Silverblood Page 11

  Vylia’s heart sank as her mind slowly churned over the information. She wasn’t safe. She was in enemy territory. And all of her guards were dead. Except . . .

  She slowly slid off the bed, but her legs barely held her. She flopped onto Sousuke’s bed as Kiralau lunged forward to catch her.

  “Careful, Princess! You must be weak after your long sleep.”

  Vylia gasped for breath, her lungs burning as if she’d just sprinted the length of a leviathan. “How . . . long . . . ?”

  “About five days.”

  Five . . . ?

  It was then that Vylia realized how hungry she was. And how her mouth felt like a desert. And how she really shouldn’t have moved from bed.

  “Princess, please, lie back down. I’ll help you.”

  Vylia grimaced through the nausea and reached a hand out to Sousuke’s face. His skin was warm. He breathed slowly. But he didn’t stir at her touch.

  She struggled to slow her breathing. “Sousuke!”

  “He’s asleep, just as you were.” Arms slid under her shoulders and gently lifted. Vylia’s limbs felt too weak to resist as another Navakovrae laid her back on her bed—this time, a young man who shared Kiralau’s coloring. He placed her in a sitting position. “Forgive me.” He bowed as he backed away.

  The Katrosi healer handed Vylia a bowl of broth that felt too heavy to hold. She stared down into the steaming liquid, and something fell into it with small ripples. She hadn’t realized she was crying.

  “It’s okay. We’re doing everything we can for him.” Kiralau knelt beside her bed and offered an awkward smile. “Please, eat and regain your strength. It hasn’t been easy keeping you alive.”

  Vylia didn’t need prompting to devour the savory broth. She caught her breath in between slurps and didn’t care that any sense of propriety had long since flown out the oddly curved window. Slowly, her dizziness and hunger began to fade.

  She couldn’t tear her eyes from Sousuke as she ate. What had become of the others? Aoko had killed so many . . . but what about Hiro? Sousuke couldn’t die and leave her alone in this foreign land. He couldn’t.

  “Thank you.” Vylia held her bowl out, hoping for a refill. “Why am I here? Does my father know of the attack? Was I the target?” At least she wasn’t in chains, and these people didn’t give her the impression that she was a captive.

  Kiralau glanced at Nariellyn, who pursed her lips. She took the bowl and handed it to the young man, who strode out the front door. Vylia spotted two guards outside before it closed.

  The healer touched a listening device to Vylia’s chest and uttered a word in Phoeran.

  “Breathe normally,” Kiralau said. “She’s listening to your lungs.”

  Vylia obeyed the deliverer of delectable broth as the device moved to her back. “Answer me. Please.”

  Nariellyn nodded and hurried to the cabinets on the other side of the room as Kiralau spoke in a low tone. “The Emberhawk attacked the city, but failed to destroy it.” Her blue eyes shone with concern as she paused. “Do you remember what happened to your people?”

  Vylia wished she didn’t. Pain throbbed through her chest like a deep, old bruise. “We were betrayed.”

  Kiralau frowned. “I’m so sorry.”

  Vylia lifted her hand and examined her palm. Her skin tone appeared healthy, and yet she barely had enough strength to hold her arm upright. “I need to speak with the Katrosi chieftess.”

  Kiralau’s frown deepened. “She is recovering from poison.”

  Then . . . this must not be solely about me. Vylia leaned her head back against the headboard. “Please wake my bodyguard up.”

  The Navakovrae’s brows knitted in confusion. “He’s in a coma.”

  “In Malaan, we have priests gifted in the use of aether. Some can use thought-speak. Have you tried that?”

  Kiralau’s bright eyes widened. She turned and spoke Phoeran to Nariellyn, who in turn spoke to the guards beyond the door. Their conversation lasted a few minutes.

  Vylia watched them, missing her translator desperately. “Do the Katrosi have any thought-speakers?”

  “The chieftess herself.” Kiralau stood and smoothed her tunic and split skirt. “She’s on her way.”

  Five days. I’m lucky to be alive.

  While Vylia waited for the chieftess, Nariellyn had tried to explain the techniques used to prolong her life as well as Sousuke’s—from using Phoera to keep their muscles stimulated with energy to having a Navakovrae elementalist keep them hydrated and fed with broth—but the details were either lost in translation or simply above Vylia’s understanding.

  Vylia closed her eyes and recalled the meditation garden at the base of the Beresai Falls in Maqua. Water cascaded from such a height that it was said to be the grace of the goddess falling from heaven.

  But Lillian had abandoned her at the most crucial time.

  Vylia winced at memories of blood and wine. She glanced at the hot water vapor drifting upward into the air from the bowl beside her bed. She reached out for it, calling upon the power of the Malo element in her blood.

  It didn’t respond.

  She felt nothing.

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she closed them before the healer could see and think something else was wrong. Wasn’t it enough that she’d almost died, lost her mentor, Uma, and the rest of her entourage? That they’d been betrayed by one of their own? Now she had to mourn the loss of her ability to command the element of water right after she’d graduated as a wavesinger.

  Vylia took a deep breath, trying to stamp the emotions down. Her father had placed the treacherous Aoko on her team of four bodyguards. And Aoko had said something about doing the will of the emperor as he’d murdered her people.

  Aoko didn’t seem like the type to kill for fun, though Vylia supposed that could be the case. But something deep inside her leaned toward another explanation. Something darker.

  Her father seemed like he actually loved her as she’d left the palace. She’d known then that his aura was different. Unrecognizable from the cold nonchalance he’d normally regarded her with. But she’d wanted so desperately to believe it were true. To go on this mission and finally make him proud. Finally earn his love.

  She swallowed as a wave of nausea hit her. She’d never seen him love anyone aside from her late mother. It was like the empress had been his last vestige of humanity, and his heart had died with her.

  And so he’d used his daughter in a game of politics like every other ruler did. Except instead of marrying her off for an alliance and peace, he’d traded her for war, like sacrificing a rook to maneuver for victory.

  Suddenly marrying that lord from Ceemalao didn’t seem so detestable. Maybe if she hadn’t refused, the tribal peoples wouldn’t be threatened by slaughter from an empire they were powerless against.

  A tear slipped free as Vylia opened her eyes. She turned her head to Sousuke beside her, watched his chest rise and fall, and pondered his still, peaceful features, for once free of his usual stern expression.

  Wake up, soldier. I need you.

  A knock on the door stole Vylia’s attention. She swiped the tear from her cheek as Nariellyn hopped down from her perch on the table and opened it.

  Vylia nearly called out in disappointment at the clear breach in protocol. But Nariellyn didn’t need to ask her permission before inviting others into these chambers. These weren’t Vylia’s chambers, she wasn’t in Malaano territory any more, and Nariellyn wasn’t her servant.

  She didn’t recognize the chieftess at first as she entered. Without her war paint and headdress, she could have been any other brown-haired woman on the streets of Jadenvive. Only her athletic physique, feathered braids, and commanding aura gave her away.

  “Princess,” Brooke acknowledged as she strode forward. “It’s such a relief to see you alive and well.” Her Malaano sounded clear and practiced with a staccato accent.

  Vylia noted how long the door stayed open and wondered how many of Broo
ke’s invisible guards filed into the room.

  It was too much effort to assume a regal stature and formalities. “It seems this attack was not an attempt on my life alone,” Vylia said. Her voice sounded too soft, as if it had lost its strength just as her arms had.

  “No.” Brooke grabbed a chair beside the dresser. “It was an attack by the Emberhawk tribe. I cannot express how sorry I am that you were caught up in this.” She flipped the chair around to sit in it backwards, resting her arms on its back. “I sent a squad of my best men to retrieve you, but when they arrived, they found you and your people . . .” She trailed off, apparently in search of the right word.

  “Slaughtered.” Vylia’s voice cracked. “Their deaths were no fault of yours. We were betrayed from within.”

  Brooke’s expression darkened as she frowned. “I fear the attacks were coordinated,” she said quietly. “We have evidence that the Malaano supplied the explosives the Emberhawk used in the assault.”

  Vylia blinked. “Evidence? I know nothing of this.” Such an accusation could be interpreted as an act of war. And yet, it wasn’t so difficult for Vylia to believe when it aligned with her own theory.

  Her heart felt like it had begun to rot. “And yet it doesn’t surprise me. I think . . .” Her voice twisted, but she forced the words out. “I think my father intended for me to die here so he’d have an excuse to declare war.”

  Brooke watched her for a long moment with the eyes of a lioness. “Your bodyguard, Hiro, survived with minimal injuries. He left for Malaan days ago with the message that you are alive.”

  Relief mingled with dread in Vylia’s gut. “Then they could try to kill him, too,” she murmured.

  “I sent a pair of guards with him at his own request. Hopefully we’ll receive word from him soon.” Brooke reached out and touched the edge of Vylia’s bed. “I signed an agreement of peace with you. The Katrosi will do everything in our power to protect you.” Her brown eyes hardened. “What can I do for you?”

  Vylia had no idea what to ask for, except . . . “They say you know the ways of aether.” She gestured to Sousuke. “In Malaan, our thought-speakers connect with the minds of those in a coma and can sometimes bring them out of the long sleep.”

  Brooke studied Sousuke with furrowed brow. “I’ve never heard of that, but it could work, I suppose.” She stood from her chair and moved to his bedside. “It’s more difficult to enter one’s mind without eye contact . . .”

  “Please try. He’s . . .” She didn’t want to admit that he was all she had left. “He’s important to me.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Brooke knelt, placed a hand on Sousuke’s forehead, and closed her eyes.

  Vylia’s hope drained further with each passing moment. After several minutes, she almost reached out to Brooke to tell her she’d done enough.

  The chieftess paused to adjust her position, to ask Nariellyn something in Phoeran, and to murmur something to herself, or perhaps to her god.

  Sousuke took in a deep breath, and Vylia’s anxiety shattered along with her composure. Tears poured from her like a broken dam as Nariellyn rushed over and guided Sousuke through awakening. Kiralau translated the healer’s instructions: move slowly, sit up carefully, breathe deeply.

  “Vy?” Sousuke blinked at her with concern. “You’re okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered, savoring the familiar voice that always made her feel safe. “Mostly.”

  Sousuke flexed his hand and lifted it, frowning down at his body. “Not good.” He managed to sit up and took a bowl of broth that Kiralau offered.

  “We’re alive. That’s all that matters.” Vylia turned to Brooke. “Thank you,” she said, determined to stay in bed and not to make a mess of her floppy limbs on the floor again, though she wanted to hug Sousuke’s neck regardless of propriety.

  “Thank the creator and your own healers for the idea.” Brooke stood and stretched. “You’re lucky to have this one in your service.”

  “I know,” Vylia said with a smile, wondering what Brooke had seen inside his mind. She wiped her tears with the sheets, enjoying the flush of Sousuke’s ears as he slurped the broth down.

  Nariellyn spoke in Phoeran as she examined Sousuke, and Brooke nodded. “You both appear to be in decent health, but you’ll need time and exercise to regain your strength.” She stood. “Unfortunately, I must go, but by the time I return you should be fully recovered.”

  Something about the way she said it pricked Vylia with worry. “You’re leaving?”

  “Tonight.” Brooke didn’t seem happy about it. “A sort of diplomatic mission to the Emberhawk lands.”

  Vylia cringed. Her first—and last—diplomatic mission had ended in unprecedented disaster.

  She didn’t know what to say. Brooke was the only local she knew, and only just. Was she supposed to lie here, helpless in a foreign city, waiting for the next assassin?

  But what was the alternative? How could she possibly return to her father now?

  Unless he truly did love her. He could welcome her back with open arms, never let her leave the palace again, and she’d live in luxury for the rest of her days.

  Or she could trust Brooke, recover here under guard, and await word from Hiro. His loyalty was unquestionable, as was Sousuke’s.

  Suddenly she wished Hiro had never left.

  “I can offer more luxurious or secretive accommodations if you wish, but you are safest here in the Great Hall.” Brooke waved at the door, and a few heartbeats later, Kiralau entered with the young male Navakovrae who’d helped her before and a young tribesman she’d never met. “I presume you’ve already met Kiralau—she will be your translator. She may not be familiar with the customs of your handmaidens, but she is responsible for felling the giant ember hawk that attacked us.”

  Vylia raised her eyebrows at Kiralau. “Is that so?” The Navakovrae girl looked about as intimidating as a branch runner.

  Kiralau tipped her head with a flash of pride. “I had some help.”

  “Tekkyn’ashi will guard you as your man recovers. He is a former Malaano soldier now under my employ.” He bowed low as Brooke introduced him.

  “And this is my advisor, Idryon. He’s new to the job but he has the authority to procure nearly anything you need.” Brooke gestured at the young tribesman with striking orange eyes. He seemed a different ethnicity somehow—distinctly from the Phoeran tribes, but the slant of his eyes appeared more cunning. Like a fox, perhaps.

  Idryon bowed, swishing the half-cape over his left shoulder. “At your service, Princess,” he said in near-perfect Malaano.

  Vylia returned his bow with a tilted nod. This might have been the best Brooke could offer considering the circumstances, but she still . . . “Must you go?”

  Brooke’s weariness laid on her shoulders like a mantle too heavy to bear. “I wish I didn’t have to. Truly. It’s difficult to explain.” She placed a hand on the end of Vylia’s bed. “It is a miracle that you’ve returned to us from the long sleep. Stay here in safety and recover your strength. Let’s not tempt fate again.”

  The way the Katosi patriarchs looked at Lysander made him wish he were still in chains. He stood between two soldiers on the upper dias of the Great Hall, near the throne where the elders gathered, and the tribesmen glared at him as if they could ignite him with their stares.

  Their scapegoat had escaped.

  The Elder of Aether stood at the base of the steps with a line of impatient people stretching out before him, waiting to see the memories he offered. He gently touched chins and looked into seeking eyes, one after the other.

  Lysander assumed transferring thoughts for a line that long must be tiring. And he sincerely hoped that the old man wasn’t sharing the private memories he’d accessed from Lysander’s mind after Ryon had appealed for Lysander’s freedom.

  But even if that were the case, it would be worth it. Lysander was no stranger to public shame.

  Finally, the line diminished, and the expressions in the crowd tur
ned from anger to grim acceptance. Some even looked at Lysander with an admiring gleam. That’s when he realized that the elder must have only shared the bare minimum—the recent memories of apparent heroism and the genuine desire to save Brooke.

  Most of them knew he wasn’t a hero. But he’d take the package deal regardless.

  “And thus the council has granted asha’ai,” the Elder of Justice declared, and the hand-language interpreter repeated. “What the creator has decreed, let no man deny.”

  The crowd responded as one, loud enough for Lysander to feel the vibration through the floorboards.

  “So be it,” the translator signed.

  The Elder of Justice turned to Lysander and gestured at the soldiers who flanked him. “You are free.”

  Lysander bowed as the soldiers retreated. “Thank you.”

  The elder ignored him and turned back to the crowd. “For the next order of business, turn your gaze to the brazier.”

  The translator didn’t have enough time to finish signing before the fire pit in the center of the room ignited into a bonfire. A fire dancer stood among the flames in flowing strips of traditional leather, gesturing with wide motions. Fire followed her movements in flashing images of trees and beasts as Lysander tried to keep up.

  “From the towering pines comes the firstborn of King Raven Eye and Queen Hidden Xavi, dragon slayer and d’hakka master, Lord of the Black Forest and heir to the Darkwood throne: Prince Soaring Heron!”

  The brazier’s fire erupted in blue, and Lysander took an instinctive step back. Something passed on his right, and he barely avoided a shove from a man covered in tattoos and knife-sheaths. No doubt a bodyguard for the man on his other side who reeked of royalty: he bore a gleaming silken cape, a crown of silver spikes protruded from perfect hair, and he exuded enough arrogance to choke the room.