“Sister, you are about three biting comments away from me having the armorers fashion you a muzzle.”
Ignoring her brother, her eyes narrow further on me. She is an intimidating sight, clad in leather top to toe. I count a minimum of four lethal blades tucked at various places on her person, along with the set of silver throwing stars at her hips. The shaved sections of hair at her temples lend her an additional air of menace, as do the inky tendrils of a tattoo that corkscrew up the side of her neck. She is tall for a woman, with curves almost as ample as her muscles. Besides the silver hoop in her septum, her only accessory is a pair of flight goggles that hang down around the sculpted leather bodice like a necklace.
She uses the opportunity to study me in turn. “So, this is the famed Remnant of Air. You do look like a gust of wind might blow you away, I’ll give you that.” She pauses, eyes flickering down my form. “That, and not much more.”
I grit my teeth and strive for calm. “I’m Rhya.”
She continues to stare at me in silence.
“Though you seem to have several other names for me already,” I go on, never breaking her gaze.“Quivering dock rat? Temperamental airhead? Stormy-eyed chit?”
“Don’t forget Miss Misery,” Soren adds, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the railing. “I quite liked that one.”
We both ignore him, still glaring at each other.
Eventually, Arwen shrugs. “That’s what you get for eavesdropping. Don’t listen in on other people’s conversations if you are not prepared to hear things you do not like.”
“Are you always this caustic toward strangers, or am I a special case?”
“That depends on how long you’re planning to stay in my city.”
“Don’t you meanmycity?” Soren mutters.
“Why would I want to leave when my reception has been so warm?” I ask her, voice saccharine. “I wouldn’t want to miss a moment of your wedding festivities.” I pause, all sweetness draining from my tone. “A real shame about the weather. If only there was something I could do about it…”
Arwen’s blue eyes flash with annoyance. She turns to her brother as though I no longer exist. “I’ll be at the barracks. Harpina and Bretiax are due back from Windward Port with a briefing from Vaughn. Come find me when you’re ready to discuss it. And do me a favor? Leave the runt at home.”
With one last scathing look at me, she turns on a bootheel and trots down the steps, following the path that leads toward her villa. I watch her go, my expression pinched into a scowl.
“Who on earth would marry her? A bridge troll?”
Soren lets out an unbridled laugh. “You’ll meet Alaric soon enough. He and his fleet are due to arrive from Hollywell next week with half the wedding party and a metric ton of lager.”
Our eyes meet, and an unspoken understanding passes between us. He does not ask if I will still be here in a week; I do not tell him I have decided to stay. Admitting it aloud feels,somehow, like admitting he was right to do what he did last night—invading my mind, pushing my limits. I would sooner choke on my words than make such an admission.
“Llyrian garb suits you,” Soren says, shattering the silence. His eyes sweep me up and down. “Though you did look rather fetching in my robe.”
“Yourrobe?”
He nods, lips twitching.
My eyes widen. “I did not realize. I found it in the wardrobe in my suite…”
“That room was mine as a boy.”
I rock back on my heels in surprise.
His room.
As a boy.
I sometimes forget that Soren was raised here, in this very house. Unlike Pendefyre, he is royal not only by birthright but by blood as well. He and Arwen sprang from one of the strongest fae lineages in history, which dates back to the time of the emperor. His father was a king long before he was born, and continued to rule for a long stretch after.
King Manawydan was reputedly even more fearsome in battle than his son. He steered the Water Court through the bloody aftermath of the Cull, all while holding back the grasping Midlanders, Frostlanders, and Reavers who sought to eradicate his kind in the years that followed. Not to mention raising a Remnant and a brood of other children.
Questions bloom inside me, a garden of curiosity. How old was Soren when his father died and passed on the crown? How old was Arwen? She must be nearly as old as Soren, though she looks not a day over thirty. Was she raised here as well? And what of their mother?
I will have to explore the library later in search of answers,for I do not feel quite brave enough to pry into Soren’s personal life by asking him directly. Bad enough to learn my beloved bedchamber is, in fact,his. I fear I cannot take any more earth-tilting information today without falling over.