But unlike in Eranahl, the latter never happened.
Despite the naked lust she saw in his eyes—lust that she willfully provoked in her weaker moments—Aren took her words to heart and never once came close to giving in to the heat between them. Heat that, despite what she’d said to him, seemed to burn hotter by the day.
It’s over, she told herself time and again. He’s the King of Ithicana—he needs to put his people first.
But in the darkest hours of the night, when she was curled around herself on the bed, her body aching with a twisted mix of desire and loneliness, logic meant little and hope everything.
It was only once the riverboat docked in Pyrinat that she finally abandoned those hopes, dedicating her mind wholly to the task at hand.
Taking Aren’s arm to help her across onto the dock, Lara paused to marvel at the enormity of the city around them.
The river Pyr, nearly a mile wide at points, ran through the center of Pyrinat, branching in countless places to create canals that wove through the city like watery streets. The buildings that backed onto these canals had doors leading to small docks, and there were dozens of curved bridges with narrow sets of stairs leading down to the water. The buildings themselves were all made of sandstone blocks, most with large windows of the clearest glass in all the world, and banners of colored fabric hung from the balconies overlooking the streets.
The smell of the sea blew inland, mixing with the scents of spices and cooking food, the pristine city streets devoid of filth. Valcottans dressed in bright, voluminous clothing filled the streets, the air filled with the sound of their voices as they bartered with vendors in the teeming markets.
Musicians seemed to play on every corner—and unlike in Vencia, they were finely clothed, apparently more interested in entertaining the crowds that gathered to listen than in earning any coin. Singers often accompanied them, young men and women whose songs Lara had never heard before, their instruments unlike anything she’d seen.
Aren, familiar with the city from prior visits, led her through the fabled glass markets, the vendors displaying everything from vases to glasses to sculptures that climbed to the sky, the sunlight filtering through them casting a rainbow of color on sandstone pathways. She stopped in her tracks more than once to watch in amazement as men and women blew strands of glass into ornate shapes, to which they often added wires of gold and silver to create art worthy of the Empress herself.
“This way,” Aren said, tugging at her arm. “What did you say the name of the place was again?”
“The Nastryan Hotel. The owner is apparently one of your spies.” And at the reminder, Lara’s awe of the glassworks faded, to be replaced by trepidation. There was supposed to be someone here to meet them with information about the state of Ithicana, but with the delay, what were the chances that the individual had remained? It wasn’t that she and Aren couldn’t manage themselves, but she’d hoped for updates. On Eranahl. And on her sisters. Not knowing if they’d all made it out safely was a burden she’d been trying not to acknowledge.
“Here.”
Aren stopped before a three-story building, the main level open to the street and boasting a large coffeehouse. At least a dozen people sat on colorful cushions around low tables, sipping steaming brown liquid from glass cups. A tiled corridor led to a large wooden desk, behind which sat a Valcottan man, his skin gleaming in the light of the lamps set to either side of him.
Approaching, Lara smiled. “Good morning. We have a reservation.”
The Valcottan’s eyes widened fractionally, flicking to Aren and then back to her. Then he nodded. “You are somewhat overdue.”
“Unforeseen circumstances delayed us.” She hesitated, afraid to ask. “Are there any messages?”
The man gave a slight shake of his head, and Lara’s stomach dropped. Had something happened? Had Ahnna failed in her attempt to secure Harendell’s support? Had Eranahl fallen?
“No messages,” the man repeated. “But perhaps the other member of your party might be able to give you the information you seek.”
Then he gestured into the coffeehouse to a lone figure sitting at a table in a corner.
Lara smiled.
38
Aren
It was a struggle to keep his composure. To keep from breaking into a run across the coffeehouse. To keep from breaking down entirely.
But Aren forced himself to walk slowly between the tables. To keep silent as he drew out a chair and sat down across from his countryman.
Eyes fixed on the cup in front of him, which was not filled with coffee, Jor growled, “I’m not interested in company.”
“Not even that of an old friend?”
Jor stiffened, then with painful slowness, he lifted his face. The old soldier stared at Aren for a long moment, then whispered, “I’d almost given up hope. Weeks . . . weeks, I’ve been here waiting.”
Then Jor was across the table, glass crashing to the floor as his arms tightened around Aren, the both of them nearly going backward. “You’re alive.”
Other than his brief meeting with Nana, it had been months since he’d spoken to anyone from Ithicana. Having Jor in front of him now was almost as good as being home.
“I thought you were dead.” Jor’s voice was choked, like he was trying to fight back tears, though Aren had never seen the man cry in all his life.
“It was a near thing more times than I care to count,” Aren said, noting that all the other patrons were staring. Pushing Jor back into his seat, Aren righted the table and sat back down. “Believe me, if I never see the desert again, it will be too soon.”
“The desert?” Jor’s eyes widened, then he turned to look at Lara, who stood a few steps away, a faint smile still on her face. “That wasn’t the plan, girl. You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Later. We’ve more important matters to discuss.”
Jor’s gaze darkened, and he nodded. “But not here.” Rising, he called to one of the serving girls, “Put it on my tab, lass. The glass, too.”
“You ever going to pay that tab, old man?” the girl responded, but there was affection in her voice. “I’ll have food sent up to your room. Mind you eat it—you’re withering away.”
It was true. Aren picked out the differences in Jor as he followed him out of the coffeehouse toward a flight of stairs. His shoulders were stooped in a way they hadn’t been before, his frame narrower, and his steps slower. Less certain. He was no longer a young man, but it wasn’t time that had aged him in the months they’d been apart. Jor had watched over Aren since he was old enough to walk, sacrificing his own opportunity for a family in order to keep Ithicana’s heir safe—to keep him alive. And Aren knew that Jor blamed himself for his capture, which meant he’d have blamed himself while believing Aren dead. “Thank you. For getting me out. And for waiting for me.”
Jor looked over his shoulder, brown eyes meeting Aren’s. But the only acknowledgment he gave was a short nod. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened the door to a room on the second floor, revealing a suite that overlooked the atrium at the center of the hotel.