Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2) Page 9

  “Are you asleep?” Nehelon asked from beside her, almost too quiet to hear.

  Gandrett hummed a response, too tired to actually answer or unable to speak an actual word between her chattering teeth.

  “Don’t fall asleep just yet.” The rustling of fabric reassured her that he was getting dressed again. “Bathe first, and eat. Then, you can sleep all day if you need to.”

  Gandrett took him by his word as she nodded her approval, bothered with opening her eyes to check if he’d seen. He was Nehelon. Of course he had.

  Her eyes sprang open as his hand lightly touched her shoulder, finding him dressed in his leather pants and a plain linen shirt, kneeling beside her. His glamour was back on, and his face appeared less weary now. Whether it was that the sweat had been washed off or that his turn face was hidden once more, Gandrett couldn’t tell. She studied him while she mustered the strength to get up enough to undress and slip into the makeshift bathtub.

  “I would offer to help you get in if I didn’t know you’d bite off my hands.” There was humor in his voice—the real kind.

  But Gandrett also noticed the understanding in his eyes, that she wasn’t just any woman. She was still a child of Vala.

  Or was she?

  She sat up and watched Nehelon getting to his feet and turning away to give her privacy when the question hatched from her lips. “Will the Order even take me back now that I have magic … not the water magic of the Vala-blessed, I mean?”

  She didn’t understand why exactly it bothered her that that was a possibility. Maybe it was because now that her family’s farm was gone, the Order—even if that was a horrible thought—was the only place in the world where she belonged.

  “That’s for the Meister to decide,” he said heavily.

  “So you intend to tell him?” Was he truly going to give away her secret even after all of them had agreed it was best to be kept secret?

  Nehelon didn’t respond to that. He merely moved further away from the stream, his strides soundless in the grass. “Make sure not to fall asleep in the water,” he suggested as he was halfway across the clearing. “I’ll be back with real breakfast by the time you’re done bathing.” And with those words, he transitioned into Fae speed, disappearing from sight in a blur.

  When Gandrett returned her gaze to the inviting view of steaming water, she noticed her underthings and dress had been placed by the edge, dried and ready for her. She pressed her lips together in a thin line, in order to suppress the grin that threatened to spread, and started peeling off her sweaty tunic.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Addie heard the young lord’s words but didn’t understand them.

  “Should I spell it out for you?” He grinned widely at her stupefied face. “You are coming with me.”

  The invitation had arrived a couple of days ago. He had shown it to her with the same smile he was wearing now. Midsummer Solstice at Ackwood palace. A chance to introduce Joshua Brenheran-Denderlain as what he truly was—the Prince of Sives.

  “An order, milord?” Addie, well aware that he couldn’t stand the formalities, curtseyed. Not to provoke him but to distract, to make him consider whether that was what he truly wanted.

  “We’ve cleaned out my aunt’s chambers together. We’ve questioned all of the palace guards and Linniue’s former personal guards. I don’t see why we shouldn’t go to a ball together.

  A ball. Dancing, sparkly gowns, silk and satin and—

  And everything she had never learned to be part of. Everything that would show exactly how much she didn’t belong in a court as anything other than a servant.

  “I know the look, Addie,” the young lord—Armand, she had gotten used, over sorting Linniue’s countless gowns and drawing confessions from his guards, to calling him by his name—said with his smile spreading wider. “You’ll be just fine.” He set down his teacup and poured more of the steaming herbal brew which they had picked up a habit of taking together in the afternoons.

  Addie studied the Denderlain blue tapestry and the wide, four-poster bed, which still made her blush weeks after she had first set foot in his bedroom.

  “I’ll make sure you have everything you need to fit into the circle of nobles with sometimes far less exclusive taste than you would believe.”

  They both laughed. And it still felt like a dream that he would share those hours with her. Not just the hours where they worked toward clearing his court of Linniue’s former allies, but hours of actual conversation, of little details that allowed her to understand just how different Armand was from what he let the world believe. For example, she had learned that he enjoyed poetry and sometimes tried himself at rhymes. But everything he had recited so far had made them both laugh so hard that their tea had sprayed from their mouths.

  “Not as exclusive,” she snickered at the memory.

  It was just when Armand picked up his teacup again that a firm knock on the door interrupted their encounter.

  Armand set the cup down again and got to his feet, putting some distance between him and her, gaze apologetic, and called, “Come in.”

  Addie was used to that, too. Whenever they weren’t alone, Armand played the role of the hard-hearted young lord, which he had perfected. The Armand he was when he was with her was someone only his friends got to know—and the gods knew he had fewer of them than anyone would believe of a noble. Especially because of that, he had informed her shortly after Linniue’s death. Even in his own family, the secrets, the intrigues, they ran so deep that they had destroyed his court from within.

  The opening door made way for solid footsteps, and Addie’s heart stuttered as Lord Hamyn Denderlain stalked in, ire on his lined face. She shot to her feet and dropped into a curtsey the same moment the old Lord of Eedwood barked at his son, “Too far, Armand. This time you have gone too far.”

  He didn’t heed Addie a look as he marched past her, right up to Armand, polished, black boots clicking on the parquet like a war-drum. Addie remained with her head bent, not quite sure how long she would be able to remain in that half-folded position, but anything—anything—was better than facing the fury of Lord Denderlain.

  “I thought a real celebration would be nice for a change,” Armand’s cold, casual tone, so much unlike his laughter before, answered, unbothered by the father storming right at him, fanning a pale piece of parchment with his hand as if shaking it would make it disappear. “And by the way,” Armand continued with ice in his voice, “you should be grateful. You haven’t left the estate in how long … ah, yes, not since you came into this castle and made your nest.”

  The clicking boots stopped, followed by frosty silence. But Addie didn’t dare look up. She didn’t dare allow herself to be noticed. Too deeply it had been ingrained into her in Linniue’s service that as a servant, she was to be invisible at court. She wasn’t to speak to anyone until ordered to, and she wasn’t to share what she saw and heard in the chambers. Lord Hamyn Denderlain was known for his temper, for his cruelty, even among the servants—especially among the servants. And from what Armand had shared recently, his father hadn’t taken well to the fact that Linniue had been spinning her own web of power right under his nose. He made his son responsible for it—as the true heir of Aphra Denderlain, whose death might be a stain on his soul. Alongside all the others.

  “Watch your tongue, son.” The lord’s voice was agitated, lack of control obvious as his boots started clicking again.

  “Or what, Father?” Armand held his ground the way he had told Addie he was going to the next time he was confronted about his decisions, the path he had chosen for his court.

  “Or—” Lord Hamyn Denderlain’s breathing was auditable across the room as he searched for a threat. “Or I will make sure you never make it to your throne.”

  At that, Armand chuckled. A sound that could have sprung from a nightmare. “I have no throne, Father. I never had. The same as you never had one.”

  Addie wasn’t sure if Lord Hamyn was going to lau
nch himself at Armand and throttle him. The movements behind her sure sounded like it was a possibility. But instead, the boots swished over the ground and started clicking back toward the door. She didn’t lift her head as his shape, shaking with fury, rushed past her, right to the door where the lord stopped and turned, throwing the invitation to Midsummer Solstice at Ackwood palace on the polished floor. She knew that was what it was because the paper landed right before her feet.

  “Go alone then. And bow to those filthy Brenheran bastards.”

  “One of those bastards is your nephew,” Armand reminded him.

  “Not by blood.”

  Addie glanced up just in time to see a fuming Lord Denderlain stalk from the room.

  And a devastated Armand who had walked up to her, offering his hand to help her straighten.

  She gave him a look that was supposed to let him know he’d done the right thing, holding his ground.

  But Armand shook his head. “I am sure Joshua will be much happier to see you than to see my father there.”

  When Gandrett woke, her mind was aching. It had been more than three days since Nehelon had triggered her magic and she had half-fried him in the clearing. She had slept until late that same day, and when she had opened her eyes, Nehelon had been sitting by her leaf-bed, bothenia crust and berries, some dried meat and water ready, the way he had every morning since.

  “Better?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he bent over her as if he could see into her head.

  “Still hurting.” Gandrett rolled into a sitting position, not bothering to ask if Nehelon was going to eat any of the food. He never did. It was all for her. And she didn’t ask where he got it, for the first time she’d inquired about that information, he had told her that he had his ways of getting things done. And that had been that. “Can’t we have a magic-free day for once?” She sounded exactly as grumpy as she felt.

  And as expected, the Fae male shook his head, dark-brown strands dancing back and forth at the sides of his face, exposing his ears at times. They weren’t pointy today. Just average, human ears. Glamour up and shirt on.

  “Eat,” was all Nehelon said before he got to his feet and prowled from the tent like a wild-cat leaving its lair, “then we train.”

  He was half outside when Gandrett said, “Is it going to get easier? Less painful, I mean?”

  The glance Nehelon gave her over his shoulder was enough to make her regret the question. Not weak. You are not weak. With a sigh, she returned to her breakfast, suppressing the instinct to thank the Fae, and devoured everything he had brought her.

  She wasn’t exactly sure if it was part of the magic, the constant hunger and the exhaustion after training. She had felt famished and tired after training with the blade, after running laps or doing workouts, but never like this. Never like she was a bottomless pit, and no matter what she threw in, there was no way of filling it up. Gandrett bit into the bothenia crust with the grace of a starved animal.

  It had been her plan to ask him about the eternal hunger, but countless other questions had gotten in the way.

  In between small exercises to flex her power, she had gotten him to admit that he had been provoking her on purpose just to get her to snap and let her magic take over. His explanation had gotten her to grab the heap of soil she was supposed to have moved with her bare hands instead of her power, and throw it at him. She had never seen him duck so fast. Actually, she hadn’t seen him duck at all. One second, he’d been standing upright. The next second, he had doubled over.

  Gandrett smiled at the memory and put a berry into her mouth, letting the juice flow across her tongue as she popped it with her teeth. It was the taste of summer in central Sives when the grains were growing, fruit formed and slowly ripening, of baking sun followed by sudden thunder and rain, of—

  Childhood.

  She allowed herself to grieve for a brief moment, to think of how her brother might be doing on his journey south. If Lim had found him, if he had gotten Gandrett’s message to stick with Surel and Kaleb once he got to the priory, and if Riho had made it to Everrun to give the Meister a heads-up that Andrew was on his way.

  Swallowing both the berry and the worry, Gandrett opened her palm and summoned a breeze—tried to. Over the past days, she had made it a habit to start the day with failing all by herself rather than with failing in front of the Fae bastard who had manipulated her into snapping. It had taken her at least ten attempts, the past few days, to get even the dust in the air to swirl, making her head pound every time she managed, and every time she didn’t, she was glad for two reasons. First, her head wasn’t pounding. Second, Nehelon wasn’t there to witness and smirk.

  She had asked him why she had been able to incinerate the dagger and chain in the dungeons at Eedwood or create that canyon and throw flames in the temple of Shygon under the castle without feeling that raging beast inside her chest. Why it hadn’t growled and fought to get out except for the two times Nehelon had triggered her.

  His answer had been easy. Because he hadn’t triggered her then. Magic only fights when it wants out. And he had called her magic—accidentally that first time and purposefully that second time—and it had writhed and thrashed until she had set it free. The headache came as a bonus. Gandrett hadn’t laughed at that then, and she surely wasn’t laughing now that her head had been throbbing for days.

  Gandrett didn’t particularly rush as she finished everything Nehelon had brought, her headache only second to her hunger, then made her way out of the tent, over to the cluster of bushes that sat nearby the stream, to see to her needs. Nehelon was hanging in his usual tree, on a stronger branch a bit higher up, doing pull-ups, ignoring the broken down branch still on the ground where he had fallen on top of it days ago. The memory still made her smile.

  She washed her face and neck in the stream then hovered, kneeling before the slow current, and tried to summon it. Maybe fire wasn’t the right way to go. Or earth. Maybe she was, after all, Vala-blessed, and water was her element. She frowned as her headache grew stronger and nothing happened with the clear, cool liquid under her palms.

  “Don’t,” Nehelon said from right behind her, almost giving her a heart attack.

  Gandrett, ready to fell him like a sick tree with her leg as she whirled around on one foot and one hand, stopped dead as she noticed his expression. Was that fear on the warrior’s face?

  She sat back on her heels and studied him as he seemed to fight an internal battle that had nothing to do with her, the clearing, life in general, and waited.

  Finally, apparently having come to a conclusion, he settled down, cross-legged on the grass, his sun-kissed skin a shade tanner than it had been the day he had locked them in a living, breathing wall of greenery, and sighed. “A long time ago, someone I cared about drowned summoning water.”

  That was all he said, and Gandrett was debating whether it would be considered cruel if she asked him why he couldn’t have told her that standing up, but something in the Fae warrior’s eyes had changed. It had started the day she had almost incinerated him and had slowly crept into his gaze, which wasn’t perpetually cold and disdainful, mocking or disappointed, the way it had been so many times before. There was that warmth there that didn’t go with her concept of Nehelon Sterngrove, Fae warrior, Chancellor of the House Brenheran, and immortal pain in the ass. It was also very different from those moments—which now seemed like an eternity ago—when he had looked at her as if she were desirable.

  No. This warmth … it was something new. Something that had nothing to do with her. It was something deep down within him that seemed to have renewed, sealed over that rage and coldness.

  She chose to hold her breath so she wouldn’t say anything inappropriate. He would certainly not appreciate if she voiced her observation.

  “It was one of the worst days of my existence.” His voice had turned absent, preoccupied, almost as if he was seeing into the past with those clear blue eyes.

  As he turned those eyes to h
er, she resumed breathing. Even if she didn’t dare ask what exactly had happened, who that person had been, she felt she needed to say something.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  But Nehelon shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. You hadn’t even been born yet when that happened.” He paused and plucked a blade of grass from between them. “Her name was Ygri, and she was a new mage from the south. From Khila.” He looked up, his gaze inquiring if he needed to explain where Khila lay, but Gandrett shook her head. The capital of Phornes, even if she had never been anywhere near it, was familiar to her through her training at Everrun, and Surel and Nahir, who both had been born in the southernmost territory. “Her element was earth, and she was perfect at shaping the soil to her will with her magic. And she was stronger than most mages I’d encountered—even Fae.

  “Ygri and I were companions for a while as she traveled north, and it was through my diverse powers that she got the idea to try water. She was strong with earth but had no fire or wind in her blood. And water… The first time she summoned it, it responded as strongly as the earth, only water is more flexible … and it”—he tore the blade of grass in two halves—“rushed toward her at her command. Right at her, enclosing her, locking her in and drowning her … the same way your fire might incinerate you if you don’t learn to control it.” He averted his gaze, plucking a dandelion from beside his knee, and started mangling it as if the words alone were not enough to ease that burden off his heart.

  “I am sorry,” Gandrett repeated. And meant it.

  Nehelon lifted his gaze to hers again, holding it as he laid his words before her. “It was the only time in my long, long life that I was in love. She might even have been my Mate. If we’d only had time…”

  As his voice trailed away, she didn’t drop her gaze from his. She didn’t speak. All she did was wonder who that exotic and powerful woman might have been to capture the heart of a steel-hearted warrior like Nehelon. And she pitied him for the centuries—she couldn’t even fathom how many that must have been, and she wasn’t ready to ask—without having loved before he had met that woman. The centuries of having mourned her and probably blamed himself for not having saved her. The long, immortal life that lay ahead for him, full of that same regret, and many more he would probably never share with her.