“I am not sleeping in your bed,” I grouse at the back of his head when he starts walking again, dragging me along in his wake. His hair is still dripping wet, sending droplets down the back of his neck, the blades of his shoulders, the defined divot of his lower spine where the towel is slung.
“Did I invite you to sleep in my bed?”
My eyes narrow. “Then where am I to sleep?”
“This is the Water Court. We have no shortage of rooms. Pick one.”
He stops, shoves aside the curtain, and, like a partner leading the steps of a waltz, spins me through it, into the night.
Chapter
seven
The drugging scent of jasmine drenches the darkness. Beneath it, I taste a kiss of salt on the breeze. I haul gulps into my lungs as we ascend a set of stone steps from the round bathing chamber. Soren is close on my heels as I climb, for the way is narrow and there are no railings to speak of. Not far below, I hear the gentle slosh of water against rock.
Not a stairway, then, but a bridge.
The water is a dark spill of ink all around us, indecipherable to my eyes, which are slowly adjusting to the dimness. When we reach the top, I glance back at the bathhouse. It is a tiny island unto itself, aglow at the center of a large natural spring. In the shallows, dozens of phosphorescent frogs sit upon lily pads, their croaks a throaty chorus.
Soren says nothing as he moves ahead, leading the way down a path that rounds the edge of the spring. His bare feet make no sound on the smooth slate. Lanterns hang interspersed in the darkness, illuminating a lush garden of night-blooming white flowers. Phlox, jasmine, wisteria. A few more I do not recognize. Palm trees sway overhead, their fronds thwacking melodically.
Fyrewisps flit everywhere, some weaving lazily while others zoom at speeds I am unable to track. I have only ever before seenthe vibrant red variety that populates Dyved’s deep forests, and the even more muted kind that inhabit rare stretches of the Midlands. These are a strain I have never encountered—not one shade but many, changing color as fast as they change flight direction. Yellow, blue, green, purple.
Like fireworks.
The instant the thought crosses my mind, I am thrown back in time. Back to Fyremas, back to Caeldera. Back at the top of the crater, watching fireworks explode over the city. Back with Pendefyre—
I banish the memories with a firm headshake. I have no desire to relive that moment, nor anything else that followed that terrible night. If I have learned anything during these past months of bleak survival, it is that I cannot reshape my past by dwelling on it. Reliving my losses will not dull them. Endlessly replaying past darkness does nothing to ensure a brighter future.
Better to live in the now. One day at a time. One breath at a time. Until, someday, I no longer have to remind myself to breathe.
The path slopes upward to a large terrace, and an impressive building comes into view. More than a mere house, yet not quite a castle. It sprawls with palatial grace around the gardens, all white walls and stately columns, with a pagoda roof of silver tiles that curves up at the corners in a way that is reminiscent of the floating lotus flowers I’ve seen sketched in some of the apothecary’s oldest botany texts. Torches burn bright in welcome along the terrace, casting a luminous glow across the impressive facade. There is no door; the main entry is an archway wide as a wagon and twice as high, completely open to the night.
“This is my villa,” Soren announces, walking between two marble columns thick as wine barrels. They are covered in intricate carvings I wish I had the leisure to examine.
“Yours alone?” It is big enough for fifty.
“I enjoy my space.” He pauses a beat. “When you’ve met Arwen, you may understand why.”
“She lives in Hylios?”
“She does, along with a few of my other siblings. There are several villas scattered around the royal grounds for visitors and family members. It will be easier to show you in the light of day.”
I nearly trip on the threshold, not watching my feet with my head tipped back to take in the soaring ceilings of the atrium. The gardens have followed us indoors. Potted palms tower along the perimeters in vases large as I am tall. Vines of a variety I do not recognize creep up interior columns and bloom with glowing blue flowers.
“You have other siblings?” I manage to ask once I’ve stopped reeling.
“Arwen is technically my only full-blooded sibling, resulting from my parents’ marriage. The rest are a result of my father’s many dalliances.” There is a smile in his voice. “I gained a handful of stepsiblings from his subsequent marriages, along with a whole brood of bastard half-siblings. And those are just the ones we know about. The only pastime King Manawydan enjoyed more than bedding his wives was bedding women whoweren’this wives.”
I swallow a startled laugh.
“Of course, many of his progeny are long gone now. Old age, illness, what have you. The handful who remain—those of strong maegical lineage—are elderly and ill-tempered despite their age-resistant appearances. Keep that in mind when you inevitably cross their paths.”
My stomach clenches uncomfortably at the thought of meeting Soren’s siblings. The last time I was introduced to aRemnant’s kin, it did not go well. If they are anything like the late Queen Vanora…
“They tend to come and go as they please,” Soren continues. “Especially Vaughn. But the doors of Hylios are always open to my siblings, should they desire a visit.” The smile disappears from his voice. “Most of them, anyway.”
“Efnysien, you mean.”