The vision that had overtaken her in the jail cell prickled in her mind—hideous black veins vining through his beautiful face, the suffering in his voice as he cried out. Was that how he died? A painful, horrendous, lonely death?
“You know my daughter.” Laeliana’s voice brought Elyria slamming back to the present, eyes burning. “You know if I had any choice in the matter, I would stop this. You know I havetried.”
“Try harder. Lock her up if you have to. Chain her to her bed. You must not allow her to enter the Sanctum.” Even as the words tumbled from Elyria’s mouth, she knew they were empty. Kit had always beenmercurial. A free spirit—freer even than Elyria. Beholden only to the whims of her heart, she would go where she wanted to go, would do what she wanted to do. To prevent her from doing so would be to snuff out her very light.
Even still, to attempt to follow in her brother’s footsteps, to go through the Gate...Elyria thought this foolish even for her capricious erstwhile friend.
“I came to ask you—tobegyou—to talk to her. Please, get her to change her mind. I have done all I can, said all I can. I know the two of you have history to work through. I wish I did not have to ask. But as I said, the aurora is due. I am out of time.” The duchess took a breath, as if she expected the next words to hurt. “I cannot lose another child beyond the Gate.”
Elyria exhaled through gritted teeth. “You can’t ask this of me. Kit and I haven’t even set eyes on one another since Ev-Evander”—she choked on his name—“failed to come back. We haven’t spoken since...” Guilt nipped at the back of her neck. Since she had stopped replying to Kit’s letters. Since she had refused Kit’s final attempt to visit, so determined was she to lose herself nightly in the fog of drink and distraction.
“I can’t.”
Laeliana’s face fell. “I know what it is I ask of you, child. The wounds I am asking you to reopen. I do not pretend it is fair, and I do not take it lightly. But you are my last hope, Elle,” pleaded the duchess.
“If Kit wants to throw her life away like her brother, so be it. That is her choice. I am not your messenger.” Elyria stalked away, her hands busy with the clasp of the cloak as she shrugged it from her shoulders. “I am no one’s.”
With a shiver, she released the magic veiling her wings. They burst from her back in a shower of brilliant iridescent purple and green.
Elyria pumped her wings—once, twice. Relished the feel of them, free and open and wild. They shimmered in the light of the dawning sun, a cascade of colors dancing like a miniature aurora on her back. Her feet lifted from the grass.
“Elyria! Elle, please. Please!” Laeliana called after her, but Elyria was already in the air.
She did not look back.
5
THE KNIGHT
CEDRIC
Sweat drippedfrom Cedric Thorne’s brow as he moved through the training yard. He stepped back as Tristan’s sword whistled through the air, passing a finger’s width from Cedric’s chest. His mettle was certainly being put to the test today. He supposed he should have known better than to expect anything less when he made a sparring partner of Tristan Hale.
The clangor of sword against shield filled the yard, the knights dancing around each other. Tristan lunged. Cedric spun. Then, he struck.
“You’re slow today, Ric,” Tristan teased, deftly angling his blade to repel Cedric’s thrust with a resounding clash of steel. “All that brooding you’ve been doing must be taxing indeed.”
“Hardly,” Cedric snorted, deflecting Tristan’s next strike. “And what you call ‘brooding,’ I call staying focused. Not all of us are blessed with the capacity to fight with such happy humor.”
“That I cannot deny. Indeed, I am blessed.” Tristan laughed, the scarred line on his left cheek curving with his smile, before he feinted to the side. “Enormouslyblessed, so my lovers tell me.”
Cedric pushed a lock of damp chestnut hair from his forehead with the back of his hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “What lovers? Pray, tell me his or her name so that I may recommend them to a healer. Clearly, they are in need of aid if they suffer such delusions.”
Tristan gasped in mock offense, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Cedric dodged it easily. “Whatever would Lord Church say, should he hear your egregious lies?”
“Alas, how I wish I was lying. But you forget how many times I’ve had the misfortune of seeing you naked, sir.”
Tristan sniffed. “Prick my skin and bleed my body, but never shall you wound my pride.”
“As you wish.” A laugh burst from Cedric as he threw his weight into his next strike, driving forward with crushing force. Tristan blocked with his shield, but the strength of the blow had the knight’s knee buckling. Cedric hammered down blow after blow, the dull edge of his practice blade roaring against the wood. Had they been using their actual weapons, Cedric had no doubt he’d have split the shield in two.
“Aurelia damn you!” Tristan’s knee hit the dirt, strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. “I yield.”
Cedric grinned as he tossed his weapon aside and removed his gauntlets. He extended a hand to his friend. “Perhaps you might try a bit more brooding. I am, after all, not the one on the ground.”
Tristan huffed as Cedric hauled him up, but he was smiling by the time he got to his feet. “And I’m glad for it. Anything that shows me you won’t be doing the same when fending off a fae blade.”
“It is not their blades he needs to worry about.” A booming baritone echoed over the yard. Cedric tensed, turning to meet the keen, assessing eye of Lord Leviathan Church. The nobleman stood next to the weapons rack, robes billowing in the breeze, his dark brown hair, peppered with gray, slicked back from his face.
