The Windward King, page 30
A grunt. Metallic creaking. The scrape of chair legs on the wooden floor. Shara’s stomach-birds wheeled faster. What if Thosena’s drugs had worn off and all the noise woke Iliath? What if he called for help or sat up in the dinghy and caught the guard’s attention through the window?
Long, agonizing moments passed, but at last the guard reemerged. “Nothing, Your Majesty.” She ruffled a hand through her windblown hair and glanced between Shara and Thosena. “I checked all the drawers, the cabinets, under the bed, even picked up the mattress. Unless we’re looking for Her Highness’s hairbrush, I don’t think there’s anything there.”
Shara nearly swayed with relief, but somehow he maintained his royal demeanor. “Well, Admiral?”
She glowered, but she had no response.
“Thank you,” Shara said to the guard. He gestured at the cuffs clipped to her belt. “If I might?”
Thosena’s expression darkened as the woman handed the cuffs to Shara, but she offered no resistance when he fastened the first one over the torn sleeve of her jacket. Her narrowed eyes watched him in anger . . . but also something else. “Who are you?”
He stepped closer, bringing them nearly chest to chest, and lowered his chin to regard her directly. “My name is Ishara,” he said quietly. “I’m a teveth of Clan Han. Did your father teach you that word, Admiral? Teveth?” He searched her face. “It means my wings are still growing, but I fly all the same. It means I claw myself back up when I fall. It means I don’t run. Not from the storm. Not from you.” Korith’s grinning face flashed before his eyes, and his throat tightened. “And never from myself.”
The second cuff gave a resolute click, and Shara stumbled back, elated yet suddenly exhausted. The sailors grasped Thosena’s arms again and marched her toward the hold. Shara watched their descent as if through a spring mist, staring until the rustling movements across the deck finally pulled him back into everything that remained.
“Captain Sothal.” He pivoted slowly. “Commander Albrith?”
The two Tethamari made their way forward, Sothal supported by Mereth.
“Please accept my apology for the actions of my admiral and everything that has resulted from them. I know it’s hardly sufficient given what’s happened, but I hope to prove my sincere desire for peace with more than words. If you wish to press on to Tethamar, I understand.” He swallowed a ball of nerves. “But I hope that you will instead return with us to Farna. Her Highness and I will lay this to rest once and for all.”
He extended his hand. Sothal clasped it immediately, and though Albrith’s handshake was stiff, she shook nonetheless. As they and Mereth began barking orders at those well enough to still manage a ship, Shara slipped into the cabin and locked the door behind him.
The real king was waiting, and the least Shara could do before curling up in a sunbeam and sleeping forever was ensure that Iliath did not wake up in that dinghy.
Chapter 48
More Shara
The next time someone made Shara king, he was going to outlaw healing rooms.
Well, no. That would be horrible. But perhaps he’d change the configuration of the beds, which seemed to jump into his path no matter where he paced.
And while he was at it, he’d get rid of the stench. And the oppressive silence, too, which was leaving him little to do but think about all the ways his impending audience with Iliath could go wrong.
He almost wished he and Korith hadn’t stopped to visit the still-sleeping Tishel on their way to Iliath’s rooms, but Korith could twist any route through the palace into a detour past his sister, and Shara could pace here as easily as he could outside the king’s study.
At the far end of the room, he pivoted sharply and nearly collided with yet another bed. With a feline hiss, he leapt out of its way.
“All right there, furball?” From his place beside Tishel’s bed, Korith gave a quiet laugh that sputtered into a cough, and Shara changed course to hurry toward him. “I’m fine,” Korith chuckled, waving him off. “But you need to calm down. You know they can smell fear.” He gestured around the room at the empty beds.
Shara rolled his eyes, but his muscles loosened. “I know.” Smiling sheepishly, he raked a hand through his hair and over his horns. “I know.”
He wove the rest of the way to Korith. After giving the sleeping Tishel a soft pat on the shoulder, he fell against the wall, blowing out a breath and inhaling deeply. Korith’s scent mingled with the tang of burn salve, but he no longer reeked of smoke and alsum, and Shara battled down the urge to shift into something small and curl up in the afternoon sunlight spilling over Korith’s shoulders. Iliath would never know where he’d disappeared to.
The moment of calm faded, and tension coiled through his limbs again. Perhaps all this waiting to meet Iliath had not been wise. Shara had spoken with him, of course—he’d revived the king on the Rosette and explained enough that Iliath wouldn’t accidentally reveal the true circumstances of his kidnapping. But the remaining explanations had been left to others. Korith, Nashai, and Gepar had spent most of the past few days locked away with the king, each telling what they knew of the previous week’s events. All of them had thought it best that Shara not formally meet the king until Iliath had accepted the news that “we, uh, replaced him,” as Korith had said with an awkward shrug.
But now the time had come, and not even Korith’s presence and the hope of Tishel awakening made the waiting any easier.
Fiddling with his shirt—Korith had gifted him Barathi garments and politely neglected to comment when Shara removed most of the shirt’s back and added his mother’s coat to the ensemble—he shifted his weight from foot to foot. The floor’s chill seeped into his toes, and the rough stone of the wall scraped over the leaves and twigs along his spine.
The sensations should have been reassuring, but he only fidgeted worse. Should he have dressed more human? Looked more human?
At his side, Korith bent forward, careful of his wound, and swiped Tishel’s flask off the bedside table. Shara shoved aside the doubts and focused on the sleeping figure.
Willow had been as honest about Tishel’s chances of recovery as she’d been about Korith’s, but her hope had shone through, as well as her admiration—Tishel’s wind shield had been more effective than she’d believed. Several days had proved Willow’s optimism well-founded, but though Tishel was now waking regularly, neither Shara nor Korith had yet witnessed it, and every hour Korith fretted more and said less.
Korith turned the flask over and over in his hands, and the faint sound of sloshing liquid filled the otherwise quiet room. Sunlight reflected off the polished metal, sending streaks of light flickering over the wall and wisps of chocolate scent wafting between them with each—
“Do you think she’s avoiding me?” Korith asked.
Shara started, his half-formed words of comfort stalled by the unexpected question. “What?”
“Do you think she just . . . pretends to sleep every time I come?”
A pang shot through his chest. He’d not delivered Tishel’s unfinished message—she’d survived, after all, and he hadn’t wanted to put the wrong words in her mouth. But he doubted the right words had had anything to do with avoiding Korith.
“No,” he said earnestly. “No, of course not. They said she asked about you when she first woke up, remember?”
“That doesn’t mean . . .” He swallowed hard and rolled the flask faster, until Shara worried his shaking, blistered hands would drop it. “I wanted to set things right between us. But every time I asked to talk to her, she said she was busy. And she was, I suppose, but . . . But what if she—” His knuckles whitened, and he shoved abruptly off the wall and gave a jerky shrug as he grabbed his cane. “But you’re probably right. Anyway, we should go. Don’t want you to be late.”
Shara stepped into his path. “Korith, she’s healing. She’s not avoiding you. Trust me. I’m alvithi. I’d know if she were awake.” He shook his head dramatically, then snatched a wilting flower out of the vase on Tishel’s bedside table and ate it for good measure.
A small smile tugged at Korith’s lips. A few more turns of the flask, and the expression widened somewhat. “I’m not sure I believe you, but you gave yourself a compliment, so I’ll take it.”
“Oh, be quiet.”
“No, really, if I’d known I could balance us out by wallowing in doubt, I’d have done it a long time ago.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Or was it because I nearly died? Because I could do that a couple times a month if you need—”
Snickering, he ducked Shara’s swat—then yelped in surprise and lurched into the table, arm clutching his wounded side. The table legs dragged over the floor with a loud bark, and the vase wobbled dangerously. The cane and flask both slipped from Korith’s hands and hit the stone in a loud clatter.
Tishel groaned, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Si!” Korith hurried around the bed, nearly tripping over the fallen flask. “You’re awake!”
Shara’s heart swelled. “About time.”
She squinted against the sunlight and tilted her head away from its morning cheer, only to stiffen when her gaze came into focus on her visitors. Her face colored as she took in Korith, then twitched in surprise at Shara. For long seconds, her eyes travelled back and forth between them, refusing to settle, but finally she frowned at Shara.
“Have you always been half tree?”
He laughed. “Yes, I have.”
“Oh.” Cautiously she drew her arms from beneath her blanket and plucked her spectacles from the bedside table. She slid them on and surveyed him again. “That explains a lot.”
The remark was so like Tishel that he grinned despite having no idea what she meant.
Across the bed, Korith showed no sign of having heard the exchange. His intense gaze had stalled somewhere near Tishel’s chin, and his trembling hands twirled a flask he no longer carried. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Awful,” she said to the rafters, which seemed to be as close to Korith’s face as she could make herself look. She pressed a palm gingerly against her torso, and a bit of steel sharpened her expression. “But less dead than Thosena hoped. Nothing keeps you alive like spite.”
A soft, almost frantic laugh broke from Korith, and though Tishel glanced at him for only half a breath, his face spread into a wavering smile. “It’s not spite. You’re . . .” He swallowed so visibly that Shara’s own throat closed in sympathy. “You’re too amazing to die.”
Tishel flushed, scoffed, looked anywhere but at Korith. Her attention paused on Shara before settling on the bed Korith had been placed in after the fire. She clenched her jaw and looked away, daring another half-glance at Korith. “Yes, well,” she said stiffly, her face growing even redder, “maybe it’s a family trait.”
Korith’s face lit up. Shara chirruped.
With obvious effort at ignoring them both, Tishel drew a bracing breath and pushed herself upright. Immediately she fell back, her sharp gasp deepening into a frustrated huff.
Korith reached out. “Can I—”
“I don’t need your help,” she growled.
He flinched back, and by the time regret flashed over Tishel’s face, he’d already pivoted to stare at the wall. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”
Tishel’s hands balled around her blanket. “I’m—”
“No, it’s fine.” His voice came out high and thin. “I was . . . Never mind. We should go.”
He rattled off something about Shara visiting Iliath and himself going to see the Mithels, his tone so painfully casual that the errands sounded like excuses even to Shara. With a forced smile at Tishel, he snatched up his cane and hurried for the door, shoulders hunching. Chest tight, Shara followed.
“Lord—” Tishel’s voice caught. “Korith.”
Korith staggered to a halt. Inch by inch, his shoulders lowered, but he didn’t turn. Stuck halfway between the bed and the door, Shara could only glance from one sibling to the other, as invisible as if he were a whole tree.
Tishel stared at Korith’s back, one foot twitching visibly beneath her blanket. “I’m going to be extremely bored, stuck here like this. Perhaps you would . . . come back. If you have time.”
Korith whirled around. “Of course,” he croaked, voice splintering. A smile spread over his face, and with unsteady footsteps, he made his way back to her bed. “Of course. We can talk. Or play malir. Or drink chocolate. Or . . . or sit and do nothing. It’ll be amazing.”
She rolled her eyes. “We can expand your vocabulary.”
“Sure.” Korith grinned. “Whatever you want. Just us. No gryphons.”
Tishel frowned at Shara, who smiled and shrugged. Korith could explain if he chose, assuming he had any more complete sentences left in him.
Unperturbed, she nodded. “All right. Good. I . . .” She fidgeted with her shirt, then released it abruptly and resumed staring at the ceiling. “Good luck with the king, Shara.”
She said nothing else to Korith, but from the look on his face, he didn’t care.
Leaving Tishel to rest, they made their way toward Iliath’s rooms. With every step, Korith’s smile grew wider and his gait more buoyant, until Shara feared rain might start falling out of the cloudless sky just to counteract Korith’s cheer. But no rain fell and no clouds formed, and Shara had nothing to do but bask in the sunlight, startle passing servants, and absorb Korith’s good mood.
“So,” he observed after several hallways, grinning, “now that that’s settled, you have only Lady Bethen to worry about.”
Korith’s face turned bright red. “One thing at a time, furball,” he chuckled, shoving gently into Shara.
But the rest of the way down the hall, he alternated between glancing over his shoulder and composing lunch invitations under his breath.
>><<
By the time they arrived at Iliath’s rooms, Shara had startled one too many passersby, and it was no longer amusing.
He and Korith were bowed into Iliath’s outer office by two frowning guards and a wide-eyed Amesal, and Shara immediately began pacing. The lack of hospital beds did not make his progress any easier—he couldn’t see a single thing while images kept flashing across his vision. The people in the halls. Amesal and the guards. Tishel.
He passed in front of the mirror and paused almost automatically to check that his horns were straight, and the childish old habit sent his nerves flaring like lightning.
What if Iliath didn’t let him stay? The thought had not occurred until now, when all those reactions cascaded into him at once, reminding him how alvithi he was.
Yes, Thosena could have achieved her goal without her imarth abilities, but her actions had made all too clear the threat that an alvithi among humans could pose. Shara wasn’t foolish or suddenly overconfident enough to ignore the truth: He’d impersonated the king. He could do it again.
Suddenly his straight horns seemed more an indictment than a recommendation.
“Shara?” Korith appeared beside him in the mirror, soft concern in his eyes.
“Do you think he’ll let me stay?” he blurted out, tearing his gaze from his reflection.
Korith’s brow creased. “What?”
“I want to stay. I know I said . . .” They hadn’t ever talked about his resolution to leave, and now that it could very well become reality—a royally decreed reality—he needed Korith to know the truth. “But what if Iliath . . .”
His fears tumbled out of him while he paced the bed-free office, Iliath’s study door looming in the corner of his vision like a gaping maw preparing to devour him. Korith listened in silence, and Shara was preparing to give him permission to be as overoptimistic and gryphony as possible when the inner door opened and Princess Nashai emerged, her eyes alight and an armful of papers clutched to her chest. Lady Masar followed, hiding behind her hair.
They started in unison, and Shara wilted further.
But immediately Nashai’s expression shifted into delight. “Shara.”
The cheer in her voice brought a smile to his face despite everything, and he bowed, trying not to squirm or otherwise destroy her first impression of his true form. “Your Highness. I hope the negotiations are going well?”
There’d been plenty of uncertainty about the treaty even after Iliath’s recovery—longstanding prejudice did not die because of a single joint rescue effort, and Shara had overheard more than one grumbled conversation in the past few days, some among the Barathi, others among the Tethamari.
But Nashai and Iliath were still trying. And if the humans could see past old prejudices and misconceptions, perhaps there was hope for Barath’s lone alvithi, too.
Nashai nodded resolutely, fingers working the edges of the papers. “I do believe there’s hope yet for this treaty, thanks to you.”
Thanks to you. Old denials and self-deprecations warred with a new urge to cherish the compliment. “I’m glad. I heard Lord Fethan wanted you to return to Tethamar.”
Nashai and Lady Masar shared an expression that was somehow both smug and embarrassed.
“He did indeed,” Nashai said. “Poor Teren had to sign a number of words she pretends not to know.”
Lady Masar turned pink, and Korith shifted a snort into a cough.
Shara winced. “Was it that bad?”
She smirked. “It was nothing I couldn’t manage. And excellent practice for negotiating with Iliath.” Shara’s face must have done something horrible, for her smile softened. “You needn’t worry—he’s in a fine mood, and very eager to meet you.”
By the time Shara remembered he could shift away a blush, it was too late, and there was no alvithi cure for nausea. “That’s, uh. That’s good.”
Unless Iliath was simply eager to get rid of him. Or behead him.
Did humans behead people, or was that idle rumor?
Nashai hefted the papers into one arm and tucked a stray braid behind her ear. “You’re still coming to dinner, yes? I’m so looking forward to speaking with you at greater length.”
