“If I recall, the book I gave you has an entire chapter dedicated to the Water Court.”
My stomach flips at the mention of the book he gifted me during our first encounter. The one he’d annotated in the margins, his innermost—and often amusing—thoughts scrawled throughout the chronicle of Remnant lore. I lost it during the Battle of Fyremas when the castle collapsed, along with just about everything else I’d called my own. It is one of the few possessions I actually miss.
“Your book is at the bottom of the lake in Caeldera, I’m afraid, buried beneath a ton of stone and rock.”
He heaves a sigh. “This is precisely why you should neverlend your books to anyone. You never get them back in the same condition.”
I roll my eyes. “Regardless, reading your informative guide—or your pithy commentary—is no longer an option.”
“That’s okay. I’ll give you something better.”
“Another book?”
“Not quite.”
“What, then?”
“Me.”
“You,” I say, dubious.
“I can’t exactly trust you in my library, given your track record. You’ll have to ask me directly when you have questions. Or when you find yourself in need of more…How did you phrase it?Pithy commentary?” His lips twist into a mischievous smirk. “Not only do I have two centuries of knowledge to offer, I can take far more rough handling than any old tome.”
“I think I’d prefer to remain in the dark,” I mutter, tearing my eyes from his. I quicken my pace along the ramparts as I hear his answering snort. We are nearly at the royal grounds. The city walls snake behind them, a continuous ring that runs along the back side of the gardens. There are no guards posted, no signs to warn away the riffraff. A nondescript gate with a glyphed handle offers entrance into a grove of wide-trunked olive trees, their slender leaves fluttering in the breeze.
Soren unlocks it with a quick pulse of maegic and it swings inward on soundless hinges. He bows mockingly, allowing me to precede him into the grove. I breathe deep, pulling in the scent of bark, the fainter notes of honey and floral. The dirt path slopes sharply upward, then winds around a bend, and soon we are stepping into a familiar courtyard, the earth beneath my feet replaced by the smoothest slate. As I walk through thick,creeping shrubs of jasmine, my eyes drift past the spring with its glowing water lilies and viridescent frogs to the opalescent bathhouse at the center and, eventually, to Soren’s villa. It looms against the gathering twilight sky, ethereal and empty.
All I can think of is getting inside, stripping off my dirty clothes, collapsing into the plush bed of my suite, and sleeping for a week straight. My tunic reeks of smoke and sweat and arachnidae breath. Sticky silk is snarled in my hair, plastered to the fabric. With each stride, the adhesive residue tugs at my skin. My hands skim down my sides, trying to pry the webs loose. They’re everywhere, covering my shoulders, my waist, my hips. At my thighs, clinging to the empty holster—
Stopping short on the path, I suck in a severe breath.
“What is it?” Soren asks, hearing it.
I look at him, feeling oddly bereft. “My dagger. I—I lost it on the ship.”
“We have smiths here in Hylios. The finest in the Northlands. I’m happy to have one of them—”
“No.”
His dark brows quirk up toward his hairline.
“It’s not…” I swallow harshly. “You don’t understand. That dagger…it was special to me. It was…a gift.”
“Ah.” His pause is knowing. “From who, pray tell?”
My lips press together.
“Pendefyre,” he guesses, gleaning the answer from my silence. “Of course. That explains the look on your face.”
I bristle. “What look?”
He doesn’t answer. Merely reaches up absentmindedly to peel a particularly sticky tendril of spider silk off the column of my neck. My pulse leaps along with my annoyance. I slap his hand away and backpedal out of reach.
“I am perfectly capable of grooming myself.”
He scans my disheveled frame top to toe, no doubt amused by the contradictory statement.
“And I plan to,” I tack on, glaring back at him. “Just as soon as I’ve located a bathtub.”