“On the matter of what? The dragon?” Luka questioned. It wasn’t so unusual for the two of them to be called into a meeting. After all, they were both learning how to rule. But something in the king’s tone made this particular meeting seem different, more important somehow.
“On the matter of postponing the courtship trials,” her father said.
Lyana’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“How long?” Luka asked.
“The ravens have asked for time, a few days at most, to regroup after the attack and help tend to their wounded. Your mother and I believe the House of Peace should have a unified opinion before the other houses arrive and try to interject on the matter. We’ve never postponed the ceremony before, and now of all times, with the fire god gaining strength, the idea seems rash. Yet, I sympathize with their situation.”
Luka nodded once, strong and sturdy, duty personified.
But Lyana chewed her cheek, thoughts racing a mile a minute. “The wounded? Did they say how many were wounded?”
“There’s no tally yet.”
“Are there any dead?” she asked, unable to help herself.
“Not that I’m aware of,” the king replied. When she opened her mouth to say more, he stopped her with a look. “That’s enough for now. We need to meet with the advisors before the next house arrives.”
Lyana swallowed her questions, but that didn’t stop them from swirling and churning in the back of her mind as she followed her family through the gilded door of the royal chambers, down to the meeting rooms on the level below.
Because she’d seen the fight.
She and Cassi were the only two people who truly knew what happened.
There were no wounded who needed to be tended to, no soldiers to regroup, no battle from which to recover. There was one fallen soldier—a soldier the ravens must believe was dead. It was sad, yes, but hardly so dire as to require delaying the courtship trials.
So why were they lying? Why were they exaggerating the truth?
And more importantly to Lyana, what in the world were they hiding?
8
Xander
Sphaira, the crystal city, was a magnificent sight to behold, yet Xander felt empty as he stared through the translucent wall of the guest accommodations. Every house had their own domed building, arranged around the center palace in the same way their islands were, which put his near the northeastern edge of the bustling metropolis. His view of the entrance to the palace, which faced east to welcome the sun, was clear. Small figures zipped in and out of those towering doors, and he scrutinized them all. Tan wings. Ash wings. Speckled feathers. Patterned feathers. On and on it went. Nearly every dove in the House of Peace had a few white plumes. It would be impossible to find the owner of the ivory feather crushed within his fist.
Impossible.
“Lysander?” a suave voice called.
He didn’t move. “I’ve told you not to call me that a thousand times, Mother.”
“Why?” Queen Mariam asked, wings carrying her swiftly across the room to land by his side, her ruby gown vivid against the snowy landscape before them. “It’s your name. Lysander Taetanus, Crown Prince of the House of Whispers. And you’ll be hearing it quite a lot over the course of the next few days.”
Xander sighed. His wings drooped so low that his primaries dragged along the floor, but they sank further still when he turned to look into her brilliant violet eyes. “I’m not giving up on him.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
His laugh was a sad, dark sound. “Please, Mother. You think I didn’t see the way your face lit with the briefest spark when I told you of the dragon’s attack, when you saw the blood for yourself? You wanted Rafe gone the moment he was born, whether he was my brother, my best friend, or not. You’ve only ever seen him as a bastard.”
“That’s what he is,” she said simply, but Xander heard the undercurrent of hatred in her tone—the undercurrent that was always present when she spoke about his brother. He understood why she spoke of his father in that tone, but not of Rafe, who had been nothing but an innocent child at the time and a loyal companion to her lonely son ever since.
“Well, if you’re not here to tell me I’m on a fool’s errand, what are you here for?”
“I’m here to tell you to believe in yourself.”
Xander switched his attention to the world outside the room, which suddenly had become suffocating. “To believe in myself? That’s what I’m doing.”
“No,” she countered, her voice never rising, though it felt as if she were shouting all the same. “You are depending on him, relying on him, and you don’t need to.”
“We've already discussed this,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“No, you spoke to the advisors behind your queen’s back and turned them all against her to get your way. The two of us have never spoken about this.”
Xander rolled his shoulders, unable to deny that he’d gone around his mother in this one thing. She was queen, yes, but the courtship trials were about him, and for once he wanted to have the final say. The only say. “You’re right, Mother. And I’m sorry for that. But I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“Why don’t we sit?” she asked, motioning toward the chairs on the other side of the room, away from the window, away from the view, away from thoughts of Rafe. “And discuss it as two sovereigns should.”
Again, he didn’t move. “You’ll never understand, Mother, no matter how many times I try to explain. Rafe and I? We’re two sides of the same coin. Where I’m patient, he’s rash. When I plan, he acts. If I smile, he frowns. At home, I possess every trait of a king. Here, on the other side of the coin, in this foreign land, Rafe has everything I need for success. We balance each other. I can’t do this without him.”
“That’s not true,” she insisted, and lifted her wing, brushing her obsidian feathers against his, trying to soothe him. But he stepped out of reach.
In truth, his mother had given him every opportunity and every choice in life. She’d had special weapons made—shields that attached to his forearm, swords that strapped to his wrist, hooks, wooden hands, and metal fingers. Anything and everything that could be conceived, she’d ordered to be fashioned.
He’d hated them all.
The uncomfortable way they dug into his skin, the blisters that formed along his forearm, the way the sight of them made him feel somehow diminished, especially when his studies required no special tools or craftsmen. The books accepted him into their folds, their pages, and he in turn loved them. Mental exercise had always been his favorite thing. And even if he’d had ten fingers instead of five, Xander didn’t think he would have been any different. If anything, his disability just made it easier to follow his passions by providing an excuse people were too afraid to challenge.
Rafe was the fighter, gifted with a raven cry.
Xander was the prince, the peacemaker, the scholar.
Unfortunately, the trials were a battle, and they required a warrior.
“Not all of the trials are about physical strength,” his mother pressed, reading his thoughts.