“Why is it so difficult for you to give a straight answer?”
His eyes earn a shade of solemnity. “If someone aims to kill me, I stand a far better chance of stopping them than any hapless soldier with a sword in his hand.”
“That smacks of hubris.”
“If my pride provokes the gods, so be it. I see no need to prop my kingship up with superficial spectacle, surrounded by fawning courtiers and guards armed to the teeth, simply to prove my own power. So far as I can tell, my citizens are happier to find their own debauchery down here in the city than manufacture it for the sake of foolish court politics. And my soldiers are certainly better served at the borders, protecting those in Llyr who cannot protect themselves, than posted outside my villa at night.”
“So you have no court here?”
“You mean with a golden throne carved specifically for my ass? Tumbling jesters and warbling minstrels, performing for mypleasure? A gilded banquet hall stuffed with sycophants?” He snorts, as though the concept is preposterous to him. “No, we have no court. Not in any official sense. Occasionally, folks from across the kingdom will gather in the capital for festivals and momentous events. Arwen’s wedding on the coming solstice, for instance, will temporarily double our population. But as a whole, Hylios does not hold much favor for the pomp and circumstance of other strongholds. We do not specify courtier from commoner. We are all equals here.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
I do not know how to respond to that, so I tear my gaze away from his and direct it ahead. The canal we are on is off the beaten path; only a handful of other flatboats drift by as we pass beneath bridges and wind by buildings blanketed with blooming flowers. My eyes catch on several glass-fronted boutiques, their displayed finery reminiscent of Carys’s once spectacular atelier on High Street. Resplendent gowns of gold and silver, feathered frocks with remarkable stitching, whalebone cages for formal hooped skirts, glyphed fabrics that lend their wearer a mortal glamour…
Skies, she would love to see this place.
I have no idea where we are in the city. It is a beautiful maze—one I have no real desire to escape at present. The only thing to mar the perfection of the day is the lack of sun. It is nearing midday, but the air is nearly as cold as Caeldera. A clammy mist coats my skin without a cloak to insulate my limbs. I fight a shiver in my thin uniform.
“I thought Hylios was supposed to be sunny,” I huff, rubbing my hands up and down my arms to inspire warmth.
“Oh, it is,” Soren murmurs absently.
“This is abnormal then? The mist?”
“Most abnormal. And most unpleasant. If you plan to stay with us, I’m going to have to ask that you put a stop to it.”
I jolt in surprise. My head whips around toward him.“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He sounds highly amused. “Or were you unaware that this pall is your doing?”
“Certainly not—I would never—” I stammer. “I do not control the weather!”
“Not intentionally, no. But your dark mood is manifesting quite plainly.” He cants his head back to stare up at the sky. “I, for one, don’t mind the occasional cloudy day. Reminds me not to take the sun-drenched ones for granted. But I fear my merchants will have to import far warmer fabrics if you don’t cheer up soon. Otherwise, we will all freeze to death by autumn.”
I do not have the heart to laugh. My mind is reeling.My doing?Absurd! I would know if I were manipulating the weather…
Wouldn’t I?
I think back over the past few months. The overcast gloom that settled over Caeldera in the aftermath of the attack. The pervasive chill that seems to follow me wherever I go. Surely, I am not responsible for that. Surely, I cannot be inadvertently influencing the very skies.
And yet…
Yesterday, when Penn and I left the city, I was startled to see the rest of Dyved in the full bloom of spring, while Caeldera lingered in perpetual winter. When we’d arrived at Blister Bight, the fymandridae were basking in the sun. Not ten minutes later, they fled as clouds moved in and mist blanketed their steaming pools. And as Penn and I began to bicker…as my emotions heightened to a breaking point…a wild storm had been unleashed.
Gods above.
I look over at Soren. My heart is a riot in my chest. “I had no idea. I did not even know it was possible to do such a thing.”
“Your power, when suppressed, will find other ways of expressing itself,” he says. There is no judgment in his voice, only bare fact. “I told you once before: you cannot live as Pendefyre does. A life of repression and restraint is not what you were created for. The more you push down your grief instead of processing it, the more you bury your guilt instead of exposing it to the light, the longer it will fester in the shadowy corners of your mind. And the worse the ramifications. Not only for you, but for everyone in your path.” He pauses. “Or, at least, everyone who shares your immediate climate.”
He seems to find this horrid state of affairs trifling. I am too alarmed by my own unconscious actions to muster a response.
“Don’t fret, skylark. When I was six years old, I had a temper tantrum after my father forbade me from swimming out beyond the sea gate without supervision. I flooded an entire region off the northern coast in my rage. Ruined an entire harvest’s worth of crops and nearly caused a famine.Thatwas a cause for concern.” He shakes his head. “A little cloudy weather won’t doom the realm.”
Soren, age six.