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Endreth, on his part, talked about his role as the prince of the Crimson court, the heavy crown of expectations that rested on his shoulders, the need to be always seen as strong, to always think four steps ahead, and how he longed for simpler times when his life was not bound by the power plays of the courts. He also spoke of his mother, her gentle smiles and soft words, her determination to bring a change to this world; he spoke of her kindness and of her strength.
He spoke of how he was determined to make her legacy come through.
Anthea leaned against the ship’s railing, the river breeze playing with her hair.
Four Virens pulled the ship at a steady pace, golden sails billowing in the wind. It was the first day in their journey from the small village on the borders of the Crimson court. The landscape, as they neared the Iron court’s lands, was strikingly different from the Crimson court or the Nephrite court. Here, the mountains were rockier, their brown hues a stark contrast to the almost black, towering giants of the Nephrite court. The land seemed to have given up on any attempts at greenery, offering nothing but the bare rock.
“Endreth stayed in your room quite a while last night.”
Anthea glanced at the Crimson heir. So typical of him to find her in her peaceful moments, and shatter them. “Was that a question or a statement? Because I really can’t tell.”
Aegonar gave her a rare smile. “Glad to see the cold mountain air hasn’t lessened your spirit.”
“Do you want something?” The eldest Crimson prince rarely approached her without an agenda.
Aegonar leaned his back against the railing, his flaming hair was braided from the sides, keeping it away from his face. “Maybe I just wanted to see how you are doing.” Anthea quirked a brow at him. “Okay, maybe I just wanted to make sure you haven’t done anything stupid lately. Endreth was quite drunk when he made it back to his room—Did you fuck him again?”
“You’re a pig, Aegonar.” She turned to leave. His hand gripped her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.
“Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful for what you are doing for us. But I know my brother?—”
“Don’t touch me.” Anthea yanked her hand away.
“You will only hurt him, Anthea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He is an elf. You are a human. Do your own calculations.”
Anthea looked at Aegonar, really looked at him. Remembering that he also had to witness his mother die, had to stand there and watch as she was being burned alive. The heir was wearing his usual mask of non-expression. But Anthea could see a slight furrow to his brow, a slight desperation in his green gaze. He was worried for his younger brother. And that, she could understand.
“Nothing happened,” she said quietly. “We just talked.”
“Good. I need you to make sure that nothing will ever happen again. Is that clear?”
“Why are you telling me this? Why not talk to your brother?”
A tight smile. An honest expression. “Endreth won’t listen to me. Never has. If I only left it up to him—he would jump in head first, without thinking of long-term consequences. Somehow, I suspect you are more inclined to consider them.”
Anthea cleared her throat, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. They were hundreds of years old, would live hundreds of years more. He was right—it was better to not form attachments. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Endreth any more than she already had. She gave the Crimson heir a small nod. And then changed the subject. “Why does Endreth think your mother’s death is his fault?” Anthea hadn’t wanted to bring it up the night before, hadn’t wanted to see the devastated look on Endreth’s face again. But now, with Aegonar—she wanted to know.
He turned away from her, grasping the railing and looking down at the Virens. Anthea mirrored him, hoping he would answer her.
A long moment passed, then another. Finally, he sighed.
“Our mother had her heart set on a rebellion. Endreth . . . he recruited rebels for her. Sailed around and spread the word. Only, he placed his trust in the wrong humans. He blames himself for it. Needlessly so, for it was Taranath who ordered the dragon to release its flame—” Aegonar gripped the railing tighter, the wooden beam starting to smoke underneath his fingers.
Anthea grabbed his shoulder. “Your hands . . .” she trailed off, withdrawing her palm. The Crimson heir looked down, let go of the railing and stepped back. He had scorched the wood, black prints adorned the gleaming surface.
“The memories . . . like I told you before—elven grief, it runs deep.” It was as if he was trying to explain his loss of control, explain the burnt wood.
“I am sorry, for what happened to your mother. From what I’ve heard. She seemed amazing.”
He glanced at her, gaze softer than she had ever seen before. Green eyes flickered to her wrist and then back to her face. “I regret it. What we put you through, Anthea.” With that, he turned around and left, maroon coat billowing in the wind.
42
Once again, Anthea was at Endreth’s side, pretending to be his pet. She had kept her distance from him on the ship, had kept her distance as they arrived to the Iron fortress, thinking about Aegonar’s words. He was an elf; she was a human. It would never work out. Endreth had been confused, but accepting, when she had asked for space to focus on the upcoming mission. Aegonar had given her an approving look—she had hated it.
