She is not the only one affected by Nurai’s threat, and I brush a chill from my arms when I recall that, for me, tonight has a single purpose. I glance around the room, my search for the general interrupted when Awri introduces me to the other strangers standing nearby. My eyes follow Riah when she excuses herself to speak with Toren.
The male is in a neatly pressed dress uniform, one hand resting on his lower back, his hair swept up in its customary braids, plaited into asingle thick column. My breath catches in my throat when she produces the small flower she’d taken from my hair. My spine tingles as she leans in and whispers into Toren’s pointed ear. In a flash, the cold steel of his eyes are on mine, stiffening my back.
The gesture itself might not be alarming, if it weren’t for the female’s insistence that I not feed the tiny bloom to anyone in attendance. But when Toren gives the lieutenant a curt nod and excuses himself from the conversation he’d been having with some of the more important looking guests, I can’t help but question the potential uses of the flower beyond what I know.
Hisht.
With every step he takes toward me, I feel the web of the fates binding my future, until he’s standing beside me, offering me his arm.
“Shivaria, I was told you requested an audience with the king,” he says.
Even as I drape my arm over his, making my excuses as I depart from the others, I remind myself that this was my choice. Thisismy choice. That of the few and narrow paths my future holds, only one is a path I desire to live, and it starts with this.
There is no time for goodbyes as he leads me through the room, my eyes lingering on Awri until she disappears beyond the throng of dancing guests. A pang of regret wells in my gut when I consider what this truth will cost her. My actions as her friend have made her cautious of me, and rightfully so. After tonight, I can imagine no way to bridge the rift that will swell between us.
The time for any mending has passed. And friendship is a skill I was never taught—after all, Drakai have no use for anyone beyond their use as a tool.
Maybe it is only my nerves, but I swear every eye in the room is upon me. I straighten my back, head held high as I pass through the midst of them all, trying to keep my thoughts from my future.
I expect to be led through a tall set of doors, brilliantly carved and inlaid with gold. The doors of a king. The doors to a throne room. But the door he opens, swinging his arm in as he offers me entry, is humble and plain.
My stomach dips when I walk inside, each breath requiring a monumental effort to draw. I think my lungs might like to give up, to let this be the end. They burn in clear opposition to my chosen steps.
It’s a large room. In many ways, much like every other I’ve visited in the palace. White stone, thick veins of gold beneath my feet, tall windows lining every wall. Unlike every other room, however, it boasts a large array of plants. Some in large pots strewn about candlelit paths, others planted into the ground where large swaths of stone have been removed, revealing the soil below.
Much of the foliage is in the throes of early spring bloom. The colorful flowers fade in and out of the darkness with every passing firebug drifting about on the breeze coming in through the open windows.
“The king will be here shortly,” Toren says, following me down a path winding north.
I nod my understanding, full of wonder and dread, hope and fear, my entire being raging a silent war within itself.
“May I ask, why you have requested this audience?” he asks flatly.
“To thank him,” I say, the same lie I gave to Xeyvian.
“You could have done so at the masque,” he prods.
“And to ask him if he will allow me to remain in A’kori,” I add.
“Again, something you could have asked outside of a private meeting,” he says.
My feet still beneath me when the path breaks into a large clearing, the glass dome roof offering a stunning view of the brilliant stars looking down upon Terr. A single star tears itself from the heavens, my eyes following its path as it crosses the vastness of our skies. Until it falls below the northern mountains, lost to my sight.
“Tell me,” Toren’s low voice bounces off the stone, “are you here to kill him?”
My gaze falls to him, his eyes darkening as he studies me. My blood chills when he looks at me like he knows every secret I’ve ever harbored, every lie I’ve ever told, and every truth I’ve ever left unspoken. My palms begin to sweat as I’m reminded of the tales of their king, of his gift, and it takes every bit of my willpower not to reach for the feynstone bladesstrapped to my thighs.
I eye the male before me as if I’ve never seen him before, asking myself questions that should have surfaced in my mind long ago. What if the king of A’kori was here all along? There is a moment I doubt myself as I recall the icy touch Toren set upon Siserie, but hadn’t Awri told me that their gifts are all unique? I should have asked when I had the opportunity to understand all that she meant.
“What do you want with my king, Drakai?” The menacing tone of his voice is matched by the promise of wrath in his eyes.
My entire being begs to remain hidden among the lies I practiced for so long when I insist, “I am not Drakai.”
“Lies,” he growls.
“I amnot. But I was,” I admit.
“Clever,” he smiles, “to twine your lies with the truth. But a Drakai cannot unbecome Drakai, just as there is no gift on Terr that can unmake a feyn.”
