Chapter 20

Ceven

CEVEN PASSED THROUGH the massive golden gates leading to the castle, past the ever-growing statue—the God of all Gods—each ridge in its expansive wings, which seemed to grow every year, glittering in the afternoon sun. He still couldn’t get rid of that sinking feeling in his stomach. He flexed his muscles, expecting a beating or a scolding, even though Sehn and the king were deep in the castle’s heart, somewhere in the main hall.

Guests from all over Peredia and a few from Atiaca and Sundise Mouche still lingered in the halls, their attire less regal than that displayed at the party of the century—but Peredians say that about every ball the castle hosted.

His crew followed behind him. Barto’s green pants billowed, the cuffs tightened at his ankles. Like their Atiacan guests, he wore a shirt cropped short, revealing his pierced navel while Rasha stuck with her armor, like Tarry. Ceven had never seen the woman wear anything but plated leather except on special occasions—like the ball or any festival involving the empress of Atiaca.

Aerians dressed in low-cut gowns and unbuttoned suits with ornately beaded corsets and jackets filled the halls. The beadwork was mediocre; the stones and gems used weren’t rare finds, but designed for practical wear. Those designed for defensive measures against Caster magic sought a high price that even most Peredians shied away from. Or they felt secure enough in the kingdom that had held for hundreds of years.

The four of them stopped in front of Ceven’s suite on the top floor. Two guards stood on either side of the carved mahogany, their spears straight and rigid, like Ceven’s spine. Who were these men? When Ceven left to find Evangeline, he had placed two trusted soldiers to guard his suite. Where were they, and who had relieved them of their duty?

 One guard sported a curly beard sprinkled with gray, the other brown flappy ears sagging on the sides of his face, blending in with his shoulder-length hair. Most Aerians were taller than any other species, but Ceven had been blessed—or cursed, depending how he looked at it—with an extra finger’s length or two. He used this to his advantage, narrowing his eyes and uttering, “Where are Taryn and Ed?” He didn’t waste time with politeness or formality. He wouldn’t put it past his brother or King Calais to post spies at his door.

“Relieved of their duty, sir,” curly-beard said.

“Obviously.” His voice dripped in sarcasm. “Let me guess, Sehn assigned you.”

The Rathans nodded.

Ceven and Tarry shared a look. They would have to keep their conversation quiet from eavesdropping ears and find out where his men went off to.

Tarry walked in first, and Ceven imagined his bodyguard’s hand on his ax, his frostlite rings swirling like the last time they’d entered Ceven’s suite like this. Not knowing who would be inside. But this time Tarry’s ax remained sheathed and Ceven trusted the suite was empty—his bodyguard’s instincts were better than his. Forty years in service to the king and even more before that as a mercenary, Tarry was a force to be reckoned with. Even with the remnants of his wound, which Xilo had to restitch from Barto’s dagger, and torn wing, he still was lethal.

Barto, as far as Ceven knew, didn’t tell Quan or Rasha about Xilo, Tarry, and Ceven’s little “discussion” back at Eyvan’s house. He was sure if Rasha knew, she wouldn’t be as calm as she was now. Or maybe it was an illusion to give them a false sense of security. He was more wary of her than Barto. At least his friend would warn him before stabbing him in the back.

Unlike me, he thought with a frown.

“Well, nothing’s changed,” Barto said, breaking the silence. He tapped on a glass panel holding Vivian, a sword crafted in Beltore, a small town known for their mining of frostlite and other high-quality stones along the western side of the Frostsnare mountains.

Ceven frowned, staring at his friend’s sharp claws. “Careful.”

Barto rolled his eyes. “If the mere tap of my finger could shatter your precious trophy, I don’t think we’d have a problem facing the Peredian army.”

“We won’t be facing anyone,” Rasha said, her face still deceptively calm.

“I agree. This is between me and my family.” Ceven grimaced. He didn’t consider the king and Sehn his family. “I shouldn’t have involved you as much as I have. I don’t want to see you in any trouble.” They may have different goals, but Barto was still his friend. A blasted good one at that, and Ceven wouldn’t want to see him hurt. Or worse.

“Little late for that, don’t you think?” Barto smirked and strolled past the white sofa to plop into the chair beside it. Rasha leaned against the purple wallpaper behind him.

Someone knocked on the door. Tarry put a hand on Ceven’s shoulder and strode past to check. Down the hall of the suite, there was a mumble of words and footsteps before the door clicked shut once more.

Tarry re-entered. “A word, Your Highness.”

Ceven glanced at Barto and Rasha. Barto’s smile was gone, and a shielded pain clouded his eyes. Ceven ignored it and followed Tarry into his bedroom, shutting the white, paneled door behind him. They walked past his four-post bed and bookshelves, filled with more trophies than books, to close the curtains. The soft oil lamps fixated to the wall were the only light in the space.

Tarry pulled out a note from his pocket and handed it to him.

Change of plans, Cev. His mighty pain in my behind got involved, so we’re moving to Plan B. We’re awaiting further instructions from you.

Ceven smiled. Sounded like Taryn, a rookie who acted like he owned the place. Even if they had become fast friends during his return to the country, any soldier would know better than to refer to Sehn or the king as anything other than His Highness or Your Majesty. Ceven recalled the soldiers back in the west wing and the thinly veiled disgust he’d experienced with those guards he met in secret by Eyvan’s house. But I guess that doesn’t apply to me, does it?

Tarry’s voice was like distant thunder, low but ominous. “If we follow through with this, there’s no turning back.”

“You suggest we do something else?” Ceven didn’t mean it but hated that Tarry assumed he hadn’t already thought everything through. Multiple times.

“No. Barto’s a good man, but his loyalty to the empress is a problem. Be prepared: I’ve intercepted a messenger bird meant for Rasha. She had sent for reinforcements.”

Ceven’s gut churned. “We’ll need to move quick then. Send word to Xilo.”

Tarry nodded, and they returned to the Sitting Chamber. Rasha and Barto stood by the foyer entrance.

“I think it’s time for us to retire to our guest suite. It seems as if we have overstayed our welcome here.” Rasha’s dark brown eyes bore into Ceven’s, while Barto kept his gaze averted.

“Very well.” Ceven crossed his arms. There was no point in lying. “I plan to meet with my brother soon. From there, we can decide our next move. I’ll have someone sent for you when I know more.”

“Will you?” Rasha cocked her head.

Tarry and Ceven didn’t respond, and Rasha curled her lip before turning on her heel.

Barto lifted his head and locked his gaze with Ceven’s. “You’ve been a good friend to me these past two years. I know you’re planning something, but I want you to know that I value our friendship. I won’t betray your trust, Ceven. I just hope you have enough honor in you to do the same.” Ceven looked away, and the click of the door told him Barto had left as well.

From his words, Barto might as well have already stabbed Ceven—in the heart.

Tarry put a hand on his shoulder. “Like I said, Barto’s a good man. But I’ve met my fair share of ‘good men.’ Everyone has a tipping point. Be wise on this.”

“I know, Tarry.” He shrugged off his hand. The old Aerian was trying to help, but blast it, Ceven hated feeling unsure about himself. “For now, we just need to focus on getting information out of Sehn.”