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They’re immortal children, I’m assuming, if Abarrane is training them to fight. Born courtesy of the magic in the nymphaeum. I still know little of these elven and even less about the Islorian version, but I’m piecing bits together. Zander said this body just passed its twenty-fifth birthday, so I assume these children will develop as humans do up to a certain age. In as little as ten years, these kids could be full-grown soldiers.
But do they feed off humans? Do they have the same bloodlust that Zander and the others do?
“You’re slow today, Abarrane!” a familiar voice teases.
My smile falters as Zander comes into view, but it’s quickly followed by a heart skip that I can’t explain. I shoulddespise him. I should be repulsed by what he is. And yet I’m not.
“I would like to see how fast His Highness moves after three days without rest.” Abarrane pauses her instruction to bow—no curtsy from this warrior—and the children rush to do the same, tripping over their feet, two dropping their staves.
“You may be surprised to learn I’m ahead of you in that regard.” He shucks his jacket and shifts into the square, rolling up the sleeves of his black tunic to reveal sinewy forearms. “Continue.”
With a secretive smile, Abarrane executes the routine again, her voice sharp and commanding, even as she moves with the grace of a dancer. The children follow suit with more zeal and with frequent glances at the hovering king, their eyes wide. They want to impress him.
Zander walks quietly between them, sliding in to adjust a stance and point out form weaknesses and errors, guiding them on ways to improve. The children listen, punctuating their moves with eager nods.
Again and again, they practice, each time their strikes smoother, their form more fluid, their strength steadier.
Zander’s usually hard face is soft, his words of encouragement sincere. It is an entirely different side of him from what I’m used to. It doesn’t seem possible that he is the same man who stood across from me that first night, wishing me death. Not that I could blame him. And perhaps that’s why I don’t hate him. Even though Princess Romeria would deserve everything he’s threatened to deliver, he hasn’t made good on any of it.
A shimmer of gold catches my eye. Wendeline glides along the path toward the square, pausing long enough to curtsy to Lord Quill, who is arm in arm with … I frown. That young brunette is nothis wife. And she’s clinging too tightly to him to be a friend or sister. I watch with suspicious eyes as she reaches up to stroke the hair off his forehead. He collects her hand in his, bringing it to his lips.
Not a sister and surely not a platonic friend.
Is he that brazen to cheat on Lady Quill so openly?
Childlike laughter below pulls my attention back to the sparring court, and I chuckle at the scene unfolding, a boy and girl attacking Zander from either side, trying to best their king as he spins and ducks from their staves with ease, his arms blocking their attempts. He moves fast, as fast as Sofie moved the night she embedded daggers into Tony’s and Pidge’s wrists. This is how Malachi designed King Ailill and his descendants to be: stronger, faster, harder to kill. Rivals to the Ybarisans. Malachi’s demons.
Abarrane’s hand is on her hip, the other propping up her staff, her expression bleeding annoyance. “Is the king here to assist or to pester?”
“Why not both?” He sweeps a little girl off her feet with one arm, earning her squeal and kick before he sets her down, his soft, musical laughter missing its usual derisive tone. I haven’t heard that sound from him before, and it catches me off guard.
“Perhaps you’d like to help me demonstrate proper technique to our young fighters, then.” She gestures at the rack.
His hands are out to his sides in challenge. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I would take any opportunity to knock His Highness on his back.” Her responding grin is downright savage. Given what Zander told me earlier of her bodily threats, I can’t help but think there’s a hidden message in those words.
He chuckles. It’s the kind of laugh that would pair well with a gentle finger stroke against a cheek or a whisper against an ear. A completely foreign sound, but I already know he’s capable of that tenderness. I saw it the other night with that woman, just before he revealed his unsettling secret to me.
“Alas, I must decline for the moment. I believe I have a visitor.” He strolls toward the edge of the sparring square where Wendeline stands, wringing her hands.
“Your Highness.” She curtsies deeply. “You summoned me.” Her voice carries a hint of tremor that she always has when he is near. I used to think it was fear, but I’m beginning to see it as the nervousness that comes with her reverence toward him.
“Yes. Priestess. Please.” He motions toward a path.
Below me, Abarrane’s barked orders fade into the background as I watch Zander and Wendeline stroll away, their pace slow, Zander’s arms folded across his chest as he listens. He’s probably demanding that she regurgitate every word shared between us in the sanctum, trying to figure out what had me rattled when I arrived in the throne room.
Her gaze drifts up to my terrace; his follows.
Yes, they’re talking about me, and now they know I’m spying on them.
Whatever she’s saying to him, he’s shaking his head firmly. He doesn’t agree. She’s imploring him, going so far as to reach for his arm. He doesn’t shuck the contact, but he appears bothered by what she’s telling him, his free hand pushing through his hair, sending it into disarray.
My graphite-tinged thumbnail finds its way between my teeth as a fresh wave of anxiety washes over me and my urge to flee kicks in. I always have a way out, a getaway route at the ready. Finding it is part of my planning in the weeks leading up to whatever I’m slinking into—a way to slink back out. Yet here, I am trapped. It’s unsettling, compounded by the reality that there’s still too much I don’t know—about why I’m here and why Malachi might want that stone.
I need to find the queen’s secret passage.
I’m mentally checking off all the spots in the bedchamber I’ve investigated so far to consider what I’ve missed when, from somewhere deep inside the cultivated grounds, a woman’s bloodcurdling scream pierces the tranquil evening.
