I nodded.
No other words of parting. No mention of our kiss. No regret, it seemed, on Lyra’s part, for she swept past Dren as if there might not be someone waiting in the corridor, as confident as ever.
Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be anyone out there. All went quiet and stayed that way for some time. No alarm raised. Nothing unusual except the emptiness of my bedchamber.
Perhaps I’d been wrong about her intentions. Surely, if Lyra had truly come to retrieve the Stone, she would not have left with Dren so willingly, knowing she’d not be admitted re-entry into the palace walls after my father had banished her.
If that were true, my retrieval of the Stone was warranted. What, precisely, had my father been using it for without telling me? How was he contributing—and I had no doubt, now, he had been—to the recent Unbalance we’d been experiencing?
Most of all, how was I possibly going to get that kiss out of my mind?
There seemed to be just one answer.
I wasn’t.
18
LYRA
“He’s the one sitting alone in the corner.”
Ilyas Rho had proven to be more resourceful than Marek had suggested.
“Elvric’s memory is a library. His mind, unfortunately, is a storm. Most think him mad, but those who know respect his knowledge on relics and inter-realm leyline equilibrium. He will, no doubt, be useful to your mission.”
“Thank you. Elydor owes you a debt that cannot be repaid,” I said, watching the former Royal Naturalist and elemental historian as he stirred his steaming mug of kavess.
“Contact me in the usual way if you have further need of my services.”
Useful, but he still made his living as a smuggler. No coin would do as payment.
“Thank you,” I repeated, relaying information I overheard from two guards in the palace. “There’s a breach in the Emberwatch patrol grid near the western cliffs. For now, it’s unguarded.”
His eyes widened. Such information would be invaluable to him. With a fist to the heart, Ilyas disappeared toward the market, leaving me in the entranceway of The Siren’s Rest, the sailors and smugglers surrounding it little concerned with my presence.
“Elvric Fenlor?” I asked, approaching.
The thaloran stood. He’d seen at least five hundred years, as evidenced not only by the lines on his face and the graying around the temples, but by the way his eyes watched me with the kind of knowledge that comes with so long a life.
“I’ve heard of you, Lady Lyra,” he said, fist to the heart, which I mimicked. “But never expected we would meet.”
I sat, the scent of his kavess stronger as the thick, spiced brew sat in front of me.
“Thank you for doing so,” I said, nodding to his mug. “It is the one Gyorian staple I’ve never become accustomed to.”
He lifted the mug. “Strong enough to jolt a stone-wielder awake and bitter enough to match their mood, as they say.”
I laughed as he took a sip. “You are not at all what I expected.”
Unbidden, a memory of Terran’s kiss flashed before me as it had so many times in the days since I left the palace. There was no time to dwell on such a memory. My mission here was still unfilled.
“You expected me to be crazed, no doubt?”
I was ashamed to admit it. “The king worked hard to rewrite your narrative.”
A tall, wiry Gyorian with sleeves rolled to his elbows and a permanent scowl approached the table. His apron bore the stain of too many rushed mornings, and he didn’t bother hiding the inked rune coiling up one forearm. Ordering quickly, I picked up my conversation with Elvric as our server walked away. “I will admit, even I haven’t fully understood the depths of Balthor’s desperation to ensure his people remained in the dark until now.”
Elvric’s eyes, wise but faded, their light having gone out long ago, peered into his mug.
