I offer my hand for the approaching lark to settle on, my heart lurching with the realization that it could be from Raeve. Perhaps a note telling me she cares for me, but that she won’t be coming back. Something she couldn’t bring herself to tell me to my face.
Not a breath moves through me until I flatten the lark and read the message from start to end, written in the native tongue of the clans.
Not from Raeve.
Relief floods me like a guzzle of icy water.
I reread the message from Terros, valuing the update on his journey to Bothaim with Rekk saddled behind him, being flown toward his imminent demise.
Happy to hear of their progress, I refold the lark and pocket it. Weather permitting, they should land in Bothaim in two or three cycles.
Raeve will be waiting, no doubt. Ready to skin Rekk alive. Hopefully make him beg for death before the end.
Hopefully shed the bloodlusting itch from her veins.
Shoving the thought down, I lurch the door wide and push past the curtains. Make sure they’re pinched shut before I move deeper into the suite, brushing my fingers over my lute. Frowning, I pause to lift it from the rack, settle it against my hip, and drag my thumb across the frayed strings …
The tenor that strums free boots me in the chest, strained and with a strident overtone. An echo of the hurt that’s been strung through me since Elluin left so many phases ago.
The tune of my heartache. Of my love and sorrow.
I should’ve replaced the strings long ago, but that would change the sound. Something that didn’t feel right. Especially since she’s the only one I’ve played for since Slátra carried her into the sky. A private tune to her spirit in the hopes it would hail her heart back to me.
Perhaps I should’ve played harder.
Clearing my throat, I set the instrument on its rack and unstopper my chalice of burnt brandy, pouring a drink. I sip, the liquor blazing a path into my gut as I open the small table drawer and retrieve the glass vial I stuffed within over thirty cycles ago.
A pang of guilt strikes me at the sight of the whirling mists inside, like it’s caging a small tornado.
Oops.
I sink into the leather armchair and take another swig, put the glass aside, then set the vial on the table and pop the cork.
Borg pours out in a gush of grumbling mist, churning and spreading as he gathers size. He folds over himself, then stretches larger than a pallet-sized throw—almost completely transparent—before constricting into a dense, wafting mass again, just bigger than me, black eyes gleaming with—
Rage?No. Disappointment.
That’s worse.
“The absent king returns,” the disgruntled waif mutters, floating before me like a pale storm cloud tethered to his vial.
“Borg. I’ve missed you, too.”
“Your actions contradict.” He extends his mouth longways; a messy hollow torn through. “Next time you think to stuff me in a drawer,don’t.”
I dip my chin, hand fisted against my chest. “You’re right, my friend. That was thoughtless. Please accept my humble apologies.”
“Depends.” Another stretch of his mouth—sideways this time. “Did you find me a prettier jar?”
Shit.
“Still working on it—”
“Lies.” He gusts forward so fast the hairs on my arms lift. “Over a hundred phases and I’m still in the same ugly thing, plugged in place with acork.”
I arch a brow. “It has a large window …”
“Pointless when I’m tossed in a drawer like an afterthought.”
