And none of them are white.
All are icy-blue like the walls in the main room.
Stellen leads me to a stone bench positioned several paces from the sculpture of a small tree, its branches decorated in vines sprouting more stone blooms.
“With a few exceptions, flowers can’t grow in Frost,” Stellen says. “This garden was my father’s wedding gift to my mother.”
“A lovely gift,” I murmur, my fingertips passing lightly over the nearest carving as I pass by.
“She thought so too.” Stellen gives me a hard stare. “Or so she told me when I was old enough to understand the difference between love and control. He showered her with expensive trinkets, beautiful gowns, and the promise of a home. Promises of safety, too. None of which he kept.”
Stellen gestures to the seat.
As I sink onto it, I ask, “Is that why you’re always warning me of danger?”
Stellen’s eyes meet mine, a gaze of pure intent. “I will never promise you safety that I can’t guarantee. I won’t paint over malice, manipulate the truth, or tell you you’re imagining the pain you see around you with your own eyes. If that makes me cruel, then so be it.”
“Not cruel,” I say. “Honest.”
Brutally so.
He kneels in front of me, resting down on the stone floor, which can’t be comfortable.
I’m not sure what to expect when he removes his weapon harnesses and pulls his tunic up and over his head, fully baring his chest for the firsttime.
His muscles are lean, his figure lithe, but if anything, his chest looks broader and his shoulders wider now that he’s unclothed from the waist up.
He tucks his hair behind his pointed ears before he raises his hands toward me, turning them over, palms up. “Come closer,” he says. “Give me your hands.”
I slide forward on the bench, my knees brushing his chest.
“Closer.”
I can’t read a thing from his expression, not even from the curve of his lips as he nudges my knees to either side of his waist.
He gives me enough space that I could choose to slip both of my legs to one side so I won’t end up straddling him, but it will force me to twist awkwardly.
I opt for comfort, sliding my legs the rest of the way past his waist, my thighs pressing to his hips while the dress bunches between us.
Finally, I place my hands in his.
“Keep one hand here on my neck,” he says, drawing my fingertips to the side of his throat beneath his jaw. “And your other hand here on my heart.”
He pulls my right hand to his chest before he continues. “Focus on my speech. Focus on my heartbeat, even if you can’t hear it. Sound is vibration. Can you feel it?”
I give him a nod. The sensation of his vocal cords thrumming through my fingertips is strong. The beat of his heart is harder to detect until I realize that I can also feel his pulse at his throat.
“Sense how the beats synchronize,” he says. “One after the other. Sustaining life with the quietest sounds.”
He presses my palm firmly to his chest. “All sounds find their purpose in mind and heart.You may not have the power of Voice that Lethians have, but your voice carries energy, Thyra.”
“Do you mean when I speak during an Oracle vision?”
The immense impact of my cries during the confrontation with the shapeshifters didn’t escape me. I’d knocked Stellen off-course and caused Brunkil to bash his fists against his ears as if he’d wanted to beat his eardrums to a pulp.
“Not only when you’re having a vision. Anytime you create sound, you’re performing an act of creation that can harm or protect or entertain or merely pass the time. In all sound, you create power.”
As he speaks, his words continue to vibrate against my fingertips while my palm cools against his cold chest, two distinct sensations. One surprisingly warm and the other chilling.
