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“He served Uther and Igraine Pendragon for most of his life. But he was originally granted the position by the previous High King and Queen.”
Veyka’s grandmother, I dredged up from history lessons I’d definitely slept through. I didn’t glance her way, either.
But she shifted in her seat, a too-small chair that creaked under her weight. Her scent drifted over me, primrose and plum flooding my senses and waking my slumbering beast.
“What does he know about the rifts?” Veyka asked.
“More than he wanted to tell me,” Cyara huffed. “My father is a learned male. Not much in this world can shake him. But when he spoke of the rifts…” A shiver snaked through her shoulders. I watched her face tense as it no doubt moved through her back and the damaged wings.
I waited for Veyka to say something to ease her fear or pain. But the female at my side was silent.
“He encountered mentions of them in his early years. His role as a librarian was to look after the tomes, but also to aid anyone who might come to the library. Therefore, he must be knowledgeable about its contents,” Cyara continued.
A soft, forced chuckle. “The library must have gotten more use in centuries past,” Veyka said.
Cyara’s smile was barely there; the merest acknowledgement of an attempt at levity where none belonged. “Someone came to the library, a courtier. He asked about the rifts and asked my father to compile every book that mentioned them. My father left him with a stack of books and went home. When he returned the next morning, there’d been a fire. An entire row of shelves had been destroyed, including where the courtier had been working. The books were destroyed.”
A sharp, unsteady inhale. “But Parys found references to the rifts in the library.” Veyka’s voice was steady, but a note too high. I wondered if Cyara noticed it as well.
Cyara swallowed hard. “My father’s memory… he is very old,” she paused, looking down at her hands. “He gathered as much as he could. But it was near to the end of his tenure, and he acknowledged that he may have missed some.”
“The ones that Parys found,” Veyka said quietly.
The small, close room lapsed into silence. I could not let myself look at Veyka, though I was sure that sharp and cunning mind was running through all the possibilities. Still, I couldn’t hold my tongue while I waited for her.
“Who was the courtier?” I asked.
Pain clouded the handmaiden’s face. I recognized that pain—not the specifics, but the shape of it. Damage to the soul, rather than to the body. “He does not remember.”
Veyka’s eyes cut to mine, her hand reaching—stilling, hovering over my knee.
She stopped her hand just short of making the entreaty, but she did let it show in her eyes. A plea, to not pry any further.
A powerful fae could live a thousand years. To have reached nearly nine hundred, Cyara’s father must have been quite blessed. But sometimes, the mind did not endure as well as the body.
Veyka needn’t have tried to stop me.
I understood Cyara’s pain all too well—a mind taken by forces beyond one’s control.
Those clear blue eyes, turned nearly sapphire in the low light, considered me closely. I’d avoided looking at her, but she seemed bound by no such compunction. She studied every inch of my face, and whether she found it wanting or not I didn’t know. Only that she turned back to Cyara and folded her hand safely back in her own lap.
“This is not a coincidence,” Veyka said grimly. “Though I do not understand precisely how it all fits together. I must speak with Parys.”
I didn’t want to agree, but I also couldn’t argue with her logic.
“I have sent word to your mother and father,” Veyka continued. “Two palace guards have gone to help them pack and escort them back to the palace. Your father served this kingdom with honor; he should enjoy the comforts the goldstone palace has to offer for the time that remains to him. No more travelling into Baylaur for you, not until you’re well enough. And no more dwelling in this ghastly little room. I’m arranging for apartments one floor down for you and your family.”
“Your Majesty,” Cyara breathed. “This is inappropriate. Your courtiers—”
“—will bend to my will or find themselves broken,” she said with finality. “Rest, my friend. Later, I’ll have your sisters help you to your new quarters as well.”
Her hand hovered uncertainly over the female’s shoulder, then dropped to her forearm instead. A gentle squeeze.
“Rest.” An order.
An order from a queen to her sentinel.
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