“Yes,” he said, wings drooping slightly. “It had stood unblemished for millennia.”
I cautiously put my hand on a stone. It was cool but not as cold as normal stone would have been in this weather. Memories flickered. Her memories.
Cool stone, peace, a smile, ancient blue eyes…
I frowned. I wanted more than shadows. Breathing deeply, I sought the deeper memories.
I sketch the sigil and make my wish. Would that I could learn faster. He expects so much of me, and I fear I am a disappointment. In this place I feel whole. Perhaps the ancients can hear me and will touch me from afar. I imagine that the song of the stone is their song, their voices. I have not told Giovanni this for he would surely think me foolish.
Holy crap. Through the memory I could almost almost feel how to shape the floater. I tried to call it up again for an instant replay, but nothing. Damn. That could have been useful. Instead, I focused on what I did understand from the memory. “She used to come here a lot,” I murmured. It had been whole and untouched in her lifetime, existing in perfection in the shadow of a cliff. Now I could see where the cliff had collapsed, crushing part of the pavilion and creating the tumble of boulders.
Kehlirik dipped his head in a nod. “Elinor. Yes. Alone and with the lord.”
I let the memories flicker through my head.
Ancient blue eyes upon me as he approaches. How glorious he is! His smile is like sunshine, and when he touches my cheek I want to melt. He holds me close to his side and strokes my hair. I have no fears here.
“She worshipped him,” I said with a soft sigh.
Kehlirik tilted his head, seemed to consider. “Yes, worship. A good choice of word.”
“Poor thing,” I murmured. So young. Barely old enough to know herself. How could she not adore Rhyzkahl when he extended affection to her? Was this how Rhyzkahl felt about me?
Kehlirik shifted his wings. “She was content.”
Could she even conceive of having anything else? I wondered about Giovanni. Maybe in the end she found something else, though since she died so young, it never had a chance to truly blossom.
Sighing, I pulled my hand from the stone. “What about Gio—”>“It is the mandate of Rhyzkahl.”
Even having guessed it had to be him, it was still a punch in the gut to hear it. “He doesn’t trust me?” Why would he think I’d want to run away from him?
Kehlirik shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I can only say that he has forbidden the grove.”
I turned toward the trees again, ache of separation like a knot in my chest. The unfairness of it clawed at me. “I only wanted to sit and think,” I said as disappointment curdled in my gut.
Kehlirik huffed and resettled his wings. “There is a place that will serve well for this, if you will allow me to show you.”
“Sure,” I said, throat tight. Apparently I didn’t have a choice. Bereft, I turned away from the grove.
“Come,” he said. “We will take the path through the gardens.”
Annoyed and upset, I followed glumly. Did Rhyzkahl really think I would flee here? And what if I did want to leave? Clearly, this option wasn’t available to me. Am I a prisoner again? What the hell is going on?
An arcane tingle prickled the back of my neck, stopped me in my tracks. It’s the grove, I realized with astonishment. I could feel when someone was using the grove. How awesome was that? “Someone’s coming through the grove,” I said. But then worry spasmed through me. What if it was Mzatal trying again to get me back?
But Kehlirik seemed unruffled. “Kri. Qaztahl…lords arriving today and tomorrow. Six more.”
I stared at him. “Six? Why?”
He snorted. “Because that is the number of those not yet here,” he said in a duh! tone. “Kadir and Jesral are within the palace already.”
“But why are they all coming here?” I asked, anxiety flickering. “Is Mzatal coming?”
“It is the time of the conclave,” Kehlirik replied calmly. “Should Mzatal choose to participate, he could do so with impunity. It is unlikely he will choose thus. There. Elofir arrives.”
Anxiety gave way to curiosity, and I peered toward the tree tunnel. The tingle faded, but not before I noted that it seemed to have a different feel, or resonance, than when it heralded Mzatal. Maybe each lord had his own “signature” when it came to the grove?
A reyza bounded out of the tree tunnel and took flight with a bellow, closely followed into the air by an inky-black shape I knew to be a zhurn. A few seconds later, a man with short, sandy-blond hair and the slim, athletic build of a dancer emerged. Elofir, Kehlirik had said. He wore brown boots and pants paired with a white ruffled shirt that looked like it came out of the Regency era, and he was engaged in an animated discussion with a savik a bit smaller than seven-foot-tall Turek, the one I’d encountered at Szerain’s shrine. A syraza trailed a few steps behind. The grove still resonated with Elofir’s aura—about as different from Mzatal and Rhyzkahl as night and day. There was nothing of menace or contained danger about him, though he still carried himself with Presence. The power he exuded was gentle and calm, and through my too-fucking-cool connection with the grove, I had the unwavering impression that, if given the choice between losing face or engaging in conflict, he would choose the former, and not because of any sort of cowardice. He simply felt peaceful.