“We have a lesson to get to at my villa. Unless you are no longer interested in the things I plan to teach you?”
For whatever reason, the question makes my cheeks flame. I quickly avert my eyes to Yara, brows lifting in silent inquiry.
“Don’t stick around on my account. You’ll only get me in more trouble.” She shoos me away playfully. I turn to go, but pause when she yells, “I meant what I said about the pleasure clubs! You want to tag along tonight, meet me here around dusk. Yeah?”
Soren tenses at my side for a fraction of a second. He recovers so quickly, I’m certain I imagined it.
“Thanks, Yara,” I call back, looking anywhere but at him.
I wave goodbye to Alaric, avoid eye contact with Arwen, then start walking. My gaze moves to Umyr one last time as I cross the pasture. She retreated at some point during our conversation, but her intelligent eyes are on me even now. I give her a deep nod of respect and she spreads her wings—the Paexyri equivalent of a wave goodbye—in response before trotting away to join the other winged mounts who are drinking from the spring. Harpina, Thisobei, and Bretiax are lounging on rocks close by, signing and laughing.
Soren falls into step beside me, immediately matching his longer strides to mine. I’m feeling oddly tense, but his voice holds only familiar amusement when he speaks.
“The pleasure clubs with Yara? I know you’re nearly immortal, skylark, but that is taking your life in your hands…”
“Just another day in Hylios, then.”
He laughs as we turn onto the path through the lemon grove.“True enough. Though Yara does have a certain magnetism for trouble.”
That I can believe. “Trouble or not, she has been welcoming thus far. She gave me a tour of the stables this morning. Introduced me to Umyr. It was incredible.” I grin at the memory. “Of course, Arwen was far less enthusiastic about my potential recruitment to the Paexyrian.”
His gaze lingers on the side of my face, studying me as we make our way up the stone steps toward his villa.
“What?” I ask eventually, feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare.
“I did not realize you had such an interest in mounted flight.”
“I don’t. Not necessarily.” I shrug. “Though…”
He waits a beat, then pokes me lightly on the arm. “Are you planning to finish the thought or shall I start guessing?”
I shoot him a surly look. “My interest is more in flight as a general concept, I suppose. I saw a painting in your gallery last week depicting the fallen Queen of Taranis. It sparked my curiosity.”
“Queen Arianrhod.” He nods. “The Golden Goddess, they called her. She was legendary in combat. Beloved by her people. A sylph so at home in the skies, there were apparently no paintings of her ever commissioned with her feet on the ground.”
“Yes. Well…I’ve been looking for books about her in your library, but I haven’t found any.”
“Mmm. Most of the Sky Court was destroyed when Taranis fell during the Cull. Books included, unfortunately. I did manage to rescue a few tomes from the rubble, but they require translation.” His brows quirk up. “Unless you happen to speak the ancient Taranian tongue of your ancestors?”
I blink at him. “No.”
“Shame.”
“But you’ve actually been there?” I blurt. “To the Court of Clouds?”
“Yes. Several times.” His eyes cut to mine, inquisitive. “I could take you someday, if you’d like.”
I suck in a breath to contain my excitement. “Really?”
“Sure. Though the portal there was destroyed years ago. The closest one is a two-day ride through the most war-ravaged stretches of Westlake, followed by a trek through the mazelike pillars of Lordale. Assuming it, too, has not been sacked by now. There are no guarantees in the Midlands.” He pauses. “It has been more than a decade since I last paid a visit to the ruins there.”
“What was it like?”
“A beautiful pile of rubble,” he scoffs, though a sad note creeps into his voice as he continues. “I scavenged what I could. There was not much. A few relics. A few baubles. I’ll show you if you’d like to see them.”
“That—” I swallow down my bubbling enthusiasm. “That would be wonderful.”
He stops abruptly on the path back to the villa, where it forks between the terrace and the bathhouse. His stare is appraising.