The tartness of uncertainty and the fresher, lemony flavor of curiosity saturated the air as those waiting between the columns took notice of Casteel and then me. Whatever Casteel had sensed that was different about me, they felt it, too. I saw it in the way the Guardians stiffened, their hands reaching for their scabbards and then halting as their heads tilted to the side while they tried to understand what it was they sensed. I felt no fear from any of them, not the Guardians or the others. I wanted to ask one of them what they felt when they looked at me—what made them first go for their swords but then stop. However, Casteel’s grip tightened on my hand, preventing me from wandering over to one of the women—which I had apparently been in the process of doing.
Then again, only the gods knew what I looked like at the moment with my hair a curly, knotted mess, the too-tight breeches and boots, and Casteel’s cloak over a too large, borrowed tunic. It was quite possible they thought I was a Craven.
One of the Atlantians stepped forward as we reached the top of the steps. It was Emil, his auburn hair redder in the torchlight as his gaze slid from Casteel to me. His nostrils flared as his throat worked on a swallow. His handsome face paled slightly as he clasped the hilt of his sword, bowing slightly at the waist. “I am relieved to see you here, Your Highness.”
I gave a small jerk. The use of the formal title caught me a little off guard, and it took me a moment to remember that as Casteel’s wife, that was my formal title. It had nothing to do with the whole issue with the Crown. “As am I,” I said, smiling. Another ripple of shock came from Emil as he looked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe I was standing there. Considering the state I had been in the last time he’d seen me, I couldn’t blame him for that. “Thank you for your help.”
The same look Naill had given me earlier when I’d thanked him crossed the Atlantian’s face, but he inclined his head with a nod. He turned to Casteel. “Your father is inside and isn’t exactly thrilled.”
“I bet,” Casteel murmured.
One side of Emil’s lips curved up as Naill joined us. “And neither are the handful of Atlantians and mortals who found their way here, attempting to free Alastir.”
“And how did that go?” Casteel demanded.
“It was a little…bloody.” Emil’s eyes glowed in the torchlight as he looked at his Prince. “Those who are still alive are being kept with Alastir for your…enjoyment.”
A tight, dark smile appeared as Casteel tipped back his head. “Has anyone else become aware that my father’s being held here?”
“No,” Emil answered. “Your mother and the Guards of the Crown believe he is still with you.”
“Perfect.” Casteel looked over at me. “Ready?”
I nodded.
Emil started to step back but stopped. “I almost forgot.” He reached to his side and under his tunic. I stiffened at the low rumble of warning as Jasper took a step forward, his head lowering. Casteel shifted ever so slightly beside me, his body tensing. The Atlantian shot a nervous glance over his shoulder at the large wolven. “This belongs to her,” he said. “I’m just giving it back.”
I looked down to see him withdraw a blade—one that gleamed reddish black in the firelight. Air lodged in my throat as he flipped it over, offering me the bone handle. It was my bloodstone dagger. The one Vikter had gifted me on my sixteenth birthday. Other than the memories of the man who risked his career and most likely his life to make sure I could defend myself, it was the only thing I had left of him.
“How…?” I cleared my throat as I closed my fingers around the cold wolven bone. “How did you find it?”
“By pure luck, I think,” he said, immediately stepping back and nearly bumping into Delano, who had silently crept up behind him. “When I and a few others went back to look for evidence, I saw it lying under the blood tree.”
I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Thank you.”
Emil nodded as Casteel clasped the Atlantian on the shoulder. I held onto the dagger, slipping it under the cloak I wore as we walked forward, crossing the wide colonnade. A young, slim male stood against the wall, and I almost didn’t recognize the somber, soft, almost fragile lines of Quentyn Da’Lahr’s face. He wasn’t smiling—he wasn’t chattering away, brimming with energy like he normally was as he came toward us with hesitant steps. The moment my senses connected with his emotions, the tang of his anguish took my breath. There was uncertainty in him and the sourness of guilt, but there was also an undercurrent of something…bitter. Fear. My chest seized as my senses rapidly attempted to decipher whether his fear was directed at me or… Then I remembered that he had been close to Beckett. The two had been friends. Did he know what had happened to his friend? Or did he still believe that Beckett had been involved in the attack? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t believe that Quentyn had been involved. He wouldn’t be standing here if he were.
Casteel’s cool amber gaze shifted to the young Atlantian, but before he could speak, Quentyn dropped to one knee, bowing his golden head before us. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice carrying a slight tremor. “I did not know what Beckett was going to do. If I had, I would’ve stopped—”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I spoke, unable to allow the young Atlantian to carry guilt that was so very wrongly placed. I realized that the others must not have learned what had truly happened. “Beckett was guilty of nothing.”
“But he…” Quentyn lifted his head, his golden eyes wet. “He led you to the Chambers and—”
“That wasn’t him,” Casteel explained. “Beckett committed no crime against Penellaphe or me.”
“I don’t understand.” Confusion and relief echoed through the Atlantian as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Then where has he been, Your Highness—I mean, Casteel? Is he with you?”
My hand squeezed Casteel’s as the muscle in his jaw ticked. “Beckett never left Spessa’s End, Quentyn. He was killed by those who conspired with his uncle.”
If the others had any reaction to the young wolven’s death, I wasn’t sure. All I could feel was the rising tide of sorrow as it quickly rose in the Atlantian, following a brutal punch of denial. His pain was so raw and potent that it exploded into the salty air around us, thickening as it settled on my skin. I heard Casteel telling him that he was sorry, and saw Quentyn shaking his head. His pain…it was extreme, and a distant part of me wondered if this was the first real loss he’d experienced. He was older than I was, even though he appeared younger. But by Atlantian years, he was still so very young. He struggled not to show his pain, pressing his lips together, his back stiffening unnaturally. He was trying to hold it together as his Prince spoke to him, and as the wolven, Atlantians, and Guardians surrounded him. Sadly, he was losing the battle as anguish pulsed in waves through him. If he lost it, Casteel wouldn’t hold it against him, but I could sense that he wanted to be seen as brave and strong. And I hated that. Hated those who were responsible even more for the pain they had inflicted on others and the lives they had stolen.
I reacted without thought, only instinct. Later, I would obsess over everything that could’ve possibly gone wrong since I had no idea what my touch would do now. I slipped my hand free from Casteel’s and placed it on the Atlantian’s arm. His wide eyes shot to mine. Tears clung to his lashes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, wishing there was something better to say, something more helpful, more inspiring. But words were rarely good enough to ease the pain of loss. I did what I knew, pulling on my happy moments—warm and hopeful emotions. I thought of how I felt when Casteel told me he loved me, how I felt when I realized that he did in Spessa’s End. I took those emotions and I let them flow through my body into Quentyn’s.
He jerked as I felt his grief and disbelief pulse intensely and then rapidly fade. The skin around his mouth eased, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed. He exhaled heavily, and I felt no more sorrow. I released his arm, knowing the reprieve wouldn’t last forever. Hopefully, it could give him some time to come to terms with his friend’s death in private.
“Your eyes,” Quentyn whispered, blinking slowly. “They’re strange—” His cheeks flushed under the torchlight. “I mean, they’re really pretty. Strange in a pretty way.”
My brows rose as I looked at Casteel.
The lines and angles of his face had softened. “They’re glowing,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. “Actually, it’s not your entire eye that is.” His head tilted to the side. “There are wisps of light. Silvery light throughout your irises.”
Fractured eyes.
Casteel looked to where Kieran and Delano waited and saw what I did. Eyes a pale blue streaked with luminous silver-white.
Eyes like those of the woman I’d seen in a dream that I knew was no dream—the woman who had spoken to me. Every part of my being at that moment knew that what she had said was the answer to everything.
Chapter 13
Turning back to me, Casteel took my hand once more, lifting it to his mouth. “They’re no longer glowing.” He placed a kiss on my knuckles, and that single act eased a lot of the tension already creeping into me. He bowed his head, placing his mouth near my ear as he whispered, “Thank you for what you did for Quentyn.”
I shook my head, and he kissed the uneven line of skin along my cheek. Keeping his fingers threaded through mine, he motioned to the Guardians.
Two came forward, placing their hands over their hearts and bowing as they each grasped a handle of the black doors. Stone scraped as they pulled them open. Candlelight spilled out onto the colonnade as Jasper prowled inside, his silver fur gleaming in the light. His son and then Delano followed as Casteel and I walked forward, the wolven dagger still clutched in my grip, hidden by the cloak. The remaining wolven flanked us, streaming along the thick columns lining the four walls of the interior chamber—black stone columns as reflective as the Temples in Solis. I watched the wolven roam between those glossy pillars, their ears lowered and eyes a luminous winter blue as they stalked the chamber, circling the tall, broad-shouldered male sitting on one of the numerous stone benches lining the center of the Temple of Saion, his back to us. His back was rigid as his head followed the wolven’s path.