Open your eyes, Nym.”
I do and Eogan’s face is the first thing I see. My heart lunges and soars all in one inhale—we’re back in the Valley of Origin. I can taste the magic misting the air.
Tiny jeweled water droplets cling to his dark lashes. The drips shiver as he smiles before they release to join the millions of others floating around us in rainbow-lit colors. His brilliant green eyes smolder down at me, his heartpulse alive against my hand, sending my stimulated lungs clamoring for my throat.
I swallow and the storm in his gaze crackles in amusement. “You have no idea how extraordinary you are.”
Suddenly I can feel the hunger pouring off of him as thick as it’s leaching from me.
My jaw drops. The clouds in the distance roar and the floating droplets ascend to create new clouds of their own as a gale picks up, whipping my hair back.
Eogan raises a brow, and that thing in his eyes blazes. As if the same lightning storm above us is now poised at the edge of his heart, determining whether or not it will engage. I hear his breath shudder as my mind forms a definition for the look in his eyes: Craving. Conflict. Apology. The pulse in his neck quickens as his gaze slides down to my lips. He pushes a hand along the side of my throat and into my hair, then runs a thumb down my jawline as he tilts his face to hover an inch from mine. His finger stops beneath my trembling lower lip.
My world pauses.
His eyes flicker up. An agonized smile, and suddenly he’s clearing his throat. But his voice is still husky when he says, “Look up.”
“Nym. Look up.”
I open my eyes.
“Nym. Nym.”
I blink.
And wake up, only to have my heart wrench through my rib cage as Eogan’s face evaporates along with the memory of our afternoon spent in the Valley of Origin.
They’re replaced by Rasha invading my vision. “Finally!” She’s bending over me with an expression of relief and pushing open the small rain-speckled window.
Two seconds later the whole room rolls to the left and she loses her balance and tilts into me before the ship rights itself. The loud, incessant droning sound grows even noisier—like a swarm of bees that invaded an oliphant nest.
“Sorry.” She shoves herself off. “The ship flies rougher than I expected. Seems they still have some problems to work out.”
I sit up and look back to the window, and then I turn over to press my face through the open pane to the day-lit endless mass of glittering gray.
The familiar saltwater taste pricks my tongue and skin with that Elemental ache the sea invokes. That melodic whisper that strums like the notes of a death toll and solstice waltz all in one. But before I can grasp onto the sound, it’s gone, and I can’t recall the sensation.
I push the covers down and peek up at the metal square in the wall, half expecting to see the boy’s face from last night. But the bars look as unmoved as before. Where did he disappear to? And why did he stow away in the first place?
Suspicion says he couldn’t pass up the opportunity for an adventure or a chance to get a look at his, until recently, enemies. I smile. Good for him.
Glancing at Rasha, who’s busy smoothing down her hair, I stand and promptly cringe at the flaring soreness in my legs. “What time is it?”
“Afternoon. Didn’t you hear the men bring your meal this morn—?”
Her gaze lands on my arm. On the makeshift bandage covering it.
“Oh Nym,” is all she says.
I force down the guilt that flares just as a knock sounds down the hall. We both jump, and I scramble to cover my arms before a Bron guard appears in the doorway.
“The dining area is now open if you ladies desire to join the other delegates there.” He scowls at me.
“About time,” Rasha says. “A day and a half’s a bit dreadful to coop us up in these rooms, handsome. That is”—she sniffs and her voice goes airy—“if one can call these closets a room. We’ve been locked in these quarters since we took off—very inconvenient. I mean, look at me!” She swags a hand down her brown silk dress. “All but two outfits are in the storage bay! I made Lord Myles put a bag there for you as well,” she says to me. “You’re welcome.”
The guard’s eyebrow twitches. “Keeping everyone in their quarters was necessary for safety. The size and increased speed of the airship combined with the storm require we have as few individuals as possible in the main areas.”
And what about in the ventilation pipes? I’m tempted to ask.
“And my men? I’ve not seen them since boarding.”
“As I assured you earlier, they are being attended to with the utmost care.”
“Of course they are.” Rasha pats his cheek. “You’ve too friendly a face to treat them otherwise. Right, Nym? But I’d still like to see them.”
This time his lips twitch, as if he’s trying not to be flattered. “My apologies, but that’s not possible at this time. They’re rooming on the ship’s lower level.”
He steps out of my room and she follows. “So you’re saying you have no access to the lower levels?”
“The weather and speed combination require us to maintain balance in each section. It would be unwise to allow any of the delegates into other sections while we’re out over the sea.”
I follow them into the narrow passage and bump into the two Faelen soldiers I saw the other night when Myles took my knives. “You and Myles got to keep your bodyguards. Well, at least two of them,” Rasha says.
She sniffs. “Although I suggested he assign you an entire brigade.”
The two men nod at me. In the light, one looks strikingly like Tannin, so much so that he could be his brother. Did they hear the boy and I talking last night? If so, they don’t hint at it.
“Thank you for being here,” I tell them before shadowing Rasha to where the Bron soldier is knocking on what I presume is Lord Myles’s door. He’s met by a loud groan of, “Go away,” from within.
“He’s been in there for hours. Apparently, airsickness.” Rasha grins as the guard turns back to lead us down the short hall and out a metal door into a good-size dining area made up of stark metal walls, thin red carpet, and lanterns hanging from the ceiling. All focused around a long, thin, metal table at which the three Faelen delegates are seated. My stomach coils. I glance around but Eogan’s not here.
“By the way,” Rasha whispers in my ear, “Myles informed the other delegates that you’re here at his request and King Sedric’s permission. However, one of them’s not, uh . . . too thrilled.”
Glancing up, I catch the polite curiosity displayed on the faces of Lord Percival and Lady Gwen. Both of whom I recognize from attending Adora’s parties. The third, Lord Wellimton, is openly ignoring me.
“Impressive, yes?” Lord Percival says to Princess Rasha, his eyes wide on mine. “A dining room that actually flies.”
I turn in a full circle to take it all in as they stand to greet Princess Rasha. The airship must be the size of a glorified common house. On one side, two windows give a heart-gasping view of the sea, and there’s even an outside deck. Clearly this is a royal airship rather than the battle ones we so recently sent running. Not exactly luxurious, but definitely impeccable in its simplicity—formidable even.
I look at the Bron guard and don’t have to wonder how he feels about that. About losing the battle. And us.
“Where’s Eogan?” I ask.
“King Eogan regrets he will not be joining the group at this time.” The guard stiffly indicates the table laid out with mainly fruit and a type of gummy substance.
“It tastes like bread and keeps you chewing until it dissolves,” Rasha whispers as the guard moves to stand with my two Faelen soldiers against one of the walls, which is reflecting a sliver of afternoon sun coming through the windows.
I nod at her and then stride over and peer through the thick panes at the stormy sea and gray sky pierced with yellow rays. The expanse of ocean is endless, and we’re above it, soaring beneath the interspersed cloud covering. This must be how it feels to break free from the dust and flit away to inhale the sky. Like the bluebird carved into my arm.
The impact of that thought nearly pulls the breath from my lungs.
Abruptly, the cut in my arm warms along with my insides as the emptiness in my veins remembers it can no longer feed off the sky’s static.
I join Rasha and the others before the sensation collapses me.
“And what of Lord Myles?” Lady Gwen asks Rasha.
“He’s currently admiring the inside of the water closet.”
Lord Percival nods. “Ah, seasick. Or airsick I suppose it’s called.”
“Have you enjoyed your time so far?” Lady Gwen reaches for a larkfruit, which as I recall from Adora’s High Court parties is one of her favorite foods. An odd thing to remember except she’s one of the few women on the High Council and, like Adora, comes from a long line of politicians. Although, unlike Adora, I’m not convinced she’s ever wanted the job.
“Not particularly,” Rasha says. “You?”
The three delegates’ faces widen with surprise. Lord Percival chuckles awkwardly. As if he’s hoping Rasha’s joking.
When it’s obvious she’s not, Lord Wellimton clears his throat. “As guests on this ship, I’ve found the time alone to be quite restful.”
“Well, I don’t consider forced confinement restful,” Rasha says airily. “Nor, I doubt, do my men. If anything, I find it distrustful.”
“I’m sure you’d agree the confinement has been for our safety.”
Without peeking up from the tea I’m pouring, I can feel Wellimton’s gaze and tone indicating me. As one of King Sedric’s top officials, he’s the oldest bachelor on the War Council, and he has unfortunately chosen to wear that claim as a badge of honor as well as an excuse for his notorious irritability.
This is a waste. Where in blazes is Eogan? “I’m not the one you should be worried about,” I say, handing the tea to Rasha. When she frowns, I quickly add, “Does anyone know when we will be graced by Eogan?”
“As I mentioned, he sends his regrets,” the Bron guard growls from his spot along the wall.
“Oh, I’m certain this flight hasn’t been all that dangerous, or Nym would’ve used her abilities to soften the storm for us. Right, miss?” Lord Percival dabs his mouth with a napkin and doesn’t wait before turning to Rasha. “Princess, are you finding your negotiations with the new king thus far are up to Cashlin’s satisfaction?”
“I’ve not had a chance to meet with King Eogan yet. Hence part of why Cashlin is sending me to Bron.”
A pleased look passes over the delegates, as if they’re relieved to still have the advantage of already starting the negotiation process back in Faelen.
I look at Rasha and consider telling them the truth—that their political insecurity is meaningless in light of what they’re walking into. That there will be no negotiations in Bron because the king is not the king. And that I couldn’t control a raindrop if I tried.
Rasha continues eating. I glance away and sip my sea-dragon-colored tea and chew on a giant piece of bread goo, leaving them to their momentary ignorance.
“Is your queen mother planning to send more delegates?” Wellimton asks. “Or has she sanctioned you to decide what’s best for Cashlin without her royal advisement?”
“Oh, I’m quite sanctioned,” Rasha says cheerily.
“Not that she’d have any reason to doubt your political talents, of course, Your Highness. But considering the delicacy of the matter, I couldn’t help but feel concerned for you when I observe Faelen has seen this venture important enough to send four delegates while Cashlin is only sending one.”
I pause midswallow and almost laugh. What a bolcrane.
“You’re correct she has every confidence in my talents, m’lord. And as I’m certain you’re aware, I was the only Cashlin delegate available in Faelen at the time of our departure.” Her smile stays just as wide, but I swear there’s a falter in her tone. She grabs a plateful of the bread stuff and shoves a piece in her mouth.
I snap a look up at him. “What about you? Are you fully sanctioned?”
Wellimton frowns. “Of course we carry the full weight of King Sedric’s authority.”
“To do what?”
“To handle anything that may occur.”
I clear my throat. “I bet. And what will you do if, say, when we arrive the situation’s not as you’ve prepared for?”
Wellimton sniffs. “Young lady, I’m not sure why Lord Protectorate Myles or King Sedric deemed it necessary for you to come, that is, if in fact the king did allow it, seeing as we were only told about your attendance once in the air. But considering you’ve not been raised in politics, nor in a High Court home, I don’t expect you to understand the process, nor the level of trade by which we’ll be negotiating. We’re clearly prepared for anything as long as you stay out of the way.”
“Anything?” I can’t help the smirk.
“I think the better question is, are you prepared for anything?” He bats a hand my direction. “Is that storm gift of yours under control?”
“Lord Wellimton,” Lord Percival interrupts. “Perhaps we should be more charitable toward the heroine who is the only reason our nation is intact enough to trade with Bron. I’m positive the lady is quite capable of controlling it without Eogan even around!”
“A fact for which I am exceedingly grateful,” Wellimton says. “As long as she’s able to keep that level of control needed—at least until we get the negotiations wrapped up.” He glances over at the Bron guard.
“I can say with certainty that I am the least of the problems you’re walking into,” I murmur, and ignore Rasha’s look that says to quit egging him on.
“Good.” Wellimton lowers his voice my direction. “And in regard to any rumored affections you might have toward the Bron king, I trust, if called upon, you’ll do well to remember whose side raised you from childhood.”
Gwen leans over to pat my hand. “Because, of course, if anything goes wrong, we’re now counting on you to do your part, dear.”
Do my part? I draw back from them both and stick a piece of fruit in my mouth. And shove down my cough before it gives away the fact that whatever expectations they have of using me are complete litches.
One, two, three moments of silence settle in, during which Rasha flicks me with cautious glances. I, in turn, extend sympathy to her for these ridiculous political games she’s stuck in. Is this how the High Council operates? No wonder her Luminescent self gets overwhelmed by too many people in one room. Constantly hearing barely civil words being said while sensing what’s left unsaid. It’s all laced with suspicion and need.
The quiet is broken by Lady Gwen setting her cup down too loudly. “And what, Princess Rasha, may I inquire is Cashlin hoping for most in terms of negotiation and trade?”
“Our hope is to begin a friendship with Bron and build our way up from there. As far as trade, that will greatly depend on what Bron has that we deem worth trading for.”
Lord Wellimton smirks. “A very to-the-point statement, Princess. Some might even say supercilious once you enter the negotiation chamber. Especially considering your kingdom avoided taking sides in the war at all costs.”
“Cashlin makes no apology for being a pacifist nation.”
“Of course not. But you can see how a good intention such as that could be misinterpreted at the negotiation table. It could appear your interests only lie toward what you can gain rather than in hard-fought-for unity.”
Her voice stays steady but her shoulders tense. “Cashlin enjoys its friendships, Lord Wellimton, and we unabashedly support unity. However, we’ve discovered that taking sides in a war does not always result in desirable unity, nor does it mean we feel obligated to give up our natural resources easily. As I said, our hope is for the start of a relationship between Cashlin and Bron, just as we have done with yours.”
Lord Percival tips his head in apparent approval just as the airship dips and rattles. From what Colin once told me, tipping his head is what Lord Percival does best. “It’s his most pleasant and worst feature,” Colin had whispered one evening while we were spying on him at Adora’s. “It’s like he can’t ’elp but agree with everyone on everythin’, includin’ the king and the council. Even his wife from what I hear.”
“Smart man,” I’d mumbled, and Colin had punched me in the arm. But somehow that head tipping makes me now inclined to like him.
“And what about you?” Rasha continues. “What are you most hoping for?”
Wellimton shoots Percival a look. “Ahem. That’s currently a matter of private discussion. You unders—”
“Access to your waterways for trade with their metal mines?” Rasha says in her airy tone. Her brown eyes exhibit a slight red glow. “With maybe some airships thrown in?”
The delegates’ faces pale.
Before anyone can respond, I stand. “While this has been most interesting, I think I’ll take a walk on the deck outside.” I look at the Bron and two Faelen guards for permission, but the entire room shudders loudly and tips. With a clatter, the plates and food tumble across the floor and it’s all I can do to hold on to the back of my chair, which, mercifully, is bolted down as is the rest of the furniture. I keep my feet beneath me until the ship tilts back. It trembles again and then the Bron soldier is holding his hand out to us. “My apologies, but the storm is picking up. I must return you all to your quarters.”
“Why?” Lady Gwen asks.
“For safety. Now you’ll all come with me, please.”
“Oh Nym, take care of the weather, won’t you, dear?” Lady Gwen flutters her hand at me. “That way we can stay and finish our chat!”
Percival nods. “Yes, show us how it works for you. It’d be fascinating to watch an Elemental control a storm. Here, what do you need from us?”
“That would be highly dangerous,” the guard interrupts. “The use of her abilities would threaten not only this airship, but the one travelling behind us. Please, I’ll see you to your rooms.”
I shoot him a grateful eyeful, which he ignores, and step toward him when a shimmer of lightning flashes maybe seventy-five terrameters in the distance. Despite the ache it brings, I stride over to watch the three, four, five lightning bolts follow it. Because something about feeling its effect on the sky creates a fleeting sense of normal. A sense of power, even if from the outside rather than within, if only for a minute.
Lady Gwen’s screech is jolting. “But those strikes are going to hit us. She can stop them!”
“No, mum, they won’t. But we need to get you someplace secure. Miss?” the guard says in my direction.
I brush past him without replying, and as Lord Percival, Lady Gwen, and Lord Wellimton are led through a door separating their rooms from our corridor, Percival whispers, “You will stop them though if we need you to, right, Nym?”
When we reach the room, Rasha plops down on the cot. I sit beside her and pull my legs up, folding my arms around my knees. “Well, that was rather dramatic. Are you all right?”
“In regard to the fact that we’re riding in a metal ship near lightning or those ridiculous politicians?”
“Both.”
“I wouldn’t be queen someday if either upset me.” But she’s wringing her hands as if to banish her nerves even as the words tumble out. Her hesitation is followed by, “And why wouldn’t I be all right? I’ve got excellent political acumen.”
I bite back a smile. “You were most definitely the smartest, most rational person in that room.”
“I was, wasn’t I?” She sniffs and a pleased expression replaces her worried features. “Although now I’ve got a stomachache,” she confesses with a grimace. “I tend to eat fast when people get intense. What about you? They were rather needy about your abilities, I’ll say.”
“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t just tell them.”
Her look suggests I’m a daft fool. “About Eogan or your abilities?”
“My powers. The delegates seem to have rather high expectations,” I admit.
“Who cares? Your ability is none of their business.”
“Maybe. Except those expectations are only going to get higher. And when the time comes—” I drop my voice with the sudden awareness that the vent boy could be listening. I peer up at the metal square in the wall.
“You’re not their obligated savior, Nym. They were going to Bron before they even knew you were coming.”
I’ve not heard anything in the pipes other than air blowing since we entered, but I keep my tone low enough to be covered by the ship’s noise just in case. “True. But even at the party the other night . . .” I scowl. “It’s like they think I’m some kind of token that will protect them. It’s suffocating.”
Her smile turns sly and she pats me on the head. “Of course you’re a token. A magical one who’s only disappointing in matters of clothing choices.”
A chuckle bubbles up in spite of myself. “I’m serious! Look at this.” I tighten my deformed fingers into a fist. There’s not even the slightest tingle in the air.
“So you’re saying the power you always wished you didn’t have is gone, but because everyone admires it, now you wish you had it back?”
“Not admires it. Expects it. And I’d rather they’d not do either. But at the same time . . .” I search for the right words. “Maybe it’s that I finally just learned how to use my curse to actually help people, and now . . . now I’m very likely going to let those people down.”
She chews her lip and grows sober. “While I might not have known you for long, Nym, I can tell you your strength doesn’t lie in your powers or the ability to cause a storm or whatever else the rest of them want to call your gift. It lies in your ability for compassion.” She pokes a finger in my chest. “It lies in you.”
I nod. Right. Except having compassion without the power to change anything is useless. I should know. I tried for years to untwine those two and it couldn’t be done. And not just useless, it’s dangerous. Because it breeds false hope.
Not only that but . . . being me is being Elemental. I feel out the bandage beneath my sleeve and press into it until my skin aches. I don’t know how to explain it to her.
“Besides, if Bron and the delegates found out right now, can you even imagine what would happen?”
I roll my eyes and groan.
“And anyhow, the delegates wouldn’t believe us. They’d just see it as a political stunt, and I’m not sure how that’d protect Eogan.”
“I’m pretty certain I can protect Eogan without giving them false security in me. But I’m beginning to wonder if it’s really a good idea to let them find out I’ve no power while we’re in an environment Draewulf controls.”
She shrugs, as if it’s the question she’s been wrestling over every bit of her waking moments with no solution.
“Exactly.”
She leans her head against the window and stares out of it. “Draewulf won’t completely control everything—he still has to prove himself to the Bron people. If that’s even his intention.”
“You think Draewulf will keep the façade up in Bron?”
“He’s actively trying to eradicate all internal trace of Eogan, so my guess is yes. Especially since even the Bron guard on this ship doesn’t know Eogan is Draewulf.”
I follow her gaze through the rain lines beginning to drizzle down the pane—to the purple-gray ocean and, in the distance, the sun’s muted glimmer. “Or maybe Draewulf’s trying to eradicate Eogan because he knows Eogan can survive if the shape-shifter leaves his body too soon.”
Her expression softens. As if she knows how much my heart is hanging on that one single hope. She opens her mouth. Closes it. And allows us to simply sit there, staring together at the ocean shimmering a few terrameters beneath us as the ship continues its race toward Bron.
“About your arm.” She rouses after a bit. “You want to talk about it?”
“It was a mistake. I’m better now. Do you think Myles knows what Draewulf wants?”
She makes a sound very much like a scoff but doesn’t say anything. Just shakes her head.
“What if we ask Draewulf the questions straight to his face—about what he plans to do with us and if there’s a way to free Eogan? Could you determine Draewulf’s thoughts then?”
She scrunches her cheek and peers back over at me. “I’m not sure. With Eogan’s block in the mix, I could probably see if Draewulf’s lying but not read his mind. Unless he’s clearly planned out his path and Eogan’s not confusing it. I’d have to be near him long enough to get a better sense, but even then . . . If the things you’re hoping for have never been done, Draewulf himself may not actually know the answers.”
Her smile is gentle. “I think so. But the better question is, can we get him alone for a few minutes to try it?”
I look down at my cut arm. At my fingers as I flex them into a fist.
“Let me take care of that.”