I am many things, but I am not a fool.
So, for the time being, I will remain in Hylios. I will soak up Soren’s knowledge like a sponge. And come midsummer I…I will…
I shake my head.
Thatbridge is one I am not going to even think about crossing.
Not yet, in any case.
Scroll affixed, I step back and watch as the scarlet raven takes flight, spreading its dark wings against the gray skies and swooping up into the heavy cloud cover. I try not to imagine Pendefyre’s reaction when he receives my message. I have a feeling the paper will burst into flames the second his eyes spot my handwriting.
When the bird is out of sight, I leave the aviary, brushing at the downy feathers that cling to my fitted navy tunic and trousers. I found a pile of fresh clothing waiting for me outside my bedroom door at noon when I finally dared to poke my head outside my suite. They fit perfectly, as do the soft leather boots that lace up to my knees. The trousers are similar to the ones I saw the Paexyrian riders wearing yesterday, with built-in sheathsfor weaponry, though lacking the inner thigh padding. I was surprised to find one of the sheaths contained a dagger.
Mydagger.
Soren must’ve retrieved it from the water sometime in the night. I cannot fathom why he went to such effort, nor how long it had taken him to locate it at the bottom of the harbor. I traced its familiar glyphs, wondering what sort of man mercilessly invades your mind, then swims to the depths of a shipwreck to retrieve one of your lost possessions.
A man I do not understand in the slightest, that is certain.
I make my way back through the gardens toward the villa. I am nearly there when I hear the sound of raised voices spilling from the terrace. Slamming to a halt, I duck behind a large palm frond before I am spotted.
“—subjected to yet another day of this miserable weather! How long will you allow her to pollute our skies unchecked?” a female voice snarls. “The earthquakes and tsunamis are bad enough. Now we must contend with pervasive cloud cover courtesy of that temperamental airhead, who shows no aptitude for—”
A heavy male sigh cuts her off. “Arwen, your Paexyrian can fly through the pitch-black night and gale-force winds. I doubt your training schedule will be interrupted by a smattering of clouds.”
“It’s not the Paexyrian I’m concerned with. Are you so wrapped up in her you’ve forgotten I’m to be married in under a month’s time? Half the bloody kingdom is coming, if my bridegroom has his way. And by the looks of it we won’t be celebrating out of doors! Not when the heavens threaten to pour buckets whenever Miss Misery twists her nose out of joint or, gods forbid, gets a hangnail!”
“I wouldn’t think you’d be concerned about the wedding atall. You put up such a fuss about the ceremony, I assumed you’d be thrilled the day was spoiled.”
Clearly, he’s struck a familiar nerve. Arwen’s voice goes glacial. “You know how important this alliance is. I will not jeopardize our relationship with Daggerpoint. If I have to put on a frilly dress and spout vows before every lord and lady in Llyr, so be it.”
“I’m certain Alaric won’t mind if you get married in your flight leathers. The man worships the ground you walk on.”
“As he should.”
Soren sighs again. “Arwen—”
“Look, brother, I understand your head’s been turned by the stormy-eyed chit, but is it too much to ask you to speak with her about the weather that is poised to ruin a day that has been in the making for longer than she has walked this earth?”
“Ask her yourself” is Soren’s reply.
I go stone-still.
“What?” Arwen asks.
“You can come out, skylark.” He sounds amused. “I promise my sister won’t bite. Hard.”
Attempting to smother the blush that is overtaking my cheeks, I slink from behind the palm tree and step back onto the path. Not a dozen paces away, Arwen and Soren are standing by the top of the stairs, gazing down at me from the terrace. They look almost like twins, with their blue eyes and dark hair and identical poses—arms crossed over chests, feet planted wide. They possess the same vicious beauty. Those cutting cheekbones, those elegant jawlines. There is not much softness in either of them, though Arwen’s expression holds none of her brother’s warm amusement. She studies me like a cockroach as I approach, her angular features pinched in blatant dislike.
“Hello,” I say tentatively, ascending toward them. “You mustbe Princess Arwen. We didn’t have a chance to officially meet yesterday on the docks.”
“What, no curtsy?”
I freeze at her tart question. I thought Llyr did not practice the traditional royal protocols. My eyes shoot to Soren for confirmation.
He shakes his head lightly. “Ignore her. The delightfulprincesshere would sooner arm wrestle you than observe proper etiquette.”
“As if she could arm wrestle,” Arwen mutters. “Her limbs are like toothpicks.”