Between Tides Thunder(39)

His lips quirk into a half-smile. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

I follow him to where the soldiers sit in a small circle. An earthwielder has grown stalks of corn, and the men roast them over the fire. What an amazing ability—to never be without food, never worry about depleted reserves. Never go hungry.

The soldiers grow quiet as we approach.

First, Zev asks each of the soldiers about themselves and their families. The soldiers keep their responses short—and clean—as their eyes flick to me.

“Any trouble with the Rebellion?” Zev asks, finishing off a stalk of corn and grabbing another.

“No, sire. They’ve been quiet since the attack on your party,” one of the men says. He laughs, adding, “Probably nursing their wounds after facing your wrath.”

The other men chuckle in agreement, the ones closest to Zev slapping him on the back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Zev glances at me, as he has every few minutes, and I must not conceal my expression well enough because his lips curve into a soft smile, one brow arched in amusement.

My stomach flops, and I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to stare at my betrothal ring gleaming in the firelight.

“What about the palace?” Zev adds.

“Er, just a rumor, sire,” the same man continues. “But the Volcans might be sending an emissary. There’s been whispers about a battalion being sent to the coast to accompany them.”

The Volcans? Why would they send an emissary to Arbinj?

Whatever it is, it can’t be good for Tundrayn.


My pulse thunders in my ears as the capital of Arbinj rises before us—tall brick buildings, paved roads, green and brown banner flags flapping in the breeze.

We enter through the main road, wide enough for ten horsemen abreast. Citizens crowd the sides, pressed back by guards bearing the Arbinji crest.

Eyes track me from every direction—green, gray, brown—all as foreign as the cobblestones beneath our horse. Some glimmer with curiosity. Most brim with hatred.

None offer warmth.

As we ride farther into the city, I spot a middle-aged man elbowing his way to the front of the crowd. In his hand is something small and round. A fruit of some kind?

His eyes are hard.

Zev sees him, too. His grip tightens on the reins until his knuckles blanch. Above us, the sky darkens. Thunder rumbles.

“Zev,” I whisper in warning. This can’t be like Sulon all over again. I need these people to accept me. Not see me as their enemy.

“He means to throw it at you,” Zev growls. “He’ll die for it.” A bolt of lightning splits the clouds, bright and blinding.

“Please, Zev,” I implore, squeezing his hand.

Zev inhales deeply, then pins the man with a glare that could turn stone to ash. The color drains from the man’s face. He stashes the fruit behind his back.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Minutes drag by. My heart beats in my throat. Until finally—the palace looms ahead.

It’s a monstrosity. A fortress of gray stone and steel, with metal spires jutting from every tower. Tall wrought-metal gates surround the sprawling structure, and I catch a glimpse of greenery tucked behind its stark walls.

We ride into a vast courtyard. Where I might have expected a fountain, there stands a massive statue of King Varad—arms raised in triumph. Disgust coils in my gut at the sight of it, a monument to arrogance immortalized in stone.

Zev slows the horse to a stop and helps me dismount, handing the reins to a lanky blond stablehand. A cluster of servants scurries around us. None of them meets my eye.

I count the cobblestones beneath my boots, willing my hands not to tremble as we walk to the palace. I want to reach for Zev—but I don’t. I can’t. Not anymore.

I’m marching toward my future, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

We cross the threshold, and another wave of servants descends, swarming like anxious birds. Zev waves them away with a flick of his hand. They scatter instantly. One hurries ahead to announce our arrival.

Grim-faced statues line the winding hallways as an equally grim-faced Zev leads me toward what I assume is the throne room. My steps are weighted, as if I’m wading through knee-deep snow instead of striding across gleaming marble.

My heart lurches as we halt before two towering doors, the Arbinji crest seared deep into the dark wood. Four guards flank the entrance, their silver armor polished to a bright shine. The sight makes me acutely aware of the grime clinging to my skin, the wild tangle of my hair, the dirt crusted beneath my nails. We’ve been trudging through wilderness for over a month. When the weather warmed, I stole moments to rinse in streams, but it’s been nearly three weeks since the last true wash.

“Hey,” Zev says softly. “You look perfect.”

I don’t, but I offer him a weak smile for his kindness. There’s a tangible sense of grief shadowing his eyes, though he tries to mask it with a smile of his own. It frightens me how well I’ve come to know him. How well I can read him.

And how well he can read me.

His hand hovers on the handle, face twisting into a pained grimace. His head swivels as he scans the hallway on either side, almost as if searching for an escape. His hand tightens. His shoulders drop. He must’ve realized what I already know in my heart—there is no escape. Not from this.

Zev opens the door, and we enter.