Page 117 of Lore of the Tides

Lore shook her head, her own mirthless laugh tumbling from her lips. “In another life, maybe I would have chosen Asher and Finndryl. But Syrelle? Syrelle was never a possibility.” She wanted him to feel this pain. For once,shewas doing the hurting.

Lore frowned. She just wished that this felt like she thought it would. Since she had seen him last, something had changed within him. It soured her desire to wound him.

Syrelle’s gaze locked on hers. He worked his mouth as if to saysomething else to her, but then he closed it, drawing his lips into a rigid line. His eyes searched her face, alighting on every corner. Snagging on her freckles, her riotous curls that had tumbled into her face. Her lips and, lastly, her eyes. As if memorizing her features, as if he wanted to be able to picture her later.

Lore’s brows drew together in bewilderment. And then she saw him, really saw him.

The bones of Syrelle’s wrists jutted out beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His cheeks were hollow; his normally lustrous, deep-mahogany skin was sallow, and his eyes were ringed by dark smudges. He’d lost weight.

Worry tightened her chest.

What was going on with him? She didn’t know how to react to this adjacent version of Syrelle. This frightened Lore. She revisited their conversation.

Had henotcome to gloat before taking her grimoires by force? She had not had time to masterAuroradel, and her magic during the day was unpredictable, too powerful at times, and nonexistent at others. She’d almost boiled herself alive this morning when she’d tried to raise the temperature in the bathtub a fraction. She was sure he suspected this. He was a proficient alchemist. Was terrifyingly strong and adept at wieldingSource. Right now, he could overpower her with a thought and take them—if she fought him off, she risked killing them both, and possibly everyone on this dock. And he knew her. She would not risk it. Not here. Not now.

No, if he had not come to gloat and take her books, then... he’d come for something else.

Lore’s grip loosened a fraction on her grimoires, her knuckles stinging with how tightly she had held the clasps, and she stood up, her heart leaping into her throat. She opened her mouth.

“Syrelle.” Finndryl’s voice cut in, his tone shards of jagged ice from behind Syrelle. “Step away from her at once,” he ordered.

Syrelle steeled his shoulders against Finndryl’s harsh tone. Syrelle tore his gaze from Lore’s and turned to address a frightening-looking Finndryl, whose stance was wide, battle ready, his jaw set—rage burned within Finndryl like a beacon. The siren queen had given him the pick of her expansive armory before they left. Finndryl had forgone a broadsword and opted for a smaller weapon that drew less attention and hung nicely from a loop in his belt.

Finndryl clasped the hilt of his sword; he’d drawn the weapon partway out of its sheath, and the silver metal glinted threateningly. He was prepared to fight Syrelle if he tried to take the grimoires from Lore, and she had no doubt that if it came to it, their clash would be violent, bloody, and end with one or both of them dead.

Syrelle, who normally would have relished the chance to goad Finndryl, ignored the threat.

“Save your strength, Hwraeth, you will need it more than ever. And”—he addressed both her and Finndryl—“for gods’ sake, master your magic by the time either of you set foot on Alytherian soil. There is a price on both your heads.”

“We expected nothing less. Why are you wasting our time—”

Syrelle held up a hand to cut Finn off. Lore’s eyes narrowed in on a slight tremble in his fingers. “That’s not all. I received news from Alytheria this morning.”

Lore gasped, taking an involuntary step toward Syrelle. News? Her gut felt like it had turned to lead.

“When our ship went down, and we lost contact with Alytheria, the king made new plans for Duskmere.”

“What plans?” Lore was almost too scared to voice this question. Syrelle did not turn to look at her; still he directed what he had to say to Finndryl.

Finndryl looked uneasy at this revelation, but he did not take his eyes from Syrelle, nor his hand from the hilt of his sword.

“My cousin and I parted ways when we left Lapis Deep. I inquired where your travel barge was headed and worked out whereyou would dock. I arrived before you to ensure that I could keep watch over Lore. Coretha went home and told my uncle everything that we said in the sunken garden.”

“The argument we had?” asked Finn.

“Yes,” Syrelle hissed. “My emotions caused a lapse in my judgment. I forgot that my cousin was... Anyway, she overheard my intentions to use the books to aid Duskmere and, more importantly, that I planned to overthrow the king.” Syrelle cleared his throat, raising his chin. “I am to return home at once to be tried for treason.”

“Why would they send a messenger to warn you of this? Better to have you arrive unaware and apprehend you then.”

“My uncle is an impatient man; he would not want to wait for me to return on my own, potentially successful and with the power ofAuroradel. His terms are clear. I must arrive within six days or he will execute my aunt Maple and her children. He already has them in his custody...” Syrelle shuddered. “Which is not where anyone wants to be. Trust me, it’s better to be dead than his captive.”

Lore thought of the children running through their house, slipping and sliding in their stockinged feet. How safe they had been. How warm and loving their home. “Six days? That isn’t enough time! It will take weeks for you to even cross the sea.”

“If I depart at once and fly continuously, my magic should allow for my arrival with days to spare. My uncle is brash and impetuous. He may choose to end their lives early. Regardless of his word, he may not let them live anyway, just to punish me further.”

Lore pressed her hand to her mouth and swallowed back bile. She didn’t think she could despise anyone more than she did the King of Alytheria.

Finndryl’s voice was grave when he asked, “What news of Duskmere?”

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