‘The less said the better,’ Blayze mutters. ‘Tell them I’m dealing with matters of state.’
Kyden shakes his head. ‘If you say so.’
He clasps the top of his brother’s arm in some gesture of farewell and turns to leave, but Blayze grips him by the shoulders, bringing their brows together.
‘Burn bright, brother.’
Kyden pulls away roughly and leaves the Rotunda without a backward glance. Blayze glowers after him, chafing his ring. Chomping harder than ever on the bark between his teeth.
I clear my throat and stand. Regret it instantly. My legs are wobbly.
‘The Council of Four is concluded,’ I manage to croak out. ‘Detailed plans will need to be drawn up, proper training provided for traversing our hills and peaks, for defending ourselves against the predators that range there, but if there are no further questions at present, I declare this assembly at an end. Discussions can continue in a less formal setting. Those of you not numbering among the Quaternity are free to return home, or welcome to remain as guests of the Crystal Court until such time as preparations are concluded and our search can commence.’
I look at the group of strangers whose futures are now irrevocably bound to my own. We won’t tarry in Meissa. I want to put distance between the Outrealmers and my father at the earliest possible opportunity. Living beneath one roof is asking for trouble.
It’ll be a miracle if everyone makes it out alive.
*
ASTROPHELANDIlinger until Watchers arrive to take those Outrealmers remaining to their quarters, and escort those returning home to the Barrier.
When we’re finally alone, his shoulders drop.
‘Well, you got your way. The King will be thrilled.’
I don’t rise to his bait, but I’m dreading the conversation I’ll have to have with my father. The threat he issued in the Bindery echoes in my memory, ominous as a death-knell.
‘The Clanschief will cause trouble.’
I sit straighter. ‘I can handle Blayze Arcuri.’
Astrophel’s eyes snap up. ‘You’ll leave the sand-rat to me. I’ll soon knock him off his high horse.’
He stands to leave. I’d like nothing more than for him to go, but I still have a last favour to ask. I swallow and gather my courage.
‘Will you convince my father to let the Xylian healers examine my mother?’
I reach for his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.
‘Please.’ The word is small. Cracked. It hovers in the strained silence between us. Eventually, Astrophel nods and stalks away into the night, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
I allow him a head start, in no mood to make awkward conversation. Once I’m sure he’s a safe distance away, I take a last look around the Rotunda, everything that’s happened here already hazy, like a half-remembered dream.
As I pass through the graceful columns, under the moon-arch and down the steps, darkness blankets the gardens, but my moonsight, a Sister-given sharpening in my vision whenever I’m in the presence of the lunar spheres, allows me to see. I’m alone save for the Watchers stationed by the palace doors. Still, for one brief second, I could swear someone – something – is watching me from the shadows. That smoke hangs thick once more in the air.
HONOUR-BOUND
ASTROPHEL
PEERINGTHROUGHTHEnarrow slit of my visor, I gather my reins in one hand, raise my lance in the other, and try to quiet my galloping thoughts as Graylen charges towards me from the opposite end of the frosted tiltyard. I set my jaw and urge Silvermist on. This may only be a practice match, but I’ll see Graylen unhorsed. Flat on his back, arms raised in defeat. Retribution for the slurs he bandied about in the Thronewood. I may be tin to his silver, less precious, less prized. But tin is malleable, and I’ve worked hard to excel in the lists. Here, if nowhere else, I outclass him.
I’ll make sure to drive the point home.
Hooves thundering beneath me, I lean forwards, lining up my lance with the heart of Graylen’s shield. I hesitate, second-guessing myself, waiting for the perfect moment to lunge. A mistake. Before I can strike, something pommels my shoulder. I shunt backwards as the tip of Graylen’s lance shatters against my pauldron, denting my armour, stealing my breath. I cling to my reins and press my thighs tighter against my mount to maintain my balance.
His blow glanced wide of my breastplate, its intended target, but a strike is a strike. Only a single point for hitting an extremity, but Graylen’s taken the first lance.
I swallow my disappointment as he lifts his visor. ‘Something wrong, Astrophel? Consorting with foreign filth sullying your aim?’
