“You don’t have to—”
My words dry up. He is already halfway across the tower, headed for the floor-to-ceiling glass window. I don’t realize it is,in fact, a door until he pulls it open and steps out into the night air. The balcony is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. But the views of the crater are spectacular. Even from behind Penn’s broad form, I can see how the houses built into the cliffs sparkle like a second constellation of stars, mirroring the dark sky overhead. The teal lake shines brightly, luminous despite the late hour. Even the mist from the falls seems to glow, a candescent haze hanging in the air.
He remains outside as I prepare for bed. After weeks of bathing in streams and squatting behind bushes on the road, real plumbing is a gift from the gods. Refreshed, I strip off the brown gown and slippers, which leaves me barefoot in my thin shift.
Penn is still on the balcony when I return—back to me, hands braced on the railing. The wind reaches into the warm chamber with icy fingers. His posture clearly articulates a need for solitude. I give it to him, climbing up into the spire and crawling beneath the blankets without so much as a murmur of good night.
It seems hours later when I hear the balcony door click closed. I strain my ears, listening to the muffled noises of him kicking off his boots, stripping out of his clothes, running the water tap with a metallic groan of pipes. The creak of his bed frame as he climbs into it. The sound of his breathing, deep and even, as he falls asleep.
It is a long time until I do the same.
My bed in the spire has no frame to speak of—it is little more than a pallet laid upon the creaky wood rafter boards—but it is topped with a plush mattress of down and layered with warm wool blankets to drive off the chill. The distant roar of the falls far below makes for a strange lullaby. As the night ticks on, the wind begins to whip around the turret in a ceaseless wail that mirrors my own screaming emotions.
For hours, I toss and turn, my thoughts caught up in the lavishwastefulness of Vanora’s banquet, in the words of the prophecy, and—undeniably—in the man sleeping one floor below me.
It’s strange. I know more about Penn now than I ever have before. Yet, since arriving in Caeldera, he feels more a stranger than ever. As though he’s dropped a wall, but instead of gaining admittance, I’ve merely found myself confronted with more stone, more mortar. Another wall, twice as thick as the last, and half as likely to yield.
At some pointI must nod off, because I awaken with a start, nestled in the spire like a bird in a roost. An absentminded feminine whistle drifts up through the rafters, accompanied by a rustle of skirts. I discover the source as I descend the ladder. Two maids in dull brown uniforms are tidying the room, removing all traces of dust and grime. They both stop when they spot me, bobbing into half curtsies.
“Good morning, miss.” One of the women bustles toward me. Her golden-brown eyes are a shade lighter than the halo of unruly curls escaping her kerchief. “I’m Teagan; this is Keda.” She gestures to the other maid, a tall beauty a few years her junior with dark skin and bright eyes. “We’ve been assigned to sort out the prince’s chambers while he’s in residence, and to see after your needs. Anything you require, just let us know and we’ll do our best to arrange it for you.”
“Oh, I don’t need anything. Really.”
“Nonsense, miss. We’ve hung up your clothing in the spare wardrobe over there.” Keda points across the room. “And we laid out a gown for you to wear. When you’re ready, we’ll help you dress for the day.”
“Where…” I trail off, feeling foolish. “Did Penn…the prince…Did Prince Pendefyre say where he was going?”
“No, miss. I’m afraid not.”
“And did he happen to mention how I’m meant to spend my day?”
“No, miss. But…” The maids trade a worried glance. “We believe it’s his wish that you remain here. There are plenty of books, and we’ve brought up a tray with your breakfast…”
So, I’m to pass my time locked away in this tower?
My lips press into a line of displeasure. But I say not a word as I eat my breakfast. Nor do I utter a single protest as Keda and Teagan help me dress for the day—something, I might add, I’ve been doing perfectly well on my own for twenty years. The gown they’ve selected is a creamy beige. Thick white woolen tights are smoothed over my legs. My hair is brushed until it shines, then arranged in artful braids that drape heavily over one shoulder. As they work, they chat to each other about the unseasonably sunny weather and upcoming Fyremas Festival, which will mark the official start of the spring thaw.
I sip my tea, only partly listening. Most of my focus is fixed inward, floating in a quiet sea at the center of a storm. Homing in on that link that connects me to Penn. At first, I cannot sense him at all. He is too far away. But I wade there, letting my power wash over me, through me. Reaching out with my senses until, at last, I feel a faint ripple from somewhere far below. A fissure of warmth, nearly undetectable. A hint of burning leaves on an autumn wind.
Pendefyre.
I hold fast to the invisible thread between us. I do not let go as the maids finish their work. As I cross to the wardrobe to retrieve my fur-lined cloak. As I shove my feet into boots and walk out the door, ignoring the concerned cries of the two women left behind in the chamber.
The thread strengthens as I follow it down the many stairs,through the empty banquet hall, and out the doors of the keep. No one stops me as I wander across the dark flagstones to the front gates, though the guards stationed there shoot me inquisitive looks as I pass between them onto the bridge. The lake is dazzling in the morning sunshine, its surface peppered with sleek craft. By the shore, several men are fishing—casting weighted round nets out into the shallows, hauling in writhing yellow-scaled perch.
The scent of spices hangs heavy in the air as I meander down a boardwalk lined with vendors. They call out to me and the other shoppers, showing off their wide array of wares. It reminds me a bit of my trips to Bellmere with Eli, when we’d visit the markets to stock up on medicinal supplies and healing herbs—only the produce here isn’t half-rotten.
My head whips around, taking it all in. Fresh vegetables, wheels of cheese, cured meats, salted fish. Vats of mulled cider stirred by women in starched white aprons. In one stall, a man is roasting chestnuts over a rotating spit. He pauses to grin broadly at me. He is missing several teeth.
I grin back, wishing I had some money to exchange. I doubt the bag of Llyrian coins Soren left me will work here. Even without being able to buy anything, I linger awhile, fascinated by the bustle of activity. Many curious eyes follow me as I move through the crowd, but no one approaches or speaks to me. A few times, people make a strange hand gesture in the air as our paths cross—two fingers moving in the shape of a diamond. Whether they are cursing or blessing me, I do not know.
Eventually, I leave the outdoor marketplace behind, following my invisible tether along the shoreline to a crop of low-slung structures built into the base of a particularly sharp cliff. A massive stable sits alongside an armory and a blacksmith. The forges are ablaze, the masters within hard at work—hammersrhythmically striking anvils, filling the air with the music of meticulous labor.
A string of barracks ring a central courtyard of sparring pits, practice dummies, and archery targets. Soldiers mill about everywhere, hurling spears and shooting bows. Some are in full uniform, heading out on patrol with sword and shield, but most are dressed casually in simple breeches and shirts.
A large cluster of spectators is gathered by the centermost pit. I slip unnoticed through the rapt throng, moving until I am pressed up against a post-and-rope railing. The men inside are circling each other, trading blows with a ferocity that steals my breath. I recognize them even without seeing their faces.
Cadogan and Penn.