“Brighter. Almost…beckoning me in, like a torch in the darkness.” I shrug. “I thought it was Caeldera. Obviously I neverwould’ve selected it if I’d known it was going to spit me out on your bathhouse floor.”
I look around, taking in the full scope of the chamber for the first time. Spherical in shape and exquisitely designed, with few furnishings to detract from the natural beauty of the moonlit quartz. The domed ceiling is open to the night sky, a perfect circle cut out of the center. Through it, I can see a waxing moon and a phenomenal spread of stars. If one were to lie back in the bathwater, the constellations would be directly overhead, a glorious tapestry for viewing.
“Are we in Llyr?”
“Yes.” Soren’s voice warms a shade. “Hylios welcomes you, little wind weaver—even if you are several weeks ahead of schedule. I did not expect to see you until Arwen’s wedding at midsummer.”
“As I told you before, coming here was not my intention.”
“And yet, here you are.” He pauses. “Your timing is fortunate. I myself only returned earlier this very night.”
Night.
I jolt in realization. It is full dark outside. That means I was in the portal network not seconds, not minutes, but hours, for it was not even midafternoon when I departed Dyved.
Time passes differently in the leylines—something to keep in mind for my next journey.
I tear my attention away from the stars and find Soren studying my face in the candlelight. His casual expression belies the intensity of his eyes.
“And how did you find the southern kingdoms?” I ask, forcing a light tone.
He scoffs. “The Midlands remain a misery. The Southlands fester like a sour wound, ripe for lancing.”
“How delightfully descriptive.” I grimace. Given his attitude, I assume the mission to hunt down Efnysien wasunsuccessful. I ask anyway. “And what of your…” My brow furrows as I attempt to recall the twisted familial ties that once made the sorcerer his relation. “Your brother-in-law, is it?”
“Stepbrother,” he corrects, voice losing some of its levity. “Formerstepbrother. For the past century. Ever since I cast him out of my kingdom.”
“Ah.” I gulp delicately, sensing this topic is a sensitive one. “Right.”
Soren blows out a short breath. “Regrettably, Efnysien is elusive as ever. We chased the coward southward beyond the Cimmerians, cut a path clear through the realm. In Eastwood, the woods are so thick there is no possibility of speedy pursuit. In Nythia, the woods may not be thick, but the fighting is. Their king has dragged his people into yet another bloody skirmish with Carvage. Let’s just say, it is difficult to cover much ground when said ground is littered with freshly slain bodies.”
I shudder. I do not miss the Midlands, with its endless bloody wars and power-hungry kings.
“Glamoured uniforms may conceal fae features, but that matters little when traversing indiscriminate killing fields,” he mutters. “The mortals swing their swords at anything that moves. We were lucky to make it through at all. By the time we crossed into the Reaches, Efnysien and his army had already disappeared into the Shadow Steppes.”
The name is unfamiliar. “Shadow Steppes?”
“A region of near-constant sandstorms, stirred by violent winds that whip through malformed rock formations.” Soren shakes his head. “A shroud of darkness blankets that place. The air is thick with sand and ash. Even with a face-covering, after a few hours there your lungs feel gritty with debris, your eyes caked shut, your skin cracked and raw. Still, we pushed on, pursuing them all the way to the edge of Dymmeria.”
My brows lift. “But no farther?”
“I will not lead my soldiers into the Husk Desert. No valor awaits there. Only slaughter.”
“You have tried before,” I surmise.
His nod is tight. “Many times over the years, we have attempted to infiltrate that dark dominion. I have sent scouts, spies, full squadrons. No matter the approach, the results are always the same. None ever return. There is no breaching even the outskirts of the drifts that surround Efnysien’s keep. There are no roads to follow, no landmarks to orient oneself. Even if you make some headway without dying of thirst, the creatures who burrow beneath those black sands are more effective than any archers or infantry.”
“No wonder Efnysien feels so at home there. A monster among other monsters.”
“Mmm. Though I think his selection of the desert had more to do with me than any arachnidae lair or abyss pit.”
I make a mental note to ask about the unfamiliar terms later. “You?”
“Of all the locations my stepbrother could have chosen to build his empire, do you think it is a coincidence he selected the one place in the realm my powers are at their weakest?”
“Water has no place in a desert,” I murmur, following his logic. I think of my own clawing claustrophobia each time I am suppressed beneath deep earth, and wonder if Soren’s physical reaction is similar when he steps foot in the parched sands of the Southlands. “He hides from you where you cannot follow.”
“Rare are the occasions he leaves his own borderlands. Before Fyremas, he had not been spotted beyond the Symmetria Keep for nearly a decade. I cannot begin to express my frustration that I failed when given such an opportunity.”