Silverblood Read online

  “Can I help you?” asked a heavy-set woman who strode toward them with a welcoming yet cautious expression.

  “Tekkyn’ashi and Kiralau of Navarro,” Tekkyn said. “We were summoned.”

  The woman’s rigid posture smoothed, and her smile melted into a more genuine rendition. “Ah, yes. Welcome!” She turned and waved for them to follow. “You must be weary after your journey. Please, relax; you are personal guests of the chieftess. Your quarters are this way.”

  Kira’s tension began to slough from her back as she scurried in Tekkyn’s shadow. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  But where was Ryon?

  She searched for him as they entered a hallway behind the throne, peeking into a library, an armory, and a quiet kitchen as they passed. The peaceful wealth stood in stark contrast to the angry chaos outside. Kira felt like there should have been more staff, as she seemed to remember from her last visit—perhaps they were out helping. The chieftess didn’t seem the type to be pampered on a lofty throne while her people suffered.

  “Here we are.” The woman gestured to an open door at the end of the hall. Kira peeked in.

  A bed of leathers and quilts was crowned with a night sky and treetops carved into the headboard. Tall, thin windows of clouded glass looked down on the city’s levels and greenery below. The horns of a great stag overshadowed a hammock hung from glazed metal hooks in the corner.

  Kira balked as the woman huffed and straightened a beeswax candle on the dresser, muttering something about a clumsy girl named Bekk. “Can I fetch you some water?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” Tekkyn said before Kira could decline.

  “Um . . .” Kira fidgeted as the woman passed, and she paused to regard Kira with a patient curiosity.

  “Is Ryon here?” Kira whispered.

  “Idryon? Ah, yes.” The woman squinted a playful eye. “I think he’s in the map room. If you come with me, I’ll show you.”

  Kira’s spirit leapt as she turned to follow, but her escort eyed Kira’s luggage. “Would you like to set your pack down first?”

  Kira felt her face flush with heat. She awkwardly dashed past Tekkyn and slung her pack on the hammock, avoiding her brother’s gaze. She didn’t need to see it to know what it looked like—he’d been teasing her relentlessly the entire trip here.

  “Behave!” Tekkyn called after her, and Kira scrambled for an escape.

  The woman chuckled down the hall. “Brothers.”

  Kira’s appreciative laugh came out high-pitched and tense. She wanted to smack herself on the forehead. Stop acting like a little girl!

  “He’s just as excited to see you, too, you know.”

  Kira choked on her own breath. “Really?” Did all of Jadenvive know they were an item, then?

  The woman looked over her shoulder with an amused glance. “Unusual for a Navakovrae to go on evadír, but I’m pretty sure there’s an exception for the goddess-killer.” Her smile filled with pride and appreciation. “Ignore all of the naysayers. You’re a hero and very welcome here. Just give the people time to recognize you.” She stopped in front of a door marked with Phoeran script in white paint and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Besides, you two are adorable together.” She winked as she slowly pushed the door open.

  Kira swallowed a concoction of embarrassing emotions and forced an awkward smile as she peeked inside.

  “. . . need more orange masks to clear debris,” a man’s voice muttered from a table in the center of a square room. The walls Kira could see were crammed full of flags, trophies, and weapon displays.

  “It would be better to keep the eastern flank on guard.” Kira recognized Ryon’s voice as he continued from somewhere beyond her sight. “Let’s request more aid from Roanoke and Sekoiako.”

  “A little late for them to be on guard,” the first voice grumbled. Kira identified it as an older man in leather armor with a line of skulls branded into one of his pauldrons. He stood at the table, which Kira noted was full of maps and figurines as she continued to creep inside.

  “We need more space to set up tents for the homeless immediately,” the decorated elder continued. “If anything else arises to defend against, they’ll still be available to fight.”

  “But they wouldn’t be alert or have a defensive line,” Ryon said.

  The other man snorted. “Why’re you so scared of the Malaano, boy?”

  “I’m not scared of the Malaano. I’m wary of the empire.”

  Kira caught sight of wild silver hair on a familiar figure, who faced away from her. Ryon leaned over the table, his half-cloak with the five-pointed Tribal Alliance star draping across one shoulder. The same shoulder she’d shot only weeks ago . . . Weeks that felt like months.

  She allowed herself to admire the differences in his appearance and missed a few of his words. The rough scouting leathers and equipment had been replaced with sleek black cloth and strategic accents of xavi-scale armor, whose colors flitted from gold to orange to scarlet in the sconce-light.

  Apprehension resurfaced, threatening to smother Kira’s hesitant joy. Ryon seemed so different than when she’d first met him. The sarcastic enemy soldier in the d’hakka-infested woods was now a government official with royal lineage.

  Or maybe he’d always been like this, and it just hadn’t dawned on her until now.

  “. . . seen them first-hand. I listened in on their barracks in Navarro and Ashena and MyEyah. Their soldiers are weary but their officers are aggressive, and their emperor is looking for any excuse to invade.” Ryon pointed to something on the map Kira couldn’t see. “This is their perfect opportunity to strike, and they very well may have orchestrated it.”

  The older man pursed his lips. “We’re well aware of the threat, Emberhawk. But we have limited resources and far more pressing needs.” He crossed his arms. “It’s clear that you’re eager to prove yourself, but you’re not an elder. You’re an advisor. You speak, but we vote. The sooner you learn that, the sooner we’ll get along.”

  Kira grimaced as Ryon’s irritation grew tangible, even from her view of his back.

  A long moment passed, and when Ryon spoke again, his voice was smoother. “I understand that, elder. And if you understood my hatred for the people who murdered my father and burned our city, you would not call me ‘Emberhawk’ again.”

  The corner of the man’s lip twitched up in a barely perceptible smirk. “Very well.” His arms unfurled, and he moved a small painted figurine from one point on the map to another. “We will leave half the guard in place for now and send the rest to aid with the tents. And perhaps when the Darkwood prince arrives, he will promise more aid as a wedding gift.” He turned on his heel and disappeared from Kira’s sight. “Adjourned.”

  Ryon’s stature sagged as rustling sounded from other parts of the room and another door creaked open on the opposite side. Kira backed away but froze as Ryon turned and spotted her. His steely posture evaporated in an instant, and his fiery eyes ignited. “Kira!”

  She grinned sheepishly and shrank in the slight opening. “Hi—”

  His sudden embrace forced the breath from her lungs. She closed her eyes and hugged him back, drinking in the scents of mesquite and leather oil. Her apprehension fled, chased away by a sudden sense of security and acceptance.

  “You made it,” Ryon said as he released her and beamed down at her. “I’m sorry; I really should have escorted you in. Did you have any trouble? Did they let you in all right? I’m sorry the smoke’s still bad. I hope being here doesn’t bring bad memories, and I—”

  “I’m fine,” Kira interrupted. She looked down his height, admiring the new armor that complimented his form in a manner she felt guilty for enjoying. “Look at you, Mister Big Bad Advisor.”

  Ryon deflated with something between a grunt and a sigh. “Yeah, don’t remind me.” He adjusted his new lenses, pushing at their seat on his nose. “Oh, hey, I got you something!” He unwound a thread pouch on his belt and handed it to her with
big, hopeful eyes.

  Kira bounced on her heels with a surge of delight. She carefully worked to loosen the thread and opened the pouch. Nestled inside was a glass butterfly perched on a metal hairpin. Its smooth curves caught the light in a ballet of pastel colors, fading and reappearing as she turned it over in her palm.

  Kira’s breath snagged, then spilled out in awe. It reminded her of the way the oil-water danced with light at the Moon Festival, urged to life by masterful wavesingers.

  “A balemba for the balemba.” Ryon laughed awkwardly at his own pun. “Do you like it? The glass melter’s pretty skilled, huh? I thought you might like it for your . . .” His attention flicked up to her hair, which had undoubtedly wrestled free of its bandana restraint, thanks to the last leg of the journey.

  “If you say frizzy, I’m going to hit you.”

  “I was going to say gorgeous, obviously. Can’t I spare a moment to admire my girl?” Ryon sported that playful smirk that made her insides melt. “I thought it would match Dad’s—I mean, your bracelet.”

  Kira gathered a handful of curls and subdued them with the crystalline pin. “I love it. Thank you so much!”

  “My pleasure.” He shone with pride. “Have you seen Brooke yet?”

  “No, we just got h—”

  He stopped her with a sudden kiss, pulling her close in another warm embrace. Kira tensed, then relaxed as tingling energy trickled through her. Her daydreams didn’t compare.

  “Sorry.” Ryon released her and grew an impish smile. “Am I allowed to do that?”

  “Uh . . .” Kira blinked, regretting that he’d ended it so soon. “Of c—”

  “No,” Tekkyn said, and Kira nearly jumped out of her skin. Her brother watched them from further down the hallway with an unreadable expression.

  “Uh, I—”

  “Pardon me,” someone said behind Ryon.

  Kira backed up, mortified, as the elder pushed past Ryon. He raised a gray eyebrow at her as he passed.

  She wanted to fly back to the cattle ranch and turn back time to last year’s harvest, when she knew nothing about evadír or talking foxes or Zamara and everything made sense.

  “Hey,” Ryon chuckled as he stepped forward and grasped her hand. “I’m sorry. You’d think I’d have learned to control myself by now.”

  She cleared her throat and adjusted the butterfly pin, but she couldn’t contain a grin. “You’d think, but I know better.”

  “How many attackers were there?”

  “Are there any other Emberhawk hideouts in Katrosi territory?”

  “What’s the name of your Malaano contact who supplied explosives for the attack?”

  Lysander ignored the sign language interpreter as her questions repeated. He controlled his breathing and focused on the pain, lessening its sway over him. As long as they didn’t use the porcupine quills or stingray barbs again, he’d be fine.

  He wouldn’t mind telling them what they wanted, really. The temptation burned as hot as the glowing iron they threatened him with. He didn’t care about loyalty any more, now that Zamara’s threats had vanished.

  But if he gave them what they wanted, his usefulness would expire, and they’d execute him.

  And just because he didn’t want to live didn’t mean he wanted to die.

  The interpreter placed a slip of parchment in Lysander’s lap with her questions written in hasty script. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sharp scent of the gooey leaf gel that slicked the walls of his cell that prevented him from burning the prison to the forest floor. They’d give up their interrogation eventually.

  Something cracked against Lysander’s jaw, sending sparks through his vision. He glared up at the guard, who pointed at the parchment with a baton.

  Lysander moved his jaw around and found his teeth still in their places. “You still haven’t told me if Idryon survived. If he did, bring him here, and I’ll answer his questions.”

  The interpreter exchanged a glance with the guard. She took the parchment from Lysander’s lap, and the two abruptly left his full-metal cell, leaving him alone with only the bars and chains and the chamber pot in the corner that smelled like it hadn’t been properly cleaned.

  Relief trickled through Lysander as the pain faded from pulsing sharp to resounding dull. Ryon was a Phoeran elementalist—surely he wouldn’t have been killed by any energy such as fire. But he could have run into one of the Emberhawk arsonists. Or pulled some fool-headed rescue in a collapsing building. Yeah, that sounded like something his younger cousin would do.

  Lysander slouched on the cool metal bench. He was grateful for the generous length of chain that bound his wrists, leaving him some slack from the wall behind him. The Emberhawk weren’t so hospitable to their prisoners.

  A small white object near the cell door caught his eye. That hadn’t been there before. Was it folded parchment?

  Lysander looked around quickly. No guards. He reached out to the Phoera element and waited to feel the rhythmic vibrations of footsteps or the low hum of talking nearby. Every source of sound energy he could detect seemed distant.

  He stood up from the bench and stretched his foot toward the parchment. His height was advantageous for once. His boot stomped on the small slip and dragged it toward him. The chain on his wrists was just long enough for him to grab it from the floor in front of the bench.

  A lockpick fell out of the folded parchment as Lysander opened it. Black ink read:

  Flames dine on the city in the sky

  Twin slaves the only to survive

  The chieftess sleeps, the slaves meet

  And return with freedom and pride

  He’d never been so happy to see one of Xavier’s stupid poems. It must be him—the two of them had been Zamara’s favorite pets, with Xavier being the firstborn of a noble house that opposed her tyranny and Lysander being the rightful heir to the throne. She’d kept a tight leash on the two of them for good reason—she’d had them trained as assassins to do her dirty work, and they’d tried to assassinate her more than once.

  So “twin slaves” seemed accurate. “The only to survive” though . . . so Zamara really was dead, somehow? And Sylendrin and the rest of them.

  Lysander released a ragged breath. He’d never thought he’d taste freedom again, but it tasted bland. Zamara had already ripped away everything wonderful from his former life. What good was freedom when he had nothing left to live for?

  Well, maybe he should get out of prison before he celebrated.

  He inspected the lockpick, hoping the thin metal would work on both of his cuffs and the cell door. The third line of the poem must mean that Xavier wanted to meet him tonight in the basement of the Jolly Satyr: the only place in Jadenvive where Emberhawk spies and assassins exchanged communiques. He couldn’t miss that appointment—Xavier was much more skilled at light-bending, which Lysander would need if he wanted any chance of escaping Jadenvive.

  Lysander braced himself and stuffed the parchment into his mouth. Whatever ink Xavier had used tasted like old horseradish.

  He grimaced as he swallowed and reached out to the Phoera element again. He’d have to use the lockpick when he was certain no one would catch him in the act.

  Rhythmic vibrations signaled footsteps nearby—probably down the hallway. Lysander growled as he recalled the naggings of his mentor to be patient. He stuffed the lockpick into his waistband.

  Lysander almost didn’t recognize Ryon as he appeared beyond the bars. A pair of lenses rested on his nose, and his xavi-scale jerkin shone with a polished gleam—a far cry from the wilderness-scarred equipment of a scout. His cousin’s eyes glowed orange like twin summer suns, regarding Lysander with grave caution instead of their usual mirth.

  “Brother,” Lysander said, invoking the depth of their former relationship. Lysander and Coriander had grown up with Ryon in the glass palace of Quin’Zamar, never dreaming they’d end up on three different sides of the conflict wrought by their late fathers.

  Ryon didn’t
respond as he stepped up to the cell door. He didn’t open it.

  A sick feeling slipped into Lysander’s hope, withering it away. “Did you get the orphans out?” he asked.

  Ryon raised his hands and signed: “You didn’t give me enough time.”

  Lysander’s heart clenched as Ryon continued, “Everyone is fine. Except my fiancée’s brother.”

  Lysander blinked. “You’re engaged?”

  “Evadír,” Ryon signed, and Lysander recalled the Katrosi three-month courting tradition that ended in a proposal.

  A smirk grew across Lysander’s lips. “That Navakovrae girl, huh?” Wouldn’t she just be his girlfriend until evadír was done? So why was he already calling her his fiancée? Was Ryon that confident she’d accept his proposal after the three months? “I thought you were just ‘escorting her to Jadenvive.’”

  Ryon glanced over his shoulder at something out of sight down the prison’s hallway. “Listen, you’re in deep trouble. I’m Brooke’s advisor now, but I don’t think my word is louder than the people’s.” His forehead creased as his brows furrowed. “You need to answer everything the chieftess asks and do whatever she says.”

  Lysander harrumphed. “Why? So she can end my misery sooner?”

  Ryon pursed his lips. “Zamara is dead—she can’t control you any more. You finally have freedom and so much to live for. Don’t be a hard-headed idiot and throw it all away.”

  “So much to live for? Name one thing.”

  Ryon’s signing hand paused and wavered in midair.

  Lysander spoke before Ryon could make anything up. “Zamara took my throne. She took my hearing. My family. Selene. Our own people call me the Slain Prince.”

  “Live for Granny Zelle, for Sorrel, for me and Aegwyn and Mom, and for your future family,” Ryon signed.