Heir of Stardust and Secrets (Mythic Spark #1)

33. Unsatisfactory Answers

Chapter 33

Unsatisfactory Answers

“ I ’ve heard you’ve known Thaddeus since childhood,” Wymond said.

I stayed silent, not wanting to reveal more than necessary—besides, he hadn’t technically asked me a question. Within a few seconds, his nostrils flared, likely realizing I wasn’t about to say anything unless prompted.

Eyes narrowed, he broke the silence first. “How did you first meet?”

It was a careful question. I’d been occupied and hadn’t noticed if Wymond and Thaddeus had exchanged pleasantries; he could be testing me to see if our stories were aligned.

“I’m sure the table is uninterested in my childhood memories,” I said in a soft, innocent voice.

“On the contrary, when it comes to you, I’d say this table is acutely interested in every last detail.”

“Oh, well, King Thaddeus is the dreamer, and a much better storyteller than I,” I said, glancing at Thaddeus. “Would you tell our story, old friend? ”

Wymond kept his eyes on me, but Thaddeus didn’t miss a beat diving into our fictitious story.

A genuine smile bloomed on my face as he told a tale of old. Not because of the nonexistent memories it stirred, but because he wove the story in such a way that I found myself lost in it. I’d witnessed this skill firsthand when he’d shown me via spellcraft how the spark had come to be. Only then did I fully appreciate that those vivid images were born from his beautiful imagination—a dreamer indeed.

Thaddeus had everyone enraptured in the tale, laughing at how he’d seen me trip, covered in mud head to toe, but kept my chin held high, unwilling to yield any dignity to the, then, princeling.

I’d interject here and there with comments, sighs, or laughter, my participation helping to establish the tale as true to those who heard it.

Thaddeus didn’t stop at our first meeting but launched into recounting his father’s sudden death less than a year ago. How the letter had come, and how we’d made our way here. By publicly sharing the story, he’d effectively taken away Wymond’s ability to pick apart our past, trying to trip us up. Now everyone had a firsthand account of the story, including myself.

Thaddeus finished the tale at our arrival at the Summer Court, and at that, Caius raised a glass and said, “And how joyous an occasion that we are reunited after so much time.”

Shortly after, dinner platters were cleared, giving way to desserts adorned with fruits in every hue imaginable. I admired the vibrant spread but didn’t serve myself, as the feast had more than satisfied my appetite.

The gentle cadence of conversations around the table continued, and I found myself lulled into a trance, lost in my own thoughts.

Why had Myron and Fiora only traveled as a pair? What was more important to Wymond than joining the soiree? Where had Caius hastily valenned to after we’d returned to the grove? Would Amos’ wisp truly no longer thrust visions upon me? Even so, I doubted my dreams would offer the same courtesy. What happened next—when we returned to reality and put the pretty dresses away?

Thought after thought consumed me, and I knew there was only one way to silence the incessant chatter. A deep craving filled my chest as my fingers rubbed together, missing the cool steel between them. I needed the reassuring weight of my dagger, the sweet, satisfying thunk of blades hitting true, the slickness of my body from the effort.

Perhaps Thaddeus could instruct me in the art of swords as well as spellcraft. I’d never forget watching Nevander and him spar. Their power and unwavering trust in their weapons flashed in my mind. The idea of learning from warriors who’d perfected their skills over centuries sent a thrill of excitement through me, but most importantly, I needed to start training again.

Exhaustion hit me as the evening progressed, and I had to will myself to stay. I hoped my companions garnered more information than I had. Fiora and I had conversed about nothing of importance, and Endymion had gone distant since I’d refused to answer Wymond’s question.

I slid my gaze down the table, and Tarrin caught my eye, giving me a nod of understanding, and encouragement to stay here, stay engaged. I blinked slowly to him, conveying just how tired I was.

I know, his kind gaze answered.

I brought my focus back up the table to find Thaddeus engaged in conversation with Myron, Fiora, and Caius.

The weight of Wymond’s gaze fell upon me, and I faced him, unflinching. Darkness flickered in his eyes, but I didn’t dare look away as his power pressed against me.

It was forceful, demanding. More direct than Caius’ or Myron’s magical inquisitions. I tapped into my energy field, the one I’d noted around others, and envisioned it fortifying. The blackness in Wymond’s eyes guttered for a blink, and his mounting fury at being denied access was palpable. His imposing power intensified, pressing aggressively against me, no longer content with mere probing.

“Is there something you would like to ask me, High Lord?” I said.

Instantly, the room fell silent, and the air felt thick.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, flashing me a coy smirk.

“I mean the power you’ve wrapped around me that’s demanding to gain access.”

“And how would you know such things?” he said as if he’d caught me in a trap.

“I suppose when you’re that sloppy with your powers, anyone could feel it.”

“Would you prefer I caress the answers out of you instead? Or does that only work for King Thaddeus?” he crooned, and I could feel his magical touch caress the barrier I’d fortified.

I shuddered and didn’t dare look at Thaddeus, not wanting to risk giving our secret away. I knew Wymond couldn’t smell it on us; he was gambling that I’d slip up.

“Thaddeus has no need for such methods, as there are no secrets between us,” I said. Wymond’s magic tried different angles, pressing harder, trying to find a way in.

“Wymond,” Caius warned.

“Stay out of it, Caius,” Wymond spat, turning to address him. “You allowed her into our realm not knowing what she is. Only a witch could feel our powers the way she does. You’re deluding yourself if you think this child isn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

He returned his attention back to me.

Seething and done with these games, I stood up, hands resting on the table, and leaned forward, squarely facing the high lord of the Autumn Court. “Lord Wymond, your interactions with me have been brief and superfluous, yet you malign and slander me with no attempts to veil your disdain. Your magic presses for answers that you hoped to garner without my consent, and yet I’m the wolf in sheep’s clothing? You want to know who I am, Lord Wymond? I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman who dared to dream with her best friend. Who took a leap of faith when an unlikely invitation arrived, and who believed those who promised her safety during this momentous event. I hoped for magic to be real, for bonds to be formed, and for new beginnings to unfold. And how have I been rewarded for that belief and faith in your kind? A high lord tortures me, and then”—my voice cracked, and I held back tears as I continued—“tries to kill me with a wisp of his magic. Just a wisp. And now you,” I said, now angry, recharged, “press your questions and power against me, call me witch, and think me evil? Which one of us is in a foreign place, adjusting to realities that only the insane would believe should I recount them? Which one of us is helpless should you, any of you”—I looked around the table—“choose to end my life? I came in good faith, High Lord, as a guest of this court. What am I? Something new. And I’m sure, after centuries, that terrifies you. But you’re the high lord of the Autumn Court, and the commander-in-chief of the Axelian Army, so pray tell, High Lord, what exactly is it you have to fear from a mortal child ?” I stood there, waiting for him to respond, but only utter silence met me as we took each other’s measure.

“Do you know what it was like to have Amos’ eyes linger on my exposed body as he threatened to do more than just kill me in my own chamber?” I said in a low, cold tone. He didn’t answer. “No, you wouldn’t understand what a violation of that kind would feel like. What it would cost you. But. I. Stayed.”

Turing my gaze from Wymond, I looked to Caius. “Please excuse me, Lord Caius.” I slid my eyes back to Wymond, and said, “The hospitality is overwhelming tonight, and I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

I made to leave, and my three companions stirred, but I put a hand up, stopping them. I didn’t want them with me, and we needed them to stay and observe the fallout of this conversation.

All eyes were on me, and the room stayed silent save for the clear, clipped sounds of my heels across the tile and my skirts dragging behind me as I took my leave.

A slurry of rage and panic muddled my mind as I walked toward the villa—or at least what I thought was the right direction. Damn it. I’d become so accustomed to escorts leading the way that I hadn’t marked any landmarks. Stupid. Utterly stupid to be so complacent. I knew better than to be weaponless and ignorant about my surroundings. Then again, any weapon would be a fool’s comfort in this damn place.

I was done paying the toll for eternal summer, done with all of this. Fuck Eithan and my damn promise to leave. Stars, I actually missed the time when my family’s lack of love and their belief in me being cursed were my biggest problems.

How in damnation had I found myself here, caught up in ancient magic, centuries-old grudges, orphaned, fighting to find siblings that couldn’t care less about me, and in another damn realm? The spark—what a joke. As if there was anything I could actually do against the fae. This was pointless. Our plan would never work.

“Nyleeria?” a male voice asked from behind me.

“What!” I whirled toward whoever had dared talk to me.

Endymion came up short at my tone, anger clearly radiating off me.

“What?” I demanded again.

He shifted his weight, seeming to second-guess his approach.

“What does His Lordship want now?”

Endymion took me in, still mute. I glowered up at him, then turned to keep walking. I didn’t make it three full steps before he valenned in front of me.

“Gods damn it!” I said, startled by his instant appearance.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft, concerned.

“What do you care? I’m just an expendable human witch to you all.” All composure, all eloquence, gone. “Sure you don’t want to valen me somewhere private where you and your ilk can dissect me piece by piece, see why I’m so different ? Did it ever occur to any of you that you haven’t seen a human in so damn long that maybe the only difference is my mortality? My humanity? You should try it, you know, the humanity part of it. Maybe it wasn’t woeful ignorance that kept us away for five centuries. Maybe we saw who you are, what you are, and chose decency, chose to forget. You can have your magic and your secret realm if this is the cost.”

Silence filled the space between us for a long moment.

“You’re trained with weapons,” Endymion said.

That was the last thing I’d expected him to say, and I didn’t know how to answer.

“The dance the other night,” he continued. “Only someone trained in the art of weaponry could have assessed me with such accuracy.” He stepped forward, taking my right hand in his, and I let him. Whether it was shock or a will that had burned out, I wasn’t sure.

His fingertip caressed the inside of my pointer finger, then padded tip of my thumb and middle fingers. “Your calluses, they’ve begun to fade, but they’re still there. They never really go away. It’s been, what, maybe three months since you last held a blade?” The question was directed more to himself. “It’s a shame, though; your hands tell me you throw with strength and precision. Do you see how clean this mark is?” He traced the callus. “This gives you away as a deadly thrower. It’s rare to see marks this clean. Blades make sense for you, though, as you’re so tiny.” He turned my hand over and laid it on his, accentuating his point—his fingers could have easily wrapped around mine. “Blades allow you to maintain distance from your enemy, which is to your advantage, even though you know how to fight.” Turning my hand back, knuckles now facing him, his thumb followed the scars I’d accumulated over years of sparing with Eithan.

Endymion gave a tentative smile, then released my hand.

“I am sorry, Nyleeria. It doesn’t matter to me why you can feel our powers; perhaps some humans always could. Wymond doesn’t trust easily, and he took his questioning too far. As for Amos, I didn’t know about the wisp, and I’m deeply grieved for you, for what he did.” He looked at me as if he were ashamed to be in the same category as Amos—to be male.

The sincerity of his apology caressed the high walls I’d unwittingly built in my hot temper, and I felt more comforted by those words than I thought I should.

“Thank you,” I said, realizing he was the first to offer me such words.

“Nyleeria, would you like to throw with me? I know a place.”

The sweet release I craved from feeling cool steel between my fingers was like a drug I’d been deprived of—even though I could never forget how it felt. I couldn’t say no to a hit of that blessed release, even if it was a foolish idea.

In answer, I offered Endymion my hand, and he valenned us away.