It seemed only a matter of time before that girl took over—and Haven had no idea how to stop her.
3
Haven reveled in the countless gasps of delight rising through Fenwick Castle, each awed murmur punctuated by laughter and enthusiastic clapping. The noble men and women packing the great hall came from the untouched kingdoms, mainly, but a few had traveled all the way from the Curse-stricken north.
The boy they came to see stood proud and tall on a dais littered with rose petals and coins. All eyes were riveted to his upturned palm.
Or, more precisely, the golden flame of magick sprouting from it.
The flame was tiny, a mere spark sizzling and spitting bright specks of light. But it promised something the kingdom of Eritreyia hadn’t seen in years.
Magick.
And with it came an even more elusive thing—hope.
Grinning, the Prince of Penryth pretended to close his palm and snuff out the spark, eliciting yells from the crowd. Hand held above his head, he bowed low and the flame grew to the size of an apple.
“Peacock,” Haven muttered, although her heart swelled at the sight of him being playful and happy again for the first time since they returned.
Smiling like that, with his brocade vest and smartly tailored steel-gray leather pants—her pants, by the way, and much prettier on him—he looked every bit the dashing prince he was always meant to be.
Which explained the ring of young women thronging the dais at his feet.
The stage was new. King Horace had it built specifically for Bell to show off his magick. An octagon, each side showed off a famous scene from the mortal histories. All together it took master craftsmen from all over the mortal realm fifty-two days to shape the slab of pale quartz into the impressive monument it was now.
But their artistry and efforts were wasted. When Bell was atop the stage, he was all anyone could see. He could have been standing on a rock and they wouldn’t have noticed anything different.
Golden runelight from the chandelier above—gifted a month ago from Solis traders across the Glittering Sea—flickered inside his soft, dark curls and glimmered off the three rubies adorning his new crown. The one his father now insisted he wear.
Being in front of a crowd suited him, and a pink tinge dusted the ebony skin of his high cheekbones, lifted in an almost constant smile. While performing, the sorrows of the last few months melted away.
It was just Bell, the crowd, and magick.
Haven pressed away from the wall she leaned on near the back of the crowd and caught Bell’s attention. Their eyes met briefly, a silent signal passing between them as her fisted hand began to open.
Two things happened at once. Bell lunged, back perfectly straight and chest puffed out.
At the same time the magickal sphere hovering above his palm surged to the size of gourds and began spinning.
As the onlookers cried out, and Bell lifted his chin higher, mouth pinched tight with concentration, she chuckled.
One might think Bell held a sword, not magick, with that stance. A master fencer showing off his skills.
Truth was, swordsmanship had never suited Bell. But magick. Well, magick was like the piece of armor he’d been missing all these years. The crown that marked him as royalty.
Almost overnight, he’d gone from forgotten son of an aging king to a world-renowned prince adored and loved by all.
Lightcaster, they murmured. Cursebreaker. Last mortal with magick of the Goddess.
Too bad it was Haven’s magick that twinkled and danced from his deft fingers, casting tiny orange flames inside his topaz-blue eyes.
But the only people in the room who knew that were Haven, Bell, and the annoyed Solis warrior staring knives at Haven in her periphery.
“Don’t,” Surai warned in Solissian.
Haven turned to face Surai.
She was frowning, her beautiful lavender eyes glittering with reproach. They were upturned at the corners and rimmed with long, fluttery lashes. The kind of eyes that could be infinitely kind or vexingly savage.
Right now they were the latter. And it didn’t help Surai’s mood that mortals kept pushing past her to get a better view of Bell.
If they knew the warrior hidden beneath the layer of silk fabric . . .
“Don’t what?” Haven murmured, pretending she didn’t hear the warning growl inside her friend’s voice.
Surai sighed and tapped Haven in the soft part of her temple, hard. “Whatever thoughts are rattling around that rash mortal brain. Don’t.”
Haven glanced at Bell and then back at Surai.
The hood of her plum-colored cloak hid most of her hair, but a few sleek dark edges, shorn in grief after the death of her lover, poked out just inches above her jaw. Where the runelight hit her cheeks, runemarks shimmered, tracing beautiful iridescent glyphs and curves that spooled down her neck and into her armor-plated corset.
Haven winked. “You know better than most, there are no thoughts in my head. I’m a simple creature. Eat. Sleep. Be amazing.”
Surai clicked her tongue, a divot puckering the center of her pert chin.
Nethergates. Surai only did that when she was in a mood foul enough to kill a lorrack.
“They’re tired of boring displays of magick,” Haven insisted, jerking her head at the crowd. “They’re about to start snoring.”
“Huh,” Surai countered. “Who knew mortal oohs and ahhs meant boredom? You learn something new every day, I suppose.”
“But look how glorious he is up there. Look at him smiling—smiling, Surai. When was the last time that happened?”
“Do you really want to piss off Archeron? He explicitly forbade you from performing any magick beyond flares.”
“Surely he’ll understand.”
“Do you actually know him?” Surai scoffed.
“Well he’s not here.” Haven tried and failed not to sound resentful of his absence. She didn’t begrudge him leaving, but . . . she missed him. More than she thought she would.
When they returned to Penryth as Cursebreakers and heroes, Archeron refused the king’s payment of gold and jewels.
All he asked for was to be given leave for the turn of three moons to hunt down Bjorn the betrayer.
He’d been gone for exactly that, which meant he would be back any day now. She was filled with both anticipation and nervousness at his return, and a part of her wondered if those months apart had changed things between them.
Not that she knew how to categorize what, exactly, that was.
“Haven,” Surai said. Her voice had raised a few octaves into a pleading tone. “The mortals are children. They’re impressed by anything that sparkles. Dazzle them with a few shiny tricks and be done with it.”
Haven, who only took a little offense to her friend stereotyping mortals, knew her suggestion was the practical, safe option. Hadn’t they done the very same thing nearly every night for weeks?
But she shook her head. “Bell deserves more than a few cheap tricks, even if they do sparkle beautifully.”
“Goddess help me.” Surai ran two fingers over her forehead, kneading the spot in-between her charcoal eyebrows, two perpetually arched smudges that gave her a curious look. “You haven’t practiced enough. Something could go wrong.”
Her friend’s voice faded as another cry of excitement rose from the hall.