like this? Full of trickery and verbal traps?”
“I thought we were never to see each other again.”
My glare intensifies.
He does not seem to mind, or even notice. His blue eyes turn mocking as his hand sweeps toward the far end of the courtyard. “Your hero awaits.”
Chapter
Seventeen
We walk side by side to the metal portcullis that divides the keep from the outside world, Onyx trotting along behind us. With a groan, it rises as we approach, inching toward the sky on thick chains. My eyes widen at what waits on the other side.
A full company of uniformed soldiers is gathered. I’ve never seen so many fae in one place before. Thirty of them, maybe more, all clad in matching dark maroon tunics and armed with swords. Banners bearing the crest of Dyved—the flaming mountain—wave in the air.
This must be the famed Ember Guild. Farley had spoken of it—the special unit of warriors who operate directly under Penn’s command whenever he is home in Caeldera. Highly skilled on the battlefield, thoroughly trained in all areas of combat.
At the front of the battalion, slightly apart from the rest, six men sit atop horses. Their uniforms are a slight deviation on the standard, the additional emblems at their chests marking their higher rank. I recognize Mabon, Uther, and Jac among them, all looking grim and guarded.
In the very center, astride a gray mount, sits Penn. He wears no helm. I’ve never seen him without it in the daylight, I realize, mouth suddenly parched. His hair is a rich chestnut, the endsburnished with lighter shades of coppery gold. His skin is tan from riding in the sun, his cheeks ruddy with exertion. His expression is carefully blank.
And his eyes are fixed on me.
I swallow a gasp at the heat banked in their depths. Fury and fire. They burn bright enough to scald, never shifting from my face as he dismounts and approaches the gates. My heart sails up into my throat as his long-legged strides close the distance between us. My relief is a palpable underscore to my frantic pulse.
He’s here.
He’s come for me.
My hand tightens on Onyx’s bridle as Penn halts a dozen paces away. His eyes sweep down my body, scanning for signs of injury or traces of maltreatment. Finding none, he gives a short nod, then turns his attention to the man at my side.
“Pendefyre,” my host greets with faux brightness. “What brings you here?”
“Soren,” Penn returns stiffly.
The world seems to lurch under my feet. I’m surprised I keep my legs beneath me as reality shifts, then resettles with bone-shaking swiftness.