I awaken toa symphony of crashing waves carried on the wind. It is the song of my youth, a refrain so familiar to me while growing up, I often felt my heart’s every beat synced in time with the tides. For a few dazed moments, as I cross that liminal threshold from sleeping to waking, I can almost convince myself I am back in Seahaven. Curled on a narrow cot in a cozy cottage at the edge of a strange silver wood, a stone’s throw from the ocean. But the down mattress beneath me is far too soft, the duvet blanketing my limbs is of a quality so far beyond that of my flimsy childhood bed, I’d never consciously confuse the two.
I open my eyes to study the darkly coffered ceiling. It is somewhat obscured by panels of sheer fabric that drape artfully over the four-poster bed. They flutter lightly in the breeze; I left the balcony doors open last night when I finally fell into bed with the force of an anvil. I slept too deeply even to dream, my mind as exhausted as my body.
After a cursory examination of the available suites, I’d chosen the one with a seafloor theme. It is painted in the deepest shades of the ocean—navy, teal, black—and styled with a simple motif of bottom-dwelling creatures. Coral reefs, urchins, anemones. While not half as large as some of the other suites, there is something soothing about its dark palette, its sparse yet sumptuous decor. It also happens to be the farthest from Soren’s privatechambers, tucked at the opposite end of the hall in a forgotten alcove, well away from the other, more extravagant rooms.
What mine lacks in size, it makes up for in style. A tapestry depicting the waterlogged remains of a sunken ship hangs over the filigreed writing desk. The indigo walls are textured like sand, but somehow soft to the touch. The black marble floors are veined with jade and, when I push off the covers and hop out of bed, they are warm beneath my bare feet despite the lack of rug. I cross to the balcony doors, step through them into the daylight…
And gasp aloud.
Hylios.
In the dark, I was not able to make out much beyond a few distant flickering lights. I had assumed—quite wrongly—that the villa was located at sea level. In actuality, it is perched on a precipitous rise at the island’s highest point, like the crown atop the city’s head, overlooking everything. My eyes drink in the splendor on display, spellbound by a labyrinthine sprawl of white sandstone buildings with tiled pagoda roofs in every conceivable shade of blue. Even from this vantage, I can see the bursts of color where gardens contrast with the pale architecture: the arresting pink of bougainvillea creeping up facades, the shocking green of palms swaying against the sky.
It’s no great secret that Hylios is an island city, set some distance offshore, surrounded on all sides by ocean. Naturally, I expected water would have a prevalent presence here. Expectation falls short, however, for water is not just present. Not a characteristic or a dominant trait.
The cityiswater.
In place of roads there are canals, curving out in semicircular arcs like aqueous ribs of a great skeleton. Some are wide and busy with boat traffic, others so narrow they seem impassable byanything larger than a dinghy. Twin lighthouses bracket the city—one facing east, the other west. The renowned Beacons of Hylios. They are taller than any structure I have ever beheld before. Taller, even, than the Spire of Bellmere, which I thought must be the highest tower in all of Anwyvn when Eli first brought me to see it. Like massive sundials, their tall forms cast long shadows even as their bright beams sweep far out to sea, guiding homebound ships back to port.
Beyond the towering stone walls that surround the network of canals, there is nothing but ocean flowing for leagues and leagues in every direction. It is a stunning shade of blue, nearly turquoise. The mainland is a distant smudge on the horizon.
There is not even a bridge to connect the capital to the rest of Llyr. I wonder how they manage to conduct trade, how anyone who lives here ever pays visits to their relatives in shore-bound stretches of the kingdom. By ship, I suppose. There are plenty of multimasted sailing vessels bobbing in the great harbor at the city’s mouth, where the many canals funnel into one.
I squint at the indistinct fae-shaped forms moving along the sidewalks and crossing the footbridges that arch gracefully over the waterways below. Perhaps they do not leave at all. What person lucky enough to live in such a place would ever want to abandon it? It is incomparably beautiful—even on a day like today, when clouds obscure much of the sun, stealing a shade of the vibrant natural splendor.
I allow myself a few more moments of silent appreciation before I tear my eyes away and move back into the dark suite. I slept deeply, and for far longer than anticipated. It is already midmorning—past time I head back to Caeldera. By now Lestyn will be well into his routine at the infirmary. He’ll be worried when I don’t show up.
As for Pendefyre…
I can only guess at his reaction to my abrupt disappearance. It is strange, after so many months spent sensing his every pitch of temper and unchecked spike of pain. Yet here, a whole kingdom away from him, our bond feels stretched thin, the most friable of tethers. His emotions are as distant as the ruins of his royal palace.
Was he anxious when I did not return? Or angry?
Does he assume I’ve abandoned him on purpose?
I should’ve written to him last night. Informed him of my whereabouts. Assured him that I am safe and still breathing, at the very least. But frankly, the thought did not even occur to me until well after I’d locked myself inside my suite and slipped beneath the silken sheets. Guilty as I felt for my lack of communication, I could not quite summon the fortitude to climb back out of bed, stalk down the hall, rap on Soren’s door, and demand access to a slip of parchment and a serviceable raven. Not in the middle of the night, in any case.
Perhaps not ever.
I have no desire to unearth whatever secrets he’s locked away behind that thick crystalline barricade.
I make use of the suite’s adjoining bathing area, which houses a tub hewn from one massive chunk of midnight marble. The sink and toilet are cut from the same dark stone. I grimace when I catch sight of my bedraggled appearance in the vanity mirror. My platinum mane is mussed, my skin wan and pale. Pinching some color into my cheeks, I plait my hair into the thick, serviceable braid I’ve made a habit of while healing the wounded. There is nothing to be done about the sorry state of my uniform, but it matters little.
I’m leaving—just as soon as I locate Soren, that is.
With one final glance around the cozy chamber, I step into the silent corridor. I stare for a beat at the king’s quartz door atthe end of the hallway, wondering if he is inside. I feel not a trace of him anywhere. It’s possible our bond is still too new, my ability to sense him too underdeveloped. That or he is blocking me intentionally.
I have a feeling it is the latter.
Retracing last night’s steps through the villa, I strain my ears for sounds of life. It is even lovelier in the daylight. Grandiose ceilings, peppered with skylights, soar overhead. Open-air archways lead straight out into the tropical gardens of the royal grounds. There are no signs of Soren in the atrium, with its magnificent fountain and potted palms. Nor do I find him in the gallery room, with its vast art collection and mural-covered ceiling. Oil paintings span the lofty walls—landscapes and portraits and still lifes, some large as a ship sail, others smaller than my palm. Many depicting unrecognizable settings and subjects. A whole universe of brushstrokes.
I force myself to keep walking, resisting the urge to linger as I pass beyond the gallery into a grand library that rivals even that of Seahaven’s most prestigious university. Its floor-to-ceiling shelves are stocked with leather-bound books and all manner of intriguing artifacts, accessible via rolling ladders bolted on oiled tracks high overhead. The furnishings are as sumptuous as everything else in the villa, but look better used—the leather sofa by the fireplace broken in, the pillows still bearing the indents of a resting head. The taper candles are more melted wax than wick.
Someone spends many nights in this room.
I can easily picture Soren here, lounging on one of the chaises, reading by candlelight. His body still, so very still, even as that meteoric mind of his races over the pages…
I jerk my eyes away and carry on.