Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

CLIO

Politics gave her a headache. In the two years Clio had spent exiled on Earth, she'd forgotten about that aspect of palace life. Her dinner with Miysis Ra and a small horde of Aldrendahar's elite had left her almost as fatigued as crossing the desert had, but at least it was over.

She ambled tiredly, trying not to steal too many glances at her escort. Miysis kept his steps slow, showing no signs of impatience at her snail's pace. When she'd first met him, she'd been terrified of this powerful royal. Now she was less outright scared but about ten times more intimidated. And maybe just a bit awed.

The griffin prince was impeccably refined, aristocratic, and sophisticated. Without his almost undetectable help, which had included distracting the nobles from pestering her with questions, the dinner might have turned out to be several hours of humiliation for her.

"How was your meal?" he asked, all smooth manners as he led her across the citadel's grand reception hall. A pair of griffin guards and a much shorter pair of her nymph guards followed at a distance.

"It was delicious," she complimented earnestly.

"I hope you were able to enjoy yourself." Miysis smiled knowingly. "State dinners can be less than pleasant. As I understand it, you aren't accustomed to these functions yet, but you'll learn quickly."

"Hmm," she replied noncommittally. He had introduced her to the entire banquet as Lady Nereid, so her secret was as exposed as a puddle under the desert sun.

"I'm eager to learn more about you," he continued. "And a closer relationship with the Nereids, in general, would do both our families well, I think."

"Will that be possible?" She folded her hands together, squeezing her fingers. "After what Bastian has done?"

"I think it is, assuming we can rein in our respective parents from any drastic moves."

"King Rouvin isn't the type to …" She trailed off, realizing her mistake, then sighed tiredly. "You are being unfair, Prince Miysis."

"My apologies, Lady Nereid."

She huffed another sigh. Rouvin hadn't revealed her exact relationship to the Nereid family in his letter, but thanks to Miysis's sneaky remark, she'd just given it away. Lyre had warned her to be careful with the prince.

"I already suspected," he added as they reached the top of the sweeping marble staircase. "I tried to get it out of Lyre, but he can be exceptionally evasive when he puts his mind to it."

A notch of tension released from her spine. Lyre had revealed sensitive information about Irida to Miysis, but he'd kept her most important secret.

"You two have a lot of camaraderie," she observed carefully.

"He has absolutely no respect for authority. I find it refreshing, though there are others here whose egos are more fragile." Miysis's bright yellow-green eyes flicked over her. "He must have been quite the handful at Chrysalis. How did his superiors react to his departure?"

This time she was paying attention and knew better than to answer. She stopped in the hallway and turned to the Ra prince, craning her neck to meet his eyes. "Please don't ask me about Lyre. If you want to know more, you'll have to ask him."

Miysis scanned her face. "Hmm."

"What?" she asked tersely.

"I figured you must be more assertive than you seemed at first. Lyre wouldn't like you so much otherwise."

Her heart somersaulted under her ribs. Before she started blushing, she hastened back into motion. "Lyre is an incubus. He likes all women."

"Really?" Miysis followed half a step behind her. "When I sent two attractive young women to entertain him, he scarcely paid them any mind—to their immense disappointment."

"Is that so?" Why was Miysis telling her this? Time to change the subject. "Have you decided on your response to King Rouvin's letter yet? I can be ready to return to Irida with your reply at first light."

Miysis extended his stride to catch up with her. "I've already prepared my response. It will go by winged messenger tonight and arrive in Irida by sunrise."

When they reached her door, she cleared her throat. "Forgive my boldness, Your Highness, but may I ask how you've chosen to respond?"

The glowing crystal wall sconce behind him cast his features in shadow. "I have given King Rouvin permission to enter our borders and bid him to travel to Aldrendahar with all haste."

Her shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you."

"I don't want a conflict with Irida any more than you do. We must move quickly to ally our kingdoms before Prince Bastian can strike again." He glanced down the corridor, his expression distant. "If King Rouvin departs in the morning, he'll arrive here the day after next."

Meaning two more days before their families could focus on finding and stopping Bastian. "What if he attacks again before that?"

"Preparations for the defense of Ilvanad and Shalla'isa are already under way," Miysis said, referring to the two other Ra cities Bastian had researched. Rouvin's letter had warned of his son's potential targets.

"Aldrendahar is the best defended city, isn't it?" she asked.

"It's the most defensible," he corrected. "Ilvanad and Shalla'isa are more exposed, larger, and richer, but deeper in our territory. It's difficult to say where Prince Bastian will attack, considering his forces are negligibly small."

Bastian's forces were small, but the shadow weave made him powerful. Her lips quirked down. "Is there a ley line near here?"

"There's a ley line half a mile outside the walls. As the primary method of transportation in and out of Aldrendahar, it's quite well known." He stepped back and bowed. "I have matters to attend to, so I must bid you a pleasant night, my lady."

She quickly curtsied. "Thank you, Your Highness."

As he walked away, his wings tucked against his back, she slipped into her room and closed the door, lost in thought. With a ley line right outside the city, Bastian wouldn't dare unleash the shadow weave on Aldrendahar—or so she hoped. For that reason alone, Ilvanad and Shalla'isa were more appealing targets.

Soft light glowed from a wall sconce and heavy drapes were pulled across the gallery windows, while the curtains around her bed were open. The silk sheets were turned down and several sleep garments were folded on the foot of the bed, waiting for her to choose one. On the table, someone had left a platter with a new pitcher of ice water and a selection of sweets and snacks.

The room was more luxurious than anything in the Iridian palace, besides the royal suites, but she preferred the simplicity of nymph design. Griffins were a lot more ostentatious. She drifted around the room, skirting the tub. She now understood why it was there, but it still weirded her out. Bathtubs belonged in bathrooms or bathhouses.

The room's unfamiliarity scraped at her. Or was it the emptiness? She returned to the door and cracked it open. Flanking the threshold were two nymph guards, the others resting in the servant suite across the hall. Griffins were stationed at either end of the corridor, facing away from the guest rooms .

"Why don't you two take a break?" she suggested to her guards in a low voice. "You look exhausted."

They exchanged frowning looks. "Are you certain, Lady Clio?"

"Absolutely," she assured them. "Get some rest. I won't be far."

It was a testament to their exhaustion that they reluctantly crossed to the opposite door. "Someone else will be out in just a minute to take our place, my lady."

"All right," she agreed.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she slipped toward the neighboring room. Unwilling to knock and potentially catch the griffin guards' attention, she reached for the handle.

The fine hairs on her arm stood on end, a shivery warning passing over her skin.

She blinked her asper into focus. A lock spell webbed across the entire door. It wasn't lethal but it wasn't a casual spell either. Short of blowing the door down, no griffins would be getting inside without permission.

She tapped a finger against the wood, disabling the weave, then silently turned the knob and slipped inside. Lyre's room was as dim as hers, illuminated by soft yellow light. The drapery in his room was closed, blocking the city view.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, wearing only loose-fitting pants, his bare torso decorated with ink designs. Scattered on either side of him were papers covered in his messy scrawl, writing utensils, measuring instruments, astrolabes, a compass, and other delicate tools.

In front of him was a circular sheet of steel two feet in diameter, polished until it shone like a mirror. Softly glowing golden lines spiraled across it, filling a bright outer circle near the edge.

His hands were raised in front of him and light danced across his fingers. He wove with a smooth cadence, a graceful rise and fall, the magic shimmering and sparkling as he added each delicate construct.

She carefully closed the door again, not allowing it to make a sound, and rekeyed his lock spell. He was wise to lock himself in. An interruption while he was weaving could range from annoying to outright destructive if his concentration broke at the wrong moment .

Silently, she sank down beside the door, back against the wall as she watched him. Eyes half closed, an unusual tranquility softening his features, he showed no signs of concentration or effort despite the complexity of the weave he was building strand by rune by sigil by shape. He didn't reference his notes. He didn't hesitate or stumble. His hands moved unerringly, the threads spinning from his fingers as he followed the perfect mental map he had created before he began.

She couldn't yet tell what he was weaving, the purpose of the spell. Her attention drifted from the magic to his face, to the way the golden light drifted across his features, highlighting his cheekbones, his jaw, his mouth. Her gaze wandered down, over his chest, his shoulders, the muscles in his arms flexing with each movement.

Watching him weave —this was what he was meant to do. In this moment, he was in perfect harmony with himself, and it was heart-wrenchingly beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with his appearance.

The flicker of light over his face fluctuated and his expression changed—a subtle creasing of his eyebrows. Her focus shot to his weave, and from the incomprehensible tangle of lines and runes, shapes jumped out at her. She went cold, as though she'd been doused in the nearby pitcher of ice water.

The shapes, the constructs—a web of death, woven from stunning golden magic.

The threads shuddered and twisted. Rhythm breaking, he snapped his hand out and plunged his fingers into the center of the weave. Threads tore and electric power surged up his arm as he drew the magic back into his body.

The weaving burst apart.