Fall of Thrones and Thorns Page 5

  “Tell me something.” I pin Ogen with my eyes. “If I take this throne you want, sit vigil as Kyrene’s vassal, will you agree to do more about the Reaping than simply wait for something to happen?”

  “If the council deems that the best course of action,” he says, puffing up his chest importantly.

  “Fine,” I murmur, settling back and crossing my arms over my chest. I swallow the hard lump of discomfort in my throat. “Then off to worship, I go.”

  Seven

  Aleta

  The ground beneath my feet rumbles in a threat, and I blink with surprise.

  “Hey. Fancy.” Trycia jerks her head at the oven, where the fire I’ve been maintaining in the back of my mind has flickered out. She smiles, wide, sarcastic, and toothy. “You mind?”

  With a roll of my eyes, the fire flares back to life and her smile turns genuine. “Much obliged, Fance.”

  These past few days, I’ve enjoyed rising with the dawn and finding my way into the city to sit at Trycia’s tavern. It seems to relieve the others that I’m not haunting our domiciles while they train, and it’s been something of a game for me, seeing how far away from the oven I can go, how much concentration it takes to keep the fire going. It gives me something else to think about besides war and reigns and extraordinary lives.

  But an earthquake… That gives me something new to concentrate on. And I’m not certain I like the direction my thoughts are turning.

  Unease curls through the pit of my stomach.

  “Does that sort of thing occur often?” I ask Trycia. I set down the crust I’m preparing and move toward the window to peer outside. A cart-keeper gathers his toppled goods and glances around him, looking rattled.

  There doesn’t appear to be new damage outside, but I scan the street, taking in details of the city I haven’t noticed until now. Cracked facades. Fractured stone. Debris and pebbles litter the ground, and the expressions of the citizens that pass by are a bit…nervous. Taken aback as they lift their eyes to the temple in the mountains.

  “Seems to happen more and more these days. Told you that’s what happened to my oven, didn’t I?” Trycia says. “Bad for business is what it is.” She wipes her hands on her apron and turns back to her work.

  My hand lingers on the window frame, thinking. I’ve read book after book about Nereidium. Every spare bit of text on a page that I could get my hands on.

  Not one of them mentioned a history of earthquakes in the country.

  I try to quell the pit of uneasiness that is my stomach. The instinct that tells me that, somehow, Langdon is responsible for this.

  “You’ll want to add sauce to that dough.” Trycia calls my attention back to my abandoned work, nodding at it as she kneads the crust of what she’ll be serving to those who wandering their way in for a bite. “Preferably before you add the cheese and put it on a stone in the oven.”

  I leave the window. Worrying over Nereidium is Breena’s chore now. I have food to make.

  Still, while my hands stay busy, my mind keeps churning. This is no coincidence. That quake. Geological changes happen, of course, but the timing is too coincidental.

  “So, these earthquakes… They’re a relatively recent development, then?” I ask, unable to suppress the question.

  Trycia sighs, not giving me an answer as she tosses the dough into the air and catches it deftly.

  Maybe she would have answered me. But I don’t find out. The door swings open, soft footsteps pad inside, and I look up as Tregle enters. My stomach flutters at the look in his eyes when he catches sight of me. The hope of a new day’s sunrise is painted on his face. Hesitant and just blooming, but beautiful.

  Trycia raises an eyebrow. “Friend of yours, Fancy?” I glare at her, and she lifts her hands in a mocking show of surrender. “Sorry. Mind the fire. I can afford a break. Not as though we’ll have a crowd tonight after another quake. I’ll see myself out.”

  Only when the door swings shut behind her do I let myself speak, my heart dancing a slow step in my chest.

  “Adept—” I pause, collect myself, and address him, for once, without a title. “Tregle.”

  This is the one good thing to come from learning that I’m not who I thought I was. I’m a commoner, just as he is. An Elemental, just as he is. We’re finally on equal footing.

  His smile is the sun bursting over the horizon. “Aleta.” My name in his mouth prompts an answering smile from me.

  We hold there for a moment, foolish grins on our faces, until I tear my eyes from his to spoon sauce and cheese over the crust.

  “I’ll be just a moment,” I say. Carefully, I put the food onto a stone and insert it into the fire. After a careful look to make sure that the fire is behaving and rewarding the flames with a stroke as one may give a pet, I duck back to the counter. “What brings you to Trycia’s establishment?”

  He’s sweating, and a cut beads with blood over his right eye. It gives him a roguish look at odds with his soft voice.

  “We’ve completed our training for the day,” he says. “I thought I might see how you’ve been occupying yourself.”

  “Did the earthquake slow you down?” I locate a bit of clean cloth and move from behind the counter to dab at his cut.

  He frowns, brows furrowing as he follows my movement, eyes tender. “A bit. Odd, that.”

  I drop the dirtied cloth when the cut is as clean as I can make it. “I thought the same.”

  “It reminded me—” He swallows and a shadow crosses his expression. I’ve seen that look of his before. When we exchanged quiet words over a campsite. When he and I fell into step beside each other as we trekked across Egria.

  When bandits wrung screams from our lungs before they tried to sell us into servitude.

  That’s the look Tregle gets when he thinks of battle. I forget, sometimes, that he has seen war that I have not. My brief experience with melee has been since the night we fled the palace. His experience came at Lady Katerine’s side, against rebel armies flinging the elements to and fro around him.

  “It feels like Shaker work,” he says.

  The thought had made itself known in the deep recesses of my mind, given what I know of the Nereid geography, geology, and climate. But how? It’s highly unlikely there’s a Shaker on the island, given how closed Nereidium has been from trade for the past sixteen years. And they’re known for breeding Water Throwers, not Earth Shakers.

  We need to speak with Breena. The king’s strikes are growing bolder, and if he’s discovered a way to move against my people even from his stronghold—

  There, I catch myself. They aren’t my people. Not as I’d once thought. And Breena is no simpleton. With Lady Helen’s guidance, I’m certain they will come to some sort of strategy.

  “Aleta, we must—”

  “Hold there,” I interrupt him, needing to move, needing to stop thinking. Needing to keep myself from marching directly to Lady Helen’s home and demanding to know what course of action they’ve decided upon.

  It is none of my business.

  Instead, I flit to the oven and yank one of the hot stones free with ungloved hands. “Here,” I say, slicing into the savory cheese and bread. “Try this.”

  A wary look on his face, he opens his mouth and I feed him a bite. His expression of grim determination melts away in awe. “That’s delicious.”

  “Trycia knows her craft well,” I say. “And I’m learning, too.”

  I’m learning more than just a craft. I’m learning to be ordinary.

  And I’m learning my place in this new world order.

  I try not to let the nausea these thoughts bring show on my face.

  Concurrent

  Egria

  The young tutor’s footsteps clip down a hallway, soft but urgent. Flickering torchlight dances across her face as she strides toward her destination. Each step brings her to a new flame and the shadows it casts. Each step increases the size of the lump in her throat.

  Her hand hovers in the air as she s
tretches for a door, propped just ajar. The hesitation is natural, she assures herself. But she’d best get on with it. It won’t do to keep him waiting.

  A gentle prod swings the door open to reveal a room with but one inhabitant. The King of Egria, eyes narrowed in thought, bends over a map on a table. The paper curls where it’s free, reaching toward the ceiling as if grasping for clouds, but is prevented from rolling closed by a vase, weighing it down.

  The tutor sucks in a quick, nervous breath.

  “M-Majesty?"

  Her voice, when she finds it, is small, a pin dropping in a crowded hall. She swallows her words again as the knife-like gaze snaps to hers. The map of waters and islands is abandoned as he pins her to the doorway with a look. She flinches—a quick, unwilling reflex.

  “Enter,” he says shortly, pursing his lips. He falls back carelessly into his chair, brows inclined over his eyes and a hand sprawled over his face.

  Uncertainty slows her pace to a slow shuffle. Once she frees her eyes from his, she cannot bring herself to meet them again. They flick to the walls. Then back to his wry mouth. To the ceiling. Then to the tilt of his head as he waits for her to speak.

  “While this is most enthralling—” the king drawls. She catches the upward flick of his eyebrow as her gaze scurries away. “—may I assume that you attend me for a purpose other than standing in awe of my presence, tutor?”

  Yes, she thinks on a swell of relief. The sweet reminder that she has a task to focus on is most welcome.

  “It’s the Earth Adept,” she blurts, as though she’s had her teeth clamped down on the news. “He’s…unstable.”

  He pinches his thumb and forefinger together and examines them without interest. “Then, I would advise you to stabilize him.”

  “It’s not just that, Majesty.” She hesitates again, but plunges forward. “Our experiments have had some unexpected effects. It’s his abilities. They’re not normal, sire.”

  “Good.” His smile makes his eyes into tiny scythes. Sharp and dangerous. “I don’t expect normalcy from those I draw into my fold. I expect greatness.”

  “But this…” She tries and fails to suppress a shudder. “Sire, all of his plants die.”

  “I fail to see the problem.”

  She’d spent some time studying the Earth Adepts in the Egrian army. They wielded deadly force when they chose to. Boulders crashing down, shattering bones, crushing skulls. But when they turned their attention to plant life, their abilities were truly beautiful. A seed could blossom in seconds, petals unfurling to greet the sun. Fruits and vegetables could sprout in hostile terrain. A tree with barren branches could be encouraged to grant shade by way of suddenly burgeoning leaves.

  But somehow, she does not believe her liege will be persuaded if she attempts to put this simple beauty into words.

  “Earth Adepts are supposed to encourage life,” she says finally.

  "And is death not a natural part of life? Tutor, let me assure you, I have the situation well in hand. Allow me to demonstrate. Kindly pass that vase to me.”

  What possible purpose can the decorative item serve here? But even if this exercise is pointless, she cannot disobey her king. With clumsy fingers, she picks up the glass object and places it in his expectant palm.

  The king it smashes down onto the table. Her eyes widen as the object fractures, glass tinkling to the ground like the soft mewling of a wounded animal. The shards glitter up at them, tears puddled on the ground.

  “There.” He dusts his hands against each other. “It’s a vase no longer. It’s been transformed. Now, where we had one vase, we have several pieces. Materials that can be utilized to create something new.” His eyes gleam. “I don’t care about the vase, tutor. I care about what I will rebuild it into.”

  “But—the Earth Adept—” Her throat seizes.

  “That matters not.” The king smiles widely. “Forget what was. Think of what will be.”

  Eight

  Caden

  My sword lands in lush grass that has somehow escaped death at our feet.

  The ground is torn, dirt unearthed from our days—weeks, now—of drills and practice and spinning footwork. The result is a scarred and pitted landscape atop this mountainside, with two lone souls eyeing each other warily—and one without a weapon.

  I sigh, raising my hands. “I yield. Yet again.”

  Meddie grins as she retrieves my sword and carefully hands it to me by its blade. The two of us are the only ones who made the trek from our houses to the empty mountain overlook today. Everyone else, it seems, is content to rest, sufficiently satisfied with the progress that they’ve made.

  I am not so easily satisfied. True, I’ve made some progress, but I can’t explain the niggling feeling that it’s not enough.

  Will it ever be enough?

  I assume a dueling stance with a half-hearted expression. “One last bout?” I ask Meddie, not holding out much hope. We’re both panting, chests heaving as we drip with sweat. I wipe beads of perspiration from my eye with the heel of my hand.

  “Rest your royal muscles, Your Highness,” she says, rolling her shoulder and wincing. “I need to find a healer for this shoulder. Repeatedly destroying you has taken its toll on my muscles.”

  I glare at her. “I think ‘destroying’ is perhaps a bit—”

  “Fine.” She sighs. “Defeating you, then.”

  I know she’s jesting with me, but still, it stings. All this time, I’ve felt nothing but useless, and practice is not quite improving my mental state. I let my gaze wander the mountainside, snagging on a break in the trees where white stone splits the scenery.

  “Very well,” I say to Meddie. My voice sounds distant. I suddenly can’t tear my eyes from the crumbling columns deep among the whispering tree. “I’ll reconvene with you and the others this evening. I’m desirous of a bit of…exploring.”

  Meddie and I take our leave of each other. Once I’ve caught my breath and headed off, I find my way deep into the mountains of Nereidium. Really, the little stone building wasn’t so far—only on the next mountain. But as I am neither steed nor bird, merely a mortal man, the sun has long since set as I finally grow close to the stone I seek.

  I feel as though I’ve been called here, through the dark trails of the forest, up the steep terrain, stumbling my way onto a path. I can see nowhere else for it to lead but to the falling structure in the mountains—the one that I heard Lady Helen describe as a temple.

  My heart throbs in my chest. This makes three times I’ve felt this way now. But I haven’t dared to breathe a word of it to anyone. Not even Lilia. Not even Bree. But the feeling reacquaints itself with me easily, like two familiar palms clasping together.

  The first time, an Underground token had grown hot in my hand as I stood before giant stones. Stones that cast me in shadow. Stones described in myths. Stones that, as the stories go, were placed there by the Makers and their first Elementals.

  And there had been another moment, in the heat of battle, when I’d turned, though I had no reason to. No reason but for a voice in my head, niggling at me, whispering, “Turn. Turn, boy.”

  I’d listened and seen what could have been my undoing as a flame brought Ruin’s Reaping galloping into life.

  My legs burn as I climb up the mountainside, through an uncooperative wilderness. I’ve always been skeptical of a higher power. The stories of the Makers and their creation of the world seemed too simplistic for me. That’s why I’ve kept quiet on the idea that I have now.

  Why, after all, would the Makers deign to speak to me? I’m not one of the Elemental Adepts they so favor. None of the myths I’ve grown up with, the stories in worship services that I was forced to attend, tell of interactions with powerless mortals like myself. A better, much more reasonable explanation would be that I’m experiencing fleeting moments of madness.

  Mad, I may be, but my feet don’t stray. They follow an invisible path unerringly.

  At last, they come to a stop when we r
each the crumbling structure. Hours must have passed by now. The others are probably wondering where I’ve gotten to. They may even have alerted Bree at this point—if they can get word to her. I hope I haven’t worried them.

  My gaze drifts up the great stone statue of a woman, carved water dripping from her fingers. She’s easily five times my size. The statue’s eyes are wide, lips parted. Her belly and thighs are softly rounded, their shape evident despite the sculptor dressing her in the draping garment most Nereids favor. A tide laps gently at her bare feet.

  The roof is missing tiles, I suddenly notice, my attention stuttering as my eyes continue upward, over the statue’s head. I can see straight through to the night sky.

  But somehow it’s pitch-black.

  I back up, shaking my head as I attempt to make sense of it.

  Here, where the temple is perched, there had been a break in the trees. Moonlight should leak inside. But it’s dark. Hidden in shadows.

  A chill teases my skin, taunting me.

  It’s unnatural.

  I cannot quell the distinct impression that my life would be just a tad simpler were I to leave now. And yet, my feet find their rhythm once more, faltering forward. My steps echo softly among the gray stone.

  “Well,” I say, feeling a bit stupid. “I’m here?”

  Nothing.

  Nothing but the sounds of the mountain outside. Birds chirping, leaves rustling in a light breeze. My own breathing, shallow in my ears.

  Maybe I have gone a bit mad.

  I turn, making to leave, tutting under my breath at myself. What a foolish endeavor this was. What an utter waste of my time.

  I’m knocked to my knees as a powerful breeze hurdles into the temple. Pain shoots up my legs with the jolt of impact, and I bite down on a curse. The wind begins to howl, buffeting me—boxing me in the ears. I wince, squinting into the furor.

  And I would swear on all that I hold sacred that the statue moves.