18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Q ueen Runa was a hard woman to deny. When dinner wrapped up and she cast a pointed glance at Cyril and Mikael, they both understood her ask of, “Join me for a drink?” was more of a polite command than it was an actual question.

Lars and Dion seemed keen to slip away to smoke and drink and discuss the investigation anyway. From what little Cyril overheard from their end of the table, it sounded like interviews in the city were not surfacing many fruitful leads and Dion was not pleased about it.

Not a conversation she had any interest in participating in.

So Cyril followed the prince and the queen across the dining room, where they settled into a spread of plush chairs by the hearth. Between the extremely generous pours of red wine from Mikael, an indulgent meal, and the dead weight her limbs had become, Cyril was at serious risk of never making it back out of the damn chair.

“So, Cyril,” Runa started, and Cyril tensed.

Not already.

Dinner had gone so well too.

Dion and Runa had given Lars a colorful commentary on the spectacle he missed that afternoon, much to the chagrin of Mikael, who looked like he wanted no part of the conversation.

The prince laughed with them, at least, when Dion regaled the table with stories of the earlier days of Cyril’s training. She hadn’t realized just how many times one of the rogues at the estate almost lost an eye or a finger teaching her how to handle blades. Her cheeks burned and ached by the time their main course came around.

But nights and days like this one never could end on a fucking high note.

In most cases, Dion was the one responsible, but what would it be from Runa? A misguided comment about her parents? Or did she dig up something else of Malia’s, and think now was the time to surface it?

“I was in the archives this morning.” Runa smiled, and Cyril let out a slow breath. “Tobias mentioned how much they’ve enjoyed having you there for the last couple of weeks. He sang remarkably high praises for how quickly you’ve been picking up on our old language.”

Oh .

“Ah, well…” Cyril coughed quietly, and hoped the room’s dim glow masked some of the warmth blooming in her cheeks. Not what she’d worked herself up to at all. “He’s been a very patient teacher with me. And I… Well, I think speaking it is out of the question, but it’s getting easier to read.”

Runa’s eyes lit up.

“Humor me. Can I ask you a question?”

Cyril nodded, and the words that came out of Runa’s mouth next were a flurry of lilting sounds she caught no part of.

“Can you…say that again?” Cyril winced. She was certain it was the old language, but that was it.

Runa repeated herself, and Cyril clung onto a single word— vedr .

Weather.

Cyril didn't grasp the context, but she'd be damned if she didn't try.

“I don’t know how to answer properly, but…” She stared into the flickering hearth as if the flames might will themselves into exactly what she needed.

Sentence structures weren’t things Tobias spent much time on, given they weren’t useful to the investigation, but Cyril knew at least a handful of words, two of which seemed perfect.

“ Varmr, and… sol? ” she fumbled out, positive she butchered the pronunciations.

Runa’s entire face lit up, and she leaned forward to squeeze Cyril’s knee.

“I’m not sure what I’m missing.” Mikael blinked between the two of them, his lips parted. “But I’m feeling left out.”

“I asked Cyril how the weather was out on the grounds today,” Runa said, a smile still plastered on her face.

“Right.” Mikael looked at Cyril. “And you said…?”

“Warm. Sun.”

He nodded slowly, and the temptation to forcibly remove the surprised look from Mikael’s face was difficult to ignore.

If the prince thought she was all brawn and no brains because of that afternoon, he was sorely mistaken. Cyril didn’t have the brute force of Ren or the others, or the masterful mind of someone like Tobias, but Dion had done well to ensure her upbringing had a measure of balance. She spent just as much time with books as she did with weapons.

“Honestly, Cyril, I’m impressed,” Runa said. “Not many people can read the old language well, and even fewer can speak it with any sort of fluency. Just that you are even attempting to learn it is a feat you should be proud of.”

Cyril smiled sheepishly.

It had been out of necessity that she learned at least a base amount of it for their investigations. It likely wouldn’t have been something she ever attempted on her own. But Runa dished out compliments and praise unlike anyone she’d ever met before.

Were mothers just…like this?

“Doesn’t Astor speak it fluently?” Mikael asked, and Cyril was certain that was the only time she’d ever heard him speak his brother’s name.

She’d almost forgotten about the crown prince with the time he’d been away with his wallflower of a wife.

“Ah, sort of.” Runa grimaced—not well, then. Mikael huffed a laugh into his glass of wine. “He can manage. He learned enough to make Reyna comfortable since it’s her mother tongue and what she prefers to speak when given the chance.”

And just like that, the queen addressed Cyril’s curiosities about why the crown princess had such an unusual accent. She just hadn’t considered that Reyna could still be from Reykr.

“I had no idea that’s what she spoke,” Cyril said. “It would have been great to have her around when Tobias and I were translating this decrepit scroll on elemental cleansing. It took us hours to get through it, and—”

“You translated an old text?” Mikael sounded tucked somewhere right between shocked and impressed, but his mother swatted at him.

“Never mind him, did you say elemental cleansing?”

“I, uh… Yes, and yes.” Cyril blinked at them both. “I thought it might have something to do with the patterns of the runes left behind at each of the murders”—and she still thought it did, despite everything—“but, well, it looks like I was wrong about it.”

She could’ve sworn the prince snorted, but Cyril was more focused on making sure Dion wasn’t listening from where he smoked and drank with Lars at the far end of the room.

“What was your theory?” Runa asked.

Gods, Cyril didn't feel like humoring another person with the story of her failure. She’d keep it brief for the queen.

“A few years ago, we had a vigilante in Epheos, our port in Helia, who went around and killed half a dozen criminals. With the whole notion of the elements and using them to cleanse like the scroll said the old culture here used to practice, I thought something similar could be happening. But I went through all the victim files with Dion and, well…”

“Was it Dion that said you were wrong?”

“In more words than that, but yes.” She sighed. “There isn’t a single reason anyone would want to… cleanse any of those poor people. So I was mistaken.”

“I see. Well, perhaps tomorrow afternoon, if the commander will grant you an early leave”—Runa tossed a pointed glance at her son—“you can finally join me for that walk in the gardens. I’d love to hear more about what you’ve been learning.”

Mikael sipped his wine and shrugged.

“Cyril is free to come or go whenever she wants.” There was just a hint of bitterness in the sidelong glance he cast on her. Cyril reveled in it. “She earned that.”

“She certainly did.” Runa grinned and looked back at her. “You’ll join me?”

“I’d like that.” Cyril nodded.

It sounded lovely, and she had carried a kernel of guilt about Runa’s first failed attempt to take her to the gardens. She admired them from her room every day and had plenty of opportunities to visit them, but it never felt right to go on her own.

The queen gave her a nod of acknowledgment and rose from her chair.

“I think it’s time for me to turn in. I’ll leave the two of them to enjoy themselves,” she said, tipping her head toward Lars and Dion.

Cyril rose with her.

“I’ll walk back with you.”

It was getting late, and she didn’t want to risk being forced into an awkward conversation alone with the prince, or into interrupting her uncle. She was determined for the day to end on a high note.

“I should go too.” Mikael sighed and shot back the rest of his wine.

His mother reached for his arm and for Cyril's too, clearly set on being escorted arm-in-arm. Cyril couldn’t stifle her wince when the queen's fingers grazed her elbow, and Mikael’s eyes shot to her.

“So you did hurt yourself,” he said dryly.

Whether he was annoyed or amused, she couldn't tell, but Cyril chose not to respond to him. She only gave Runa a reassuring smile when the queen’s worried eyes found her own.

They left the dining room without another word and walked a quiet, somewhat uncomfortable walk back to the residences. Exhaustion lulled Cyril to sleep the moment she crawled into bed, a healthy slathering of Dion’s salve on her elbow.

Cyril knew the royal gardens would be a thing of beauty up close—the glances she stole from her balcony told her as much. But being here, traversing the pathways through flora that was blooming and vibrant and fragrant …

Words eluded her.

And they had since the moment Runa led her through the gates, but the queen didn’t seem to mind. While Cyril gawked and gaped at fronds as big as her body, and more colors of flowers than she could name, Runa taught her about the gardens.

Lars’ grandfather built some parts of it based on designs his own mother thought up while the palace was in its infancy—a timeframe ago that Cyril couldn’t fathom. Each generation since had added its own touch, with new plots, paths, and plants.

They made an effort over the years to introduce botanicals from faraway lands into the collection as well. Pieces collected from Southern Carinae, and from as far as the mortal continent and nymph lands, sat woven tastefully through pieces native to Reykr.

It all reduced Cyril to nothing more than breathy incantations of wow for almost an hour until Runa finally motioned for her to sit at a wrought-iron table set outfitted with pale blue cushions.

Cyril ran her fingers through her hair, still damp from the hurried bath she’d taken after leaving training, as Runa flagged down a maid and asked them to bring some refreshments out. Something cold, she hoped, after walking around under the humid heat of the late afternoon sun.

“So, I take it you approve of our quaint little gardens?” Runa mused, her smile coy, as she settled into the chair beside Cyril’s.

“Immensely,” Cyril chuckled.

Even from the unassuming little alcove they sat tucked in, they had pleasant views of a fountain hewn from moonstone. Not a single area crafted without thoughtful consideration.

“You’re welcome here anytime you like. The men don’t seem overly interested in ever coming out, so it’s perfect for when you need…” Runa pursed her lips. “Peace and quiet.”

She raised a knowing brow at Cyril.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And on the subject of men , has Mikael been treating you well?”

Cyril blinked.

“I think so?”

Runa laughed, a clipped bark of a noise. “That doesn’t give me much confidence.”

“I, ah—” Cyril grimaced.

Was she even in a position to speak candidly about him with his mother?

She hoped so.

“I don’t think we get along well. And after what I did yesterday…” A nervous laugh left her. “That probably didn’t help. He seemed pretty…” Miserable. Arrogant. Standoff-ish. The list went on and on. “ Unenthused about me being there today. I’m not sure if I should even go back, really, I…”

Cyril was rambling, and the queen wore a grin of total amusement.

“Mikael can be abrasive sometimes. Often, actually.” She smiled tightly. “Despite my best efforts with him, he always feels the need to prove himself.”

Runa waved over a maid, who hovered a few steps away with chilled teas. The queen thanked her and set one in front of Cyril.

“But my son has a good heart beneath those thorns. Truthfully,” she chuckled, “I think he’s gotten so used to women fawning over him everywhere he turns, and you’ve done quite the opposite of that.”

Cyril occupied herself with her drink.

She had a feeling that might be the case. As much of an arse as he was, there was no denying the prince was an attractive man, and women could be painfully predictable sometimes. She knew how much the ones of the south loved looks and titles.

“I think it’s a good thing, for what it’s worth,” Runa added, “But, my son’s overdue discomfort aside, I’m interested in hearing about what you’ve been learning in the archives.”

Cyril took another long sip of her drink, then she told Runa everything .

From the organization of runes at each of the murder scenes—which the queen already had base awareness of—to learning the root meaning of each and the seemingly endless days of fruitless hunting that led to the discovery of the lone, decrepit scroll on elemental cleansing. She ran nearly breathless rambling on about all the other things she sifted through before Tobias helped her with the daunting task of translating that scroll.

The ascension texts she borrowed were the only details she left out.

“And, well, like I said yesterday, Dion was quick to show me how all the reports disproved my theory.”

“Not the most surprising thing I’ve heard, unfortunately.” Runa sighed with an empathetic smile. “Humor me for a moment. How much do you know of our history here, in Reykr?”

Cyril occupied herself with her drink. It wasn’t like Reykr was a regular topic of conversation in the syllabus of her governess during her youth. And when they did discuss the moon-fae…well, those few lessons painted a picture of the northern fae as something Cyril was struggling to accept now.

“Surely you know of when the old kingdom fell?” the queen supplied, filling the awkward void of silence Cyril’s unease created.

“I know a bit,” Cyril admitted, and Runa gestured for her to continue. “My governess said when the last King of Carinae died centuries ago, and the Great Kingdom dissolved into the southern states, that most of the moon-fae left. And she said…”

The queen eyed her expectantly.

“Well, she said the reason they left was because all the lords appointed to the south were sun-fae, and they had conflicting… ideals . Apparently, the king was a tolerant man who let the moon-fae live as they would have in Reykr. So when the new lords tried to force them to assimilate, they left.”

That was all Cyril thought Runa should know of what she’d learned. The queen didn’t need to hear any of the parts of the moon-fae being referred to as savages who refused to adopt the civilized culture of the sun-fae.

“You’ve got most of the important background then.” Runa nodded slowly. “When the exodus started, very few of our people stayed behind. Mainly men, of course, who fell for the false promises of land, obedient wives, and riches.” The queen scoffed. “But those who came back, they traveled the same path as you and your uncles. Across Helia to the Stygias and then through the rift. We have many tales of how the rift itself was widened through the sheer volume of moon-fae passing back through it.”

Having seen the rift herself now, Cyril believed it. She could even imagine what it must have sounded like, to have thousands of hooves and feet passing through there, echoing against the veins of obsidian.

“I see,” she said quietly.

“This history lesson has a purpose, I promise,” Runa said with a wry smile as she picked up the pitcher made of frosted glass etched with roses, and refilled both of their teas. “With the generations our people spent in the south, many of them ended up with large families, and not just with other moon-fae. We settled with mortals and sun-fae and nymphs alike, and our mixed families and bloodlines all came back to Reykr together, which proved to be… problematic .”

Cyril tipped her head. “How so?”

“Well, for as many of our people who lived in the south, there were as many who never left Reykr. Since the very dawn of our people, they lived here in their villages, and many of them adopted a sort of…purist point of view. Thought themselves better than their brethren who ventured south and, in their eyes, muddied the bloodlines and brought unwelcome foreigners back to their lands.” Runa sighed heartily. “Old scholars like to say that red stained our rivers for a hundred years, with all the bloodshed and slaughter that ensued.”

“That’s… terrible . I—” Cyril pursed her lips. “A hundred years?”

“At least.” The queen laughed dryly and said, “And only brought to an end through more slaughter and bloodshed, of course.”

She sat back in her chair and tapped her fingers on her glass.

“Lars’ grandfather fought tooth and claw to reestablish the monarchy here back to its former power and glory, and once he did he was merciless. If a village was suspected to have even a fleeting tie to the purists, it was nothing but a scorch mark by the time his forces were through, and that went on for decades .”

Quietly, Cyril said, “That’s awful.”

A soft hum left Runa.

“It’s why Lars’ father spent so much of his rule trying to mend the atrocities committed by his father, and why Lars has done the same. Freeing people from their servitude, reuniting families, rebuilding villages, even a few strategic marriages to strengthen the ties…” The queen looked at Cyril with a raised brow.

“Strategic marriages?” Cyril tried to organize the questions that started flying around in her mind, and she grimaced.

A wistful sort of smile settled onto Runa’s face.

“You’re wondering if my marriage was one of them?”

Cyril nodded.

“Not in the traditional sense. I met Lars when he came to my village up on the Forn Peninsula on a tour with his father. He flirted shamelessly with me in the temple I worked in, and apparently decided he would make me his wife,” Runa chuckled, a fond glimmer in her eyes. “Now Lars meant it to be more of a romantic thing, that he would woo me so thoroughly in his short visit I would become enamored with him, but his father saw it as another opportunity for reconciliation. So he negotiated the details with the elders of my village, and Lars and I wed a few weeks later.”

“A few weeks ? That’s—” Cyril gaped.

She despised the idea of marriage and fae bonding. Especially the foolish things people did when they were so enrapt with one another. In the south, women had it bad enough being betrothed to men they never met, but at least they had engagements that lasted for months...

To think of it being only weeks had Cyril shuddering.

Runa nodded as she said, “Quick? It was. The court officials fed Lars and me a myriad of reasons, and we had no grounds to question them. It wasn’t until after Lars took the throne that we found out that my village, well…” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “They sold me. Or Lars’ father bought me, depending on which lens you look through. It was a business transaction that they all wanted to settle quickly.”

The thought made Cyril’s stomach turn. How disgusting, that they treated Runa like goods being sold at the market.

“I’m so sorry that happened.”

Runa’s shrug was remarkably nonchalant for what she shared.

“It brought me a kind-hearted, loving husband and two beautiful, healthy children. I really could not ask for more. And”—Runa chuckled a little to herself—“when Astor came home from a tour, infatuated with a blonde priestess he’d met in the same village in the Forns, we made him court her thoroughly .”

“Reyna?” Cyril asked.

She felt brazen now, with all that the queen had shared with her so freely.

Runa nodded.

“About a year after they met, she moved here so they could live together for more than a few weeks at a time, but they didn’t marry for another year after that.”

It felt like every time Runa answered one of her questions, she stirred up another half dozen.

Courting, of course, was not something Cyril had any personal experience in, or that Dion had ever really bothered to explain to her, but she understood the basics.

And she knew that courting and living together were not two things that went hand in hand, not for high-born women in the south, at least. She meant to ask Runa if that was common here, for unwed couples to live freely with one another, but the queen continued.

“Now, I promised you that this entire history lesson had a purpose, yes?”

Cyril nodded.

“When I saw the runes that were recorded from the first death, I told Lars right away that this was the act of a purist, whether working alone or at the behest of their village. I tried to teach him and General Ezra about the significance of the elements and their cleansing properties in the culture that I grew up in.” Runa took a breath. “But they told me not to worry, and said there was nothing else to tie it to any of the villages they were monitoring.”

The queen’s sudden interest in Cyril’s studies made perfect sense. She just wasn't sure if it made her feel better or worse that they dismissed Runa's theories so quickly in her own damn court.

“So when I mentioned the scroll last night…” Cyril started.

“You thoroughly piqued my interest.” Runa nodded. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence you’ve now made that connection to the purists as well, even unknowingly, and Dion, well… Truthfully, he’s likely just following what Lars and Ezra have rolled down to him.”

Dion, taking direction from someone else? Cyril had never heard of a more unlikely thing. Instead, she asked, “You think there’s something to it then?”

“I do, and I don’t want you to think your findings are a waste. Just because the men dismiss us, it doesn’t mean we are wrong in our theories.” Runa extended her upturned palms to Cyril, tattooed with the same pattern of dots and lines as the rest of her hands and forearms.

She settled her hands on the soft, warm skin of the queen’s.

“All I ask is that you do not let that theory die. Even if they dismiss you, surface it whenever you can. Do not stop looking, learning, and listening , even when it feels fruitless. And lastly”—a warm smile crossed Runa’s face, her eyes softening as she squeezed Cyril’s hands—“do not be afraid to ask for my help, Cyril, for anything. I know trust is not something easily earned, but I am your ally, and I will take every opportunity to prove that to you.”

I am your ally.

Even three glasses of wine, a sip of Dion's putrid spirits, and an overfull belly hadn't left Cyril any more sure how she felt about those words.

Could she truly trust a woman she’d only known for a couple of weeks?

Her entire upbringing and the tenets of the guild told her no, she shouldn’t give out her trust so easily. A woman in Runa’s position would only ever have her own best interests in mind.

And she was in Reykr , for fuck’s sake.

But the man responsible for that same upbringing, and every experience she’d had so far with Runa, said yes, not only could she trust this woman, but the queen was indeed her ally.

Cyril wasn’t sure that was something she’d ever had.

Sebille and Bron were probably the closest, but Dion still paid their wages.

Cyril huffed a sigh and sat up from the sofa she’d spent the last hour draped across, watching the sconces and firelight flicker and dance on the ceiling as she tried to make sense of things.

Too fucking much for her to process in one night.

The history lesson alone would have been a lot, without Runa sharing so many personal details and trying to forge that connection with her.

Then there was dinner.

Cyril hadn’t even made it halfway through the meal when Lars casually mentioned an upcoming state dinner he hoped she and Dion could attend. Runa had already sent for a dress to be made for Cyril just for the occasion. If the piercing stare Dion pinned her with hadn’t clearly enough said that they were very much going to be attending, that would have settled things.

She didn’t quite have the gall to ask, but Cyril hoped it wouldn’t be frilly or pink, or require a team to put on.

A state dinner was something she could navigate. She knew that from the events that Dion dragged her back home. But she wasn’t confident her dignity would survive being the queen’s dress-up doll.

It hadn’t helped at all that everyone else seemed intent on having a chatty evening, when all Cyril wanted was to curl up in front of a fire and unwind in silence.

Dion and Lars were all grins and laughter, with a few inappropriate jokes Cyril pretended she did not hear. She was sure Runa sat closer to her than any dinner so far, making innocuous small talk the entire time.

No one even seemed fussed when the arrogant prince showed up far later than even she thought was appropriate, smelling like ale and smoke and with a tipsy glint in his eyes. He eased right in with her uncle and Lars, and their laughter and crude jokes.

Just as Cyril thought she might tolerate the abrasive prince, the entire day told her otherwise.

From the moment she stepped into the barracks that morning, dragged right into the group of drowsy King's Guard by Kaia, the prince had been frosty as all fucking hells towards her. The few interactions they had were short and remarkably snippy. If it hadn’t been for Kaia’s desperate attempts to joke around, Cyril would have dipped out far earlier than she needed to for her garden visit with Runa.

But she had just three more days of basic training to get through, and then she could go back to riding and researching and steering clear of Mikael. Three days she had to get through, she told herself, because there was not a chance she would give him the satisfaction of seeing her quit.

And maybe, just maybe, Cyril hoped he’d challenge her to a rematch before the week was through. Putting him in his place one more time sounded like something she’d thoroughly enjoy.