5
NEPHELE
“Was Fia angry?” I ask Hel as I carefully step out of the bathing tub in the room the Fire Queen so graciously offered me days ago. My ankle is still swollen, but it hurts less now, thanks to the soothing heat of the water.
Hel removes a sand-colored tunic and slate-gray pants from the wardrobe. “She was livid. Flames danced at her fingertips when Rhonin told her what happened on the mount and what we realized had just happened between you and Neri when we entered the palace. The whole city heard the grove’s cries.” She drapes the garments across the chair at my dressing table, then turns and meets my stare, her eyes red and tired but alert. “Actually, livid is an understatement. I’d fight her for you, gods know I’m in the mood, but much as I hate to admit it, we’re out of our league here.”
I scrub the bath linen over my wet hair one last time and wrap it around my body. Feeling sickly and weak after such a long night, I lean my hands on the table and stare at myself in the mirror. I evenlookill, dark circles bruising the skin beneath my eyes.
But my attention quickly drifts to the pendant around my neck. I don’t know if I made the right decision when it comes to Neri.
“It’s been at least two hours since he left.” I close my fingers around the red stone. “He should be back by now.”
“But he isn’t,” Hel says. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed and leans back on her hands. “And you can’t put Fia off any longer.”
As if summoned, the guard Fia sent to escort us to the grand meeting room pounds on the door. “Misses. The queen iswaiting.”
“Weknow,” Hel shouts. “Just a few more minutes, please.”
Trying to hurry, I grab a comb and begin working the tangles from my hair before braiding it.
“Ignore what that dog said on Mount Ulra,” Hel says. “I’ve been praying to Loria since we left the grove. For Raina. For Tiressia. For… Finn. The others might not hear us, but the Ancient Ones? Our maker? I still believe they do.”
I don’t know if she’s right, but I want to believe she is. The souls that live in the trees on that mountainside must come from somewhere. Are they the voices of our most ancient gods? Or something even more primordial? I can’t imagine anything older than Loria, save for the universe, perhaps.
My time is up, so once the leather band is tied around my hair, I dress quickly, strap on my dagger, and we head downstairs, flanked by armed guards. I pause before we step into the meeting hall and tuck Neri’s heart inside my shirt. I doubt Fia would know what it is or who it belongs to, but keeping it hidden seems best.
The guards drag open the massive bronze doors that groan and creak at our entry. Together, Hel and I cross the threshold. A deep breath of relief escapes me upon seeing Rhonin, Zahira, Callan, Keth, and Jaega. They sit at the far end of a long, gleaming wood table, watching me with warmth and concern.
Further up the line sit six scholars. Each one is clad in a golden robe with an umber sash adorning their neck. I didn’t see them when we visited the Hall of Holies yesterday, but I instantly know who they are. Their stoic faces, regal garb, and the Elikesh sigil of knowledge tattooed on their foreheads reveal as much.
I meet each person’s eyes before I finally clash gazes with the queen. She sits at the head of the table, donned in a white, gauzy robe, golden torques at her throat and wrists as always. Her spine is stiff, her chin high, and her posture perfect. Behind her ornately carved chair stands a great fireless hearth three times as tall as me, with an enormous painting of what must be her and her mother hanging from the stone above. Weapons displays, sprawling maps, and gilded glyphs cover the surrounding walls.
Fia stands from her seat with grace, the consummate leader. Her beautiful face is drawn tight, her stare pointed, an angry glint directed at me.
“Sit,” she commands. Her voice is sharp and sibilant.
I glance at Hel who inclines her head to the queen. When she looks back, her eyes scream for me toobeybefore she strolls across the room and takes her place next to Rhonin.
With every expectant gaze on me, I limp to the end of the table opposite Fia where an empty chair awaits. But something inside me refuses to cower before her, even for the crime of resurrecting Neri.
I lift my chin and square my shoulders to match the queen’s stance. “I think I’ll stand, Your Majesty.”
Her nostrils flare at my perceived insolence, but there’s no other visible response. Not even a blink.
“It’s clear that you’ve been under Colden Moeshka’s guidance, Miss Bloodgood. He has a ratherimpulsivenature that I once found irresistible. But time forces us to view things differently. Even so little time as the rise and fall of the moon, which feels like less than a breath to me.” She clasps her hands. “When you first arrived here, I appreciated your spark. But now I’m forced to wonder if you are nothing more than a hazard waiting to happen to my people and perhaps all of Tiressia.” A small scroll lies on the table before her. With a wave of Fia’s hand, it flies down the length of the table, spinning mid-air until it comes to an abrupt stop in front of me. “Open it,” she orders.
The ends have been capped in bronze finishes to hold the parchment secure, the seal having long ago been broken and removed. Very carefully, and with a slight tremble in my fingers, I tug the caps free and unroll the parchment.
I glance up at the queen, my pulse a drum in my ears. “This is ancient Elikesh. A dialect I’m not certain I understand.”
“Try,” she says.
I look it over again. “This is Summerlander dialect.” I harden my voice as the meeting hall doors behind me groan open. “I can’t read it, and you know it.”
The pendant around my neck pulses against my skin, and a coppery scent floods my nostrils.
“ButIcan,” a man says.
