Thankfully, he is busy staring hard at Soren, his mouth a severe line. “Did you or did you not insist upon my presence atthis wedding? Now that I have complied, you insult me for deigning to do so?”
“How right you are. Apologies. It seems my manners have fallen by the wayside today.” Soren takes a breath and strives for civility. “I welcome you and your men to Hylios. I’ve arranged staff to see to your lodgings and provide whatever you require during your visit.” He glances over his shoulder to where the Ember Guild and Paexyrian are still facing off. It does not appear much of the ice has thawed despite Jac’s most charming grins. “Assuming they survive until nightfall.”
Penn grunts. “Your hospitality is appreciated but unnecessary. We will sleep on the ship with the crew who traveled with us.”
“Nonsense. You are here in an official capacity as both King of Dyved and Remnant of Fire. It is only fitting that you stay on the royal grounds with the other honored guests.” Soren’s glacial gaze cuts to mine, freezing me down to the bone. “One big happy family. Are we not?”
“You look likeyou need this more than I do.”
At Arwen’s murmur, I glance up in time to see her top off my glass with a long pour of gold-flecked Titan gin, not stopping until it threatens to flow over the rim.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
She nods, taking a slug straight from the bottle’s mouth. Alaric watches her, grinning indulgently, then takes a long sip of his own.
I’m glad someone is enjoying himself.
The rest of our gathering shows no signs of smiling anytime soon. Soren and Penn glare at each other from opposite heads of the table. Mabon and Jac flank the Dyvedi king while Vaughnand Arwen flank the Llyrian one, leaving Alaric and me with the rather unfortunate position smack at the center, a sliver of neutral territory between opposing factions.
I raise my glass to my lips and take a long swallow, relishing the fire that burns down my throat. Its heady rush is not enough to quell the discomfort that pumps through my bloodstream as I look around the terrace of the guest villa where the Ember Guild is staying, then out at the city beyond.
Located at the base of the royal grounds, almost at sea level, it boasts a view of the central canal, where hundreds of Llyrians can be seen on bridges and barges and all manner of boats, the darkness no deterrent to their frivolity. Chatter carries back to us across the waterways along with the scent of tybae leaf and the distant pound of drums from the pleasure clubs. If I had to wager, I’d bet Farley followed that beat straight into the heart of depravity. Hopefully Cadogan will keep him from getting into any real trouble.
My eyes move back to the table, which is as far a cry from the city’s collective merriment as one can imagine. The platters of food at the center sit untouched. My spine remains ramrod straight despite the cushioned seat beneath me. The atmosphere is rife with tension—and only grows more so as the unofficial war council gets underway.
I’d anticipated that Penn would not squander the opportunity to discuss his plans for war while in Hylios. I had not realized he would suggest a meeting so soon after arriving, or that Soren would agree to it. Certainly not on the eve of his sister’s wedding. Yet no sooner had he shown the Dyvedi men to their sleeping quarters than the demand was made and quickly met.
Arwen was promptly summoned, for no discussion of battle tactics could happen without the commander of the Llyrian armies in attendance. And with Arwen came Alaric—there in hisrole as her future husband, but also as the ruler of Daggerpoint and admiral of the fastest fleet in all the Northlands.
To my surprise, Vaughn appeared not long after, his ruddy face atypically clear of humor as he introduced himself as the official emissary of Prydain Isle, liaison to the Titans. He was an intimidating sight, with his immense size and inconceivable height, even to battle-hardened warriors like Mabon and Jac. When he took his seat beside me at the table, though, he reached over and ruffled my hair with a hand larger than my head.
“Do you want to start?” Soren shatters the thick silence, watching Penn through slitted eyes. “It is you who called this conclave, after all.”
Penn’s hand tightens around his glass. “If you are under the impression that Efnysien’s actions do not warrant a conversation—”
“I did not say that.” Soren cuts him off.
“Yet you are reluctant to discuss the terms of his elimination.”
“I did not say that, either.” Soren grabs the bottle and pours himself a helping. “Out of everyone at this table, I am the one with the fullest understanding of the threat we are facing in the Southlands.”
“I don’t know about that,” Arwen mutters. There is a dark look on her face—not the disdain she so often sends my way, but something more nefarious. Disgust, I think…but also fear.
I quail at the notion of whatever scares Arwen.
Soren’s eyes flash briefly to his sister. His jaw tightens before he throws back his gin in a single gulp.
“Perhaps you could enlighten those of us who are unfamiliar with the history here,” I wade in quietly. “I, for one, am not sure I understand the full extent of Efnysien’s crimes beyond the bloody massacre he orchestrated on Fyremas.”
Arwen and Soren trade a loaded look, holding a conversation with their eyes alone. Whatever messages they convey, whatever memories they share, are entrenched in darkness.
“We do not need to speak of it,” she says tightly, downing more gin. “It’s no one’s business. Certainly not those who were not even born when it transpired.”
“Arwen,” Soren snaps. “Enough.”
“If that was directed at me, you have my deepest apologies,” I drawl with faux sincerity. “How inconvenient that I have not yet begun to fossilize like the rest of you.”
She attempts to glare at me, but her lips twitch. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the sea urchin is actually warming toward me—despite her best efforts.