Page 19 of The Light Between Worlds

“Please don’t make me tell,” I say softly. “I can’t talk about it, Jamie. I just can’t.”

“Evie, are you sure you’re doing alright? Do you want me to come out there? I can be at St. Agatha’s in two hours if need be.”

“No!” I’m horrified at the thought. The last thing I need is Jamie catching a glimpse of my blistered hands. “I’m fine, I promise. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure. Don’t worry so much. You and Philippa are always fretting about me, but I’m not a child, Jamie. None of us have been, not for years.”

I can hear his gusty sigh. It travels all the way from Oxford to Hardwick. “Isn’t that the truth? Ring me if you need anything, though, Evie. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Bye, Ev.”

“Bye, Jamie.”

I hang up the phone and stand for a moment in the middle of Max’s lovely rooms. She’s strung a twist of wire from one of the curtain rods and bits of colored glass dangle from it on strings. Theychime together when the wind blows, making a sweet, fey sort of sound. Like Philippa, Max builds her kingdom wherever she is, no matter how difficult it may be.

And me? I’m trying. But most days I’m just an exile with Latin homework waiting to be done.

12

“HERE’S HOW YOU’LL CONDUCT YOURSELVES TONIGHT,if you wish to help us,” Hector warns when we open the door of the room we’ve been given and stand in front of him, clean and presentable and waiting to meet with Venndarien Tarsin again. “Should the Tarsin heir angle for information about the Woodlands or our plans, deflect him or change the subject. You won’t be able to answer anyway—you know nothing of the Great Wood yet. If he tries to strike up an alliance with you, seem interested but undecided. If he threatens, don’t be concerned—you’re in the care of the Woodlands now and we’ll keep you safe. Try to ensure his attention stays on the three of you after he’s left the Great Wood, rather than drifting elsewhere.”

With those words still ringing in our ears, Hector shepherds us down to the castle’s great hall. It’s a long, cavernous room with two huge hearths at either end, both sending out waves of dry heat. Torchlight illumines the corners, and catches at gold threads in the tapestries. Venndarien Tarsin and his retinue are already seated at an enormous table.

The Tarsin heir slouches as we enter. He stays in his seat, eyeing Hector, who nods to Venndarien with more courtesy than he deserves.

“Venndarien Tarsin, First Son of Heraklea. The Great Wood greets you.”

“The Empire does not hear you,” Venndarien says. He snaps a finger and the skin stretched thin across the back of his hand begins to glow. Making a fist, he waits a moment before opening his hand. A ball of fire rests on his palm, perfectly round and apparently doing him no harm. Venndarien stares moodily into the flames, his strange eyes lit by their own internal fire.

As we sit, Dorien and Alfreya appear bearing enticing platters of mutton roasted with root vegetables and unfamiliar herbs. They set the platters down at the center of the table and sit, and once they’re seated, the gathered Woodlanders help themselves. There’s a party of stonewardens staying at the castle—olive-skinned and black-haired traders come in from a sea voyage to Illyria. A pair of centaurs, one with a copper-brown complexion and another with sunburned white skin, are passing by on their way to the singers’ school in the south. The last to join us are a family of aelflings, as Hector and Alfreya’s folk are called. I’m not sure who belongs to who—there are half a dozen adults who all have a familiar, comfortable way with each other, and at least twice as many children. The children eat quickly, or not at all, then play about under the table or at the far end of the room. They hardly seem to notice the tension in the air, and it does nothing to dampen their holiday spirits.

Hector joins one of the children in rolling a ball back and forth across the floor, but his swords are close to hand, and he glances at the table often.

For a time, those of us seated eat in silence. Philippa, Jamie, and I are so relieved to have a proper meal at last that it takes a few minutesbefore we notice the Tarsin heir hasn’t touched his plate.

“Is there something wrong with the food?” Philippa asks icily.

My face heats as I glance over to her. I’m not sure this is how we’re meant to behave. Alfreya and Dorien stiffen, and Hector watches from a distance, his eyes alight with interest.

“It’s a little... simple for my liking,” Venndarien Tarsin says. He still slouches in his chair and toys with his conjured fire. “It would be peasant’s fare in my father’s Empire. And the lack of respect the Woodlands continues to show for me as the Emperor’s son and heir is an insult to Tarsa’s power. Nowhere else would I be expected to eat with this rabble. If you and your brother and sister truly wish to become a force to be reckoned with—to use your knowledge of another world to your own advantage—you’ll leave this backwater at the first opportunity.”

Philippa presses her napkin to her lips and sets it down carefully. I know my sister. I’ve lived with her and fought with her and loved her all my life. When Philippa is careful, danger lies ahead.

“Sir,” she says with a smile. “Not a month ago my brother and sister and I left behind a world of unimaginable violence and slaughter. We have traveled the length of the Great Wood since then, won the trust of its Guardian, sworn oaths at the heart of the forest, and now sit at table with you in this castle. Don’t presume to lecture me on what’s necessary to become a force you’ll have to reckon with.”

Venndarien sits forward as if he’s about to speak, but Philippa raises a dismissive hand. “Convince us that an alliance with you would serve our interests better than staying in this backwater, as you call it. Convinceme. That’s why we’re really here, isn’t it? Because you want to bring us and the secrets you think we hold back to your father as a gift.”

“My lady—” The Tarsin heir’s eyes spark crimson, but Philippa cuts him off once more.

“The stories I could tell you, Venndarien Tarsin, of the world to which I was born. Stories of machines made for war, that rain fire and death from the sky, or spit it like hailstones from a thousand yards away. Your dreams of conquest are idle fancies compared to the things I have seen.”

“Come with me,” Venndarien rasps greedily. “Whisper your tales in the Emperor’s ear, and I will make you a queen.”

“No.” Philippa waves a hand as if to dismiss him. “I’ve tired of you already. Anything else you wish to say may be said to my brother or sister. And I expect to wake in the morning and find you’ve gone. You’re not welcome in this country, and we are, so you’ll have to win us over by letter if you wish to present us as a prize in Tarsa. Good night.”