PART I
SCHISM
1
CROWNS AND GOWNS
ELYRIA
“This is fucking ridiculous.”
Elyria pawed at the soft layers of gossamer fabric trailing away from her hips. Each one rippled, forming golden petals that skimmed down the skirt of the dress that she would have admitted was rather pretty, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances surroundingwhyshe was wearing it.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” Kit grinned, silver-white hair falling into her face.
Eyes fixed on the gilded mirror before her, Elyria watched Kit pull the two long ribbons on either side of Elyria’s waist taut, tying them in a small bow. It sat at the lowest point of her back, perfectly centered between the shimmering purple-and-greenwings folded there.
Kit clucked her tongue, eyeing her handiwork with appreciation. “Now, allow Madam Agness to finish her final adjustments, then you can relegate this thing to your trunk with the rest of your wardrobe. You won’t even have to think about it again until we unpack in Kingshelm.”
“Absolutely not,” scolded Agness. The seamstress peered around Elyria’s legs to glower at Kit. “You will not be leaving one of the finest pieces I have ever made to be crushed and crumpled beneath smelly fighting leathers, stray daggers, and Solaris knows what else.” Her ochre eyes drifted across the room, her expression tight.
Elyria grimaced as her own gaze fell to the unmade bed, the messy piles of clothing and stacks of papers littering the floor. She had never been comfortable with the Ravenswing staff picking up after her, but now she wondered if she should have taken one of the housemaids up on her earlier offer to tidy up her bedroom before the seamstress arrived for this final fitting.
“I will have Dentarius arrange to transport this with the rest of the group’s formal attire—separately,” Agness continued, refocusing on the hem of the gown once more.
“Mm, I’m sure he’ll justlovereceiving that order,” Kit said, her gold-and-silver wings quivering with silent laughter.
Elyria grinned, picking at one of the many periwinkle braids that comprised the ornate coronet woven around her head. “From royal advisor to luggage handler. Don’t be surprised if ourformal attiregoes missing en route to Havensreach out of spite.”
“Do not even joke about that,” Agness said with a frown. “And would you stop squirming?” A tuft of pink hair fell out of the elegant bun centered atop her head as she stuck a pin in the folds of delicate fabric.
“Ow!” Elyria hissed, wincing as the sting of the needle traveled up her leg. “You did that on purpose, you old bat.” She scowled at the unmistakable snort of Kit’s poorly stifled laugh.
Agness gave Elyria a wan smile, tucking the stray lock behind her pointed ear. “My sincerest apologies, Lady Victor.”
Elyria’s scowl deepened. “Yes, you seemverysincere. I’ve told you a dozen times now not to call me that.” Her lip curled with displeasure at being addressed by her most recent honorific.
The seamstress gave an innocent shrug before continuing to markany necessary alterations across the hem of the gown. Elyria stretched her neck from side to side, avoiding her reflection in the mirror until blessedly—and with only two additional pricks of her needle—Agness was finished.
Vanishing her wings with a wisp of magic, Elyria peeled the garment from her shoulders, gilt fabric pooling around her feet as she stepped out of the gown.
Agness reached for the dress, her golden eyes stalling over Elyria’s naked legs—and the hatched scars that decorated them. Though she was hardly the type to typically care about modesty, Elyria found herself feeling very bare indeed in the scant undergarments she wore. She crossed her arms over her chest as Agness made a pointed effort not to openly stare at the lines Raefe had burned into each of Elyria’s thighs.
Of course, thinking about that fateful encounter in The Sweltering Pig last summer brought a whole swell ofother thoughtsto the surface, and suddenly Elyria’s nakedness was the least of that which had her feeling exposed.
There was a pregnant pause wherein Elyria thought Agness might say something, but the seamstress simply draped the gown gently over one arm and left the room without another word.
“If she thinks they’re bad now, imagine the look on her face had she seen your scars during the Crucible,” Kit quipped, a forced lightness in her voice. She ran a tawny hand through her moonlight-colored hair, brushing the shaggy strands off her forehead.
Elyria pursed her lips and reached for her clothing, her brow creased. She knew Kit was only trying to dissolve some of the tension Agness had left in her wake. Unfortunately, all she managed to do was remind Elyria not only of how gruesome the marks had truly been, but of the person who was responsible for helping reduce the impact of them.
Zephyr.
The sylvan healer had been more than a fellow champion to Elyria and Kit during the Crucible—she’d become their friend. The way she had treated Elyria’s wounds after the first trial, the worry and tenderness with which she’d cared for all the champions. They’d fallen for her ruse hook, line, and sinker. And Zephyr’s betrayal had cut deeper even than the gash she had sliced into Elyria’s hand when the sylvanstole the hard-won Crown of Concord—or half of it, at least—right out of Elyria’s grasp.
Not just any sylvan.
A changeling. Ashapeshifter.
