Page 32 of The Light Between Worlds

Take off your sword.

Philippa

“You’d better do it,” I say. “You know Philippa. She doesn’t draw breath without thinking about the consequences first.”

Reluctantly, Jamie unbuckles Anvar, his hands lingering on the sheath. “There’s a difference between not wearing my sword and not having it on hand. I’ll put it under the table, if it’s that important.”

So Anvar is pushed unceremoniously under the table, where one of the elderly hounds that roam the castle has already taken refuge. I reach out to the dog, but a flurry of activity at the hall’s entrance distracts me. The doors swing open, trumpets bray a few notes, and an Imperial crier calls out.

“Presenting His Serene Highness, Prince Venndarien Tarsin, Heir to the Great Emperor.”

“He’s never seemed very serene to me,” I mutter to Jamie, who smiles humorlessly. “And where has Philippa got to?”

Venndarien sweeps in, surveying the room with his burning eyes. He’s grown into a tall man in the past five years, his golden hair fading to a nondescript color, though his face seems ageless but for the lines at the corners of his eyes. The courtiers that follow him are all dressed in white, the color of the Empire, and the only thing that distinguishes their ranks is the sashes they wear around their waists, dyed to indicate their standing. The Tarsin heir wears no sash, and the cut of his clothes is simple.

Yet there’s something about him that sends anger coursing hot through my veins. It’s in the way he surveys the hall and the Woodlanders in it with a covetous air, as if all this is something to be possessed. And how he glances at my brother and me and everyone else gathered at the table, then looks away with a shrug, as if we’re not worthy of notice, as if we’ll pose no threat.

Venndarien Tarsin is only halfway across the room when the hall’s wide doors swing open once more with a groan and a clang, revealing Philippa standing on the threshold. Venndarien turns to look at her, and there’s no greed in his eyes, but satisfaction, as if it’s a foregone conclusion that soon she’ll belong to him.

The anger in my blood turns to fire, to match the flames behind the Tarsin heir’s eyes. The words of the oath I once swore rest bitter on my tongue.

I will kill him if he touches her.

21

Dear Philippa,

I miss you. I’m sorry. Come back to me.

Grey sand, grey sea, grey sky.

Salt water murmurs in my veins.

Cervus, take me home.

22

MY SISTER STANDS BEFORE THE ASSEMBLED WOODLANDERSand the Tarsin delegation in a plain spun kirtle the color of new leaves. Yellow asters have been braided into her dark hair. I’ve never seen anything lovelier, and the sight of her chokes me.

Philippa turns to Venndarien and smiles so brightly it’s hard to look straight at her. She moves to the center of the hall and kneels before him.

“Your Highness,” says my sister, bowing her head. “Welcome back to the Woodlands. I trust you had a pleasant journey, and find the rooms here to your liking?”

Venndarien waves a hand, as if to dismiss the question, but his eyes fix on Philippa hungrily. “The roads in this forest are appalling and the rooms are too small, but the view from the west wing is fine. When I rule from Palace Beautiful as the Emperor’s proxy, I shall have all the walls in the wing torn down, to make one great chamber. That should suit me better.”

“He’ll have the whole castle down on top of his head if he does that,” Dorien mutters. “What does he think holds up all this stone?”

“As you wish, Highness” is all Philippa says with a bob of her head.

The Woodlanders whisper, and cast uncertain glances at one another. Vaya sets one weightless hand on top of mine. “Your sister’s very friendly. She wouldn’t—leave us, would she?”

“No!” I insist, but even as I do, ice spreads inside me.

Phil settles into a seat at Venndarien’s side and finds me with her eyes. For a moment we look at one another, and I wonder if I truly know how Philippa has felt these last five years, thrown into another world by my desperate cry, then held here by her sense of duty and the need to make good on her promises.

Which promise will she hold to now? The one to look after me, or the one to serve the Woodlands? And which would I hold to in her place?

All those letters, back and forth between Philippa and the Tarsin heir, and no one to read them but her.