When Brekken climbs up too, the sudden silence rings loud. He stops and stands framed against the hole in the roof, a soldier’s silhouette, and for a second the expression on his face is strange, still and uncertain. We can hear the music and noise from the summit, distantly, but the two of us might as well be in another world. Memories swirl through my mind like petals on the wind: him as a boy, the two of us chasing beetles or climbing trees after birds’ nests. The bond between us is still there, but it’s changed into something taut and charged, something that steals my breath.
But then he smiles, and unfastens his cloak, and it’s like no time has passed between us at all. He spreads it over the hay bale and comes to sit beside me, legs crossed. We’ve done this every summer for ten years, since he first appeared in Havenfall when he was seven. He was accompanying his delegate mother. It was the first summer after that horrible night. I was still shell-shocked after my mom’s arrest, after what happened to my brother.
We were the youngest residents of Havenfall then, too young to be part of the festivities, so Marcus packed us away to my room. Our babysitter was a maid who slipped away after half an hour—but it didn’t matter. Brekken and I were already in our own little bubble, entranced with each other. I was more surprised that he seemed fascinated with me too. Not for the reasons I was already coming to expect from people. Not because he’d seen the picture of me in the news, my round face red and wet with tears as a bailiff pulled me from a courtroom, usually accompanied by Mom’s mug shot and the moniker “Goodwin Lane Killer.”
This beautiful boy—even as a kid he was beautiful—was fascinated with me. My freckles and short fingers, my toys and love of horses that I’m pretty sure made him think for a while I was some sort of hero, facing up to those terrifying beasts. That first summer with him was the first time I felt like a person again, running around Havenfall and getting underfoot, teaching him knock-knock jokes (he never quite mastered the format), and exploring the woods around the inn, even though we weren’t allowed outside, because everyone thought a Solarian might still be on the loose.
That entrancement’s never faded for me, but I’ve no idea if the same is true for Brekken as he sits across from me, deftly uncorking the wine bottle. I don’t know if he thinks about me when he’s not in Havenfall, when he’s going about his day, riding wolves or sharpening his sword or lying in bed in the barracks. I don’t know how he feels about a lot of things. But then he distracts me by reaching into a satchel on his belt and bringing something out. A gilt-paged book only as long and wide as his hand, bound in dark red silk that gleams in the moonlight. The language on the spine isn’t familiar to me, but a chill sweeps through me as Brekken translates.
“Iavalar. Poems,” he says, looking up at me with a smile. He presses the volume into my hands, still warm from being close to his body. “By Stimarya, one of Myr’s most famous poets. Some people think her verse sentimental, but I’ve always loved it.”
I blush, running my finger along the smooth edge of the book. “Thank you so much,” I whisper. Brekken has always brought me gifts from Fiordenkill, but they’re usually little trinkets, jeweled earrings or good-luck charms of tiny carved-stone animals or, when we were littler, pretty rocks or leaves he found in the woods. Nothing as personal as this before. “You’ll have to teach me what they mean.”
“No need.” Brekken reaches over, opens the book and holds it open in my hand with two fingers. “I translated them already.”
I look down, my skin heating at his closeness. Sure enough, the printed text of a poem in the strange language of Myr runs down the right page, but on the left, Brekken’s careful, compact handwriting fills the page with blue ink. I make out a few phrases—snow like fleece falls over us; the tender stars hang low—before Brekken laughs, low in his throat, and shuts the book.
“Don’t read them now or I’ll be self-conscious.” He takes the book and slips it into my jacket pocket, an easy, familiar gesture. “How about you save them for the fall?”
I shift my weight, pleased and embarrassed, and the loft floor creaks slightly under us. Maybe it’s Marcus’s words earlier—You know how people talk—or maybe it’s just how Brekken looks in his soldier’s uniform, the embroidery on his tunic accentuating the flare of his shoulders and the blue of his eyes.
“Okay. But I didn’t get anything for you.”
Not when I wasn’t sure if I was even coming to Havenfall until that last moment at the bus station.
His eyes and teeth shine as he smiles. “That’s all right. I’m here, that’s enough.”
I lean closer to him without quite meaning to. These three months with him every year are all I get. No pictures or videos to remember him by, and it’s not like I can talk about him to anyone at home. Yeah, I have a crush on this guy. He’s a fairy-elf-warrior type. Gorgeous, stoic, not much of a sense of humor, but that might be because they don’t have sarcasm in his world. And he doesn’t think I’m a freak, so that’s a plus.
He produces a deck of cards from his breast pocket. It has gilt images on the back. “Cards of the Caves?” he asks, and I nod, because this is another of our traditions. A silly game, a kids’ game, but it makes my heart beat faster because it’s ours.
“So,” he asks, grinning as he cuts the deck into two equal stacks and hands one to me. “Anything happen this year?”
He puts one card down. Appropriately, it’s Fiordenkill, the white flowering tree on the back suggesting their blood and plant magic.
It’s the same question he always asks, but there’s no way I’m telling him about the thing, not at all. The words—death penalty—are cold, heavy, ugly, final. They have no place here under the stars, between us. I put down another card—Tural, from the centaur silhouette. Brekken grins and takes both cards, setting them down at his side. Fiordenkill beat Tural in that war, leading to the centaurs deciding to close off their portal. So it went in history, so it goes in the game.
I shrug off the loss and throw the question back at him. “You tell me.” I pat the uniform cloak beneath us. Sleek black fur, like mink, ripples under my palm. “What does a soldier do in a queendom at peace?”
I slap down another card and bite my lip to stop the shudder. It’s the picture of a silver goblet filled with wine, or maybe blood. It represents Solaria.
“Soldiers are always needed.” Brekken takes a sip of wine, passes the bottle to me. “The High Court …” He trails off, his fingers brushing mine. “There always seems to be some sort of issue. Good to have an army on hand.” He glances up at me, and I try to ignore the undercurrent of something unreadable in his voice. “What was the Silver Prince talking about earlier? About you being unhappy?”
He puts down another card, an insignia made of the four elements, for Byrn. This win is mine.
My chest tightens. “It’s just my uncle.” Now it’s my turn to look down, not wanting to see Brekken’s reaction. “He thinks, I don’t know, that I don’t understand the risks of being here.” I remember the Silver Prince’s words earlier, delivered with such surety. Danger is familiar to you. “But I do. Understand, I mean. And I don’t care.”