Page 124 of A Cage of Crystal

Teryn leaned forward, taking in the complex diagram of intersecting lines and loops that marked both pages. The pattern was the same on each page, creating a mirror image. Teryn was about to inquire what significance they held when his eyes fell on the script marking the top of the pages. The left-hand side bore the wordCrystal, while the right saidUnicorn horn.

He met Emylia’s gaze and she gave him a nod. Her eyes were wide, barely concealing her excitement. “We have it, Teryn. This is the pattern.”

He glanced back at the complex markings, feeling both daunted and exhilarated at once. He could barely make heads or tails of the pattern. It would take forever to learn how to replicate it. But…this was it. The final piece of their plan.

“Are you ready to learn how to draw it yourself?”

Teryn swallowed his fear. In its place, he felt relief. A growing sense of determination. That gnawing inertia he’d felt after his father’s death had compounded ever since he’d gotten stuck in the crystal. Practicing with his cereba had barely taken the edge off. But now, with such a formidable task at hand, and a clear road ahead to do it, Teryn felt strong. Sure. Tenacious.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s unravel this damn spell.”

* * *

King Larylis ached for silence,his wife, and a decent book. Only one was at his disposal, in the form of the empty balcony he stood upon, attached to his borrowed bedroom for the night. Today marked his first day of travel to Ridine Castle, and since he was still in the Kingdom of Menah, his overnight accommodations were provided by an eager lord. Lord Furrowsby’s manor was vast, but his hospitality was even more so, which included a musical performance in his grand parlor and a five-course dinner. Larylis had wanted nothing but sleep and solitude when he and his entourage arrived at the manor, but instead he’d been forced to grin and socialize until half past midnight, all while donning the persona of king.

Now that he was finally alone on the spacious balcony, he could let his posture slip, his shoulders slump. He ran a hand through his hair—which was now expertly styled by his valet each morning—loosening it from the stiff gels and waxes that had held it in place all day. He found himself missing the days when no one paid his appearance much heed. Now everything mattered. His hair, his dress, his stride. At least he’d managed to avoid the powdered wigs his valet had suggested. They were popular in Selay, especially with King Verdian. His valet had insisted they’d make him appear more distinguished. Larylis had no desire to don a wig, no matter how fashionable they were, so he’d compromised by subjecting his hair to daily styling.

With a fatigued groan, he leaned over the balcony rail, resting his elbows on the balustrade.

Six more days, he said to himself. Three more days traveling through northeastern Menah, staying at a different lord’s house each time, then another three days traveling through Khero. In Khero, he could finally be free from the hospitality of his lords and stay at fine inns instead. When that was all over, he’d reach his destination. Only then would he finally see her again.

Mareleau.

His wife.

His beloved.

What he wouldn’t give to shake free from these painfully slow travels. Were he allowed to travel on his own, he’d take a messenger horse and arrive at Ridine in two or three days. Were he allowed to oversee his own schedule, he’d travel with haste and rest only after nightfall, and reach his destination in four days. Instead, his travels had been turned into a political move, a way to engage with his noble subjects.

He understood the reasoning behind it all. He was a king now, and he had responsibilities. Protocols. Impressions to make. Loyalties to secure.

But seven gods, was he tired.

It was safe to say he far preferred reading about kings over being one.

A familiar cadence reached his ears, a soft beat punctuating the quiet night. He stared into the distance, beyond the trees that surrounded Lord Furrowsby’s manor, until he saw her. Berol. Moonlight illuminated her wings as she circled over the manor, then made her descent. She landed beside him on the balustrade, one talon curled around something.

Larylis’ pulse kicked up. He hadn’t received a reply from his brother yet, but the messenger had likely only arrived at Ridine that morning. But Berol would have reached him faster.

He extended his hand toward the falcon. She uncurled her talon and dropped a soft roll of what felt like cloth. Furrowing his brow, he unraveled it, and found a messy scribble of smeared, faded ink. Or was it ink at all? It was too dark to make out the words with moonlight alone, so he rushed inside his temporary bedroom and brought the cloth beside a lantern perched on the bedside table.

His heart leaped into his throat as he read the words. He read it over again. Again. Dread filled his stomach.

Danger at Ridine.

Teryn isn’t Teryn.

Trust no one.

What did it mean? It was signed by Cora, but why had she written this message in whatever messy substance marred the cloth? And was the cloth itself…a piece of clothing? It reminded him too much of the blood-splattered scrap Berol had brought him.

None of it made sense. None of it explained anything that was happening. He’d received no other warning. No rushed messages that told of issues at Ridine. His recent letters from Mareleau had contained her usual musings, nothing more.

Larylis bristled with tension. He couldn’t wait a week. Couldn’t bear to dine and dance when something strange was happening. When his wife could be in danger.

He strode through the room and began to dress in his riding attire. His hands trembled as he laced up his pants, donned his gloves, threw on his coat.

Royal procedure could go to the seven devils. He didn’t care if he offended nobles or enraged his guards. He didn’t care if leaving now shaved only a few meager days off his travels. If he couldn’t act on his instincts, then he was a puppet, not a king.

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