“I am a master of feather levitation,” I inform him, tone glib.
“Is that so?”
“You don’t believe me?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll have to prove it, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not going to the aviary right now. It’s the middle of the night and, besides, I think the ravens are angry at me for—Hey!” My words cut off in a squawk of alarm as Soren’s arm darts behind me and extracts one of my pillows so fast, I barely see it happen. A low tearing sound precedes an explosion of downy white feathers as he rips the plush cushion clean in half. They rain down in a cloud that covers everything—the bed, the marble floor, Soren’s white linen shirt. They have no sooner settled than he reaches down, grabs two fistfuls, and tosses them straight back into the air.
“Soren!” A shocked sound—half laugh, half gasp—explodes out of my lips. “What is wrong with you?”
“Show me.” He’s grinning, tossing more feathers. “Come on, levitation master. Let’s see those much-lauded skills of yours in action.”
The stilted atmosphere is swept out of the room by a chorus of chaos and laughter. I set about demonstrating my newly minted skill set, manipulating several streams of air at once in a slow spiral that lifts all the fluffy white feathers into the air. Soren’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his gaze tracks the vortex that swirls through the suite, from the veined marble floor to the richly coffered ceiling.
“See?” I, too, am grinning like an idiot. “I told you. Master of levitation.”
He looks at me for a long beat. There are feathers stuck in his hair, clinging to his shoulders, smattered across his shirtsleeves. He does not brush them away or even seem to notice them. The lonely look is long gone from his eyes; they now hold only amusement. And, perhaps, a hint of pride.
“There may be hope for you yet, little wind weaver,” he murmurs. Then, pushing to his feet, he walks through the floating sea of feathers to the door. “Tomorrow, we shall test what else you excel at manipulating.”
After the door clicks shut behind him, I release my hold on the feathers. They flutter to the floor, a blanket of white settling over everything. In the morning when I awaken, it looks like snowfall on a cold winter’s day. But outside my windows, shafts of warm spring sunshine are creeping through the dense clouds.
Chapter
fifteen
“Today’s lesson is about trusting your instincts.”
I tilt my head to one side, confused by Soren’s announcement. “My instincts?”
He smiles mysteriously.
We’re on a pebbled spit of beach just outside the city walls, accessible via a narrow cut-through at the base of the Westerly Beacon. A set of salt-crusted steps hewn directly into the foundation lead down to a cove so tiny, it is hardly more than a tidal pool even at high tide.
Too shallow for ships, the Hylians use it as an underwater vineyard of sorts. Not far offshore, vintners on flat-bottomed barges use rope-and-pulley rigs to haul sealed casks from the sandy bottom, where they have spent several months fermenting, then lower fresh ones down with heavy anchors for next year’s vintage.
After spending some time in Llyr, I’m learning that the sea touches every facet of life here. Every industry, every livelihood. Even winemaking. And I must confess, however foreign the means of production seem to my eyes, the wine inside those barnacled casks is beyond reproach. It has become a nightly indulgence after long days of training.
Sometimes, when he is not occupied by his kingly duties, Soren is there to drink with me. Other nights I sit alone on the inner terrace or my private balcony, sipping slowly as I flip through one of the books he has taken to leaving out for me, savoring the fruity bouquet as I scribble letters to Lestyn.
Our correspondence began on my third day in Hylios. The first raven I sent was merely to inform the boy not to worry when I do not show up at the infirmary these next few weeks. To my surprise, a scarlet raven was waiting for me with a response the very next morning in the aviary. He’d written me back—and continued to do so throughout the following week, his messy, boyish scrawl a perfect suit for his boundless energy, whether he was chastising me for abandoning him or complaining about Osain’s overbearing dominion.
Don’t let the old badger boss you around too much,I wrote to him last night in response to a long-winded missive that detailed their latest clashing of minds over leg-cast preparation.And please don’t forget to check in on Carys…
The letters are my one true touchstone to Caeldera. For Penn does not write again.
At first, I wondered about him constantly, worrying about his reaction to my absence, his fixation on the wards, his tendency to push himself too far…But as time slipped by, the days lengthening into a week, then stretching toward two, I grew less preoccupied by the life I left behind and more consumed by the new one I am carving out in Hylios.
I am too busy to mark the days as they pass and too tired to second-guess my decisions by the time I crawl into bed at night. My daily lessons have progressed from levitating feathers in the aviary to swirling fallen branches from the olive trees to juggling the heavy lemons that pepper the grove outside Arwen’s villa. The last, in particular, won me no favors with Soren’s snarlingsister, who, when she caught me decimating her produce, made it clear I am not welcome in her section of the royal grounds, no matter what her brother says.
I have not gone back to the lemon grove since.
Eventually, I graduated to flinging smooth stones from the spring against the targets Soren set up for me in his courtyard—my favorite of the lessons so far, even if it did disturb the phosphorescent frogs that dwell in the still waters around the crystalline bathhouse. I am finally beginning to grasp what he meant during our battle against the arachnida.
I do not need a weapon to fire a projectile.
Iamthe weapon.