One by one, the group began to splinter. Issa and Marek agreed to escort Rowan to Estmere and Nerys to Thalassaria where they would speak, respectively, to both clans. Agreeing to wait a few days to determine if the Gate would remain open, they filed one by one out of the chamber.
“I will wait here,” Galfrid said. “With time moving differently between realms, she may return sooner than we expect. If she finds the courage to step back through, I will see her the moment she does.”
I nodded, going to him. “She will be back. The Gate is as it should be.”
As of yet, there was no indication it would close without some sort of intervention. And with Balthor dead, that seemed unlikely.
Galfrid took my hands. The gesture was so unexpected, I stood motionless. Waiting.
“You have served me, my court, and my daughter well, Lyra. I regret only that your parents were not here to witness first-hand what a fine Aetherian warrior you’ve become.”
My parents had long since retired to the Haven Isles, a place for Aetherians weary of courts and wars.
“I whisper with them—keeping them informed, gaining advice—often,” I said. “Thank you for your kind words, my king.”
Squeezing my hands, he released them, looking over my shoulder, but Terran was gone.
“There are many ways to serve. Perhaps the time will come that you might do so by bridging a gap between our clans?”
“I know not what the future might bring,” I admitted.
“Perhaps.” He nodded toward the Temple’s antechamber. “You should usher it in yourself rather than waiting for it to unfurl before you.”
Wise words.
Perhaps I would.
“She will be back,” I said again, with a final glance at the now-opened Gate.
“They must,” Galfrid said. His voice barely a whisper.
40
LYRA
“He’ll go through if they don’t return,” Terran said as I walked into the antechamber, a circular room, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling arched windows that revealed the breathtaking landscape of Aethralis. I sat after finding Terran on one of the three plush cream couches, so named by the humans who’d come through so many years ago. Throughout the years, they—along with much of the furniture in this chamber and items in Estmere—had been called many things. It was the ever-evolving nature of their language, their ways, that those who valued permanence most cared for. And stability.
Like the Gyorians.
“I suspect you’re right.”
“And then?” I asked, not having been able to voice the question to the king.
“And then Aetheria holds a Trial of the Tempest to find your next leader.”
“Just”—I snapped my fingers in the air—“as easy as that? Will we replace him?”
“If you have no king, aye.”
I shook my head. “We said no more quips, but it does seem to me at times Gyorians are truly made of stone.”
“And you.” He moved closer. “Of starlight. Elusive. Beautiful. As opposite of me as possible.”
“I would like to think if I vanished, you might pause for a wisp of time before replacing me.”
He took my hand, making circular motions on my wrist with his thumb.
“You cannot be replaced.”
