Both Jaren’s mount and Kilidare sidestepped, tossing their heads in agitation, but neither panicked.
“It’s not safe out…” Aryn stopped mid-sentence as the winds went silent. They didn’t fade. In the span between one blink and the next, the winds just stopped. The clouds overhead melted away and the brilliant blue returned.
If it wasn’t for the smoke rising from the cleaved boulder, it would be like the past few moments had never existed.
“Here,” Aryn finished, so stunned, he couldn’t think straight.
“Let us carry on,” Jaren said. “My lord will not cease worrying until he sees her.”
Looking down at the precious burden he carried, Aryn said, “I don’t think seeing her will allay his fears, Jaren.”
“No. It won’t. If you think what happened now was bad…” Jaren’s face went grim and he shook his head. “There may well be an earthquake once Lord Lorne sees his beloved daughter.”
* * * * *
Aryn hadn’t ever spent much time considering Tyriel’s fae relatives, her home in the High Kingdoms, or what it was like in Averne, where she’d lived for the first half of her life.
Even if he had, anything he imagined would have fallen short. He knew that within moment of riding into the village of Averne, the heart of kingdom where Tyriel’s father, Prince Lorne, had lived for nearly two millennia.
The word town didn’t seem adequate to describe the oddly elegant sprawl of courtly homes and charming shops.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he followed Jaren down the main road. It was as quiet as a tomb, unlike any town or village or city he’d ever seen. It looked like the entire population had come out to see them on their journey to the castle where it perched on a slight incline at the town center, its walls a pale ivory that gleamed in the sun.
Nobody spoke or even made a sound, not even the odd youngling he saw here in there, a toddler holding his father’s hand, or the babe likely still feeding at his mother’s breast he was so small. All of them, even the few animals they passed, stared at Jaren, then Aryn—no. Not Aryn.
Their gazes were locked on the woman he carried.
Their prince’s daughter.
The castle gates were thrown open wide to receive them. As they passed by, guards in armor of a metal polished to a high shine bowed their heads and crossed their left arms over their breast in a sign of respect.
The salute was echoed by everyone they passed until they came to the wide stairs case that led to the castle doors.
At the top, a woman waited, alone, golden hair twisted into elegant spirals and twists, a gleaming coronet at her brow.
Jaren dismounted and came to Aryn, arms lifting to take Tyriel.
Once Aryn was off Kilidare’s back, he took Tyriel back into his arms. He waited for Jaren to readjust the blankets and cloak that kept her warm, eyes still on the woman watching them.
“Who is she?” he asked quietly.
Jaren didn’t bother looking. “My Lady Alys, Consort to Prince Lorne.”
“His wife?” Aryn finally looked at Jaren.
The fae shook his head. “No. She’s his consort and sits beside him at the High Counsel, helps with matters concerning the kingdom. But he only ever married once—Tyriel’s mother.”
Aryn wasn’t sure what the difference was, but he didn’t care enough to ask.
“Why isn’t he out here?”
Jaren gave him a narrow look. “He’s likely contained himself in a controlled environment for now.” Lifting a brow, he added, “Earthquakes.”
Aryn turned his gaze once more to the lovely woman waiting for them, her expression poised, save for the way she clasped her hands at her waist, her fingers so tight, her knuckles pressed white against skin a warm, golden shade of honey brown.
Tyriel stirred once more as they passed into the castle and although she smiled at her father’s consort as Alys led them inside, she said nothing.
“Prince Lorne awaits in the iron chamber,” Alys said as she led them past the grand hall and down a long, narrow passage.
Aryn shot Jaren a puzzled look, but the fae warrior had his gaze fixed on the other woman.
They came to a stop outside a heavy wooden, decorated with a lattice work of thin iron strips. It was an elegant piece of art, but Aryn knew that iron was deadly to the fae.
Tyriel pushed against his chest. “Put me down,” she said.
He tightened his arms.
“I’ll greet my father on my own two feet,” she said, her voice as hard as the iron decorating the door.
Setting his jaw, Aryn carefully eased her to the ground, the cloaks and blankets spilling around her.
Jaren quickly gathered them up and a servant emerged from seemingly nowhere to collect them.
“If you even look unsteady, I’m picking you up again,” Aryn said.
Tyriel simply glanced at him. “Let’s enter. Neither Alys nor Jaren can’t tolerate the press of cold iron, so the longer we tarry, the longer they must wait out here alone.”
Aryn bite back a pithy response about how every other soul could get stuffed for all he cared. Instead he offered his arm and was relieved when she took it. Then, reaching for the latch, he opened the heavy door and stepped inside.
White silk draped the walls, swathes of it. Yet Aryn sensed the feel of iron beneath the silk, and the weight of spells—very old, very complex magic—that lay inside those walls. He felt the same under his feet and over his head and wondered at the insanity that lay behind constructing such a room.
But then he looked at the man standing before...well, a throne.
Hell burned in the man’s gaze.
Eyes of pale, luminous gold traveled over Tyriel’s face. Aryn knew what it was the fae prince saw—had committed those frail lines to memory.
“Da,” Tyriel said, moving forward.
Aryn moved with her, but before they could take a second step, the prince was in front of them, moving at a speed Aryn had never seen to catch his daughter in his arms.
“My precious daughter,” Prince Lorne said.
Magic exploded out of the prince.
Aryn felt crushed by it and clenched his hands into fists as he fought to ride it out.
The wild magic hit the iron walls where it was nullified, but more kept coming from Lorne until Aryn felt like he’d been flayed raw from it.
It ended in seconds, just like the wild burst of wind from earlier.
But now Aryn understood why the walls and floor and ceiling were all made of iron. This man’s rage could level a kingdom.
As Lorne wrapped his daughter in his arms, Aryn met his eyes over her head and gave a short nod.
He understood that wrath himself, all too well.
* * * * *
“Her magic is gone.”
“How does an elf survive such a loss?” Lorne murmured to Alys some time later as she entered their chambers, her body aching and weary.
Her mind was troubled, very troubled. The girl had suffered too many torments, and she could not tell her father all. Alys knew Tyriel, had watched her grow from babe to child to strong young woman and she knew without asking that Tyriel wouldn’t want her beloved Da to know all that had been done to her.
Lorne would want to know.
Alys smiled, although there was no humor in it. Her Healer’s vow would allow her to keep Tyriel’s secrets at least. And this concern, her magic, it was no betrayal to address that.