Chapter Forty-Six · The Blood of Hemaliel

After a long night and another day of travel, they left the desert behind.

The sand thinned away. Beneath the wheels, the ground turned dark brown, damp and firm. Even the air had changed, cooler and softer, carrying the faintest trace of water.

On either side of the road, green trees followed narrow canals. Square stone houses stood among orchards and sunlit drying yards. People were already out in the early light, hauling water, opening stalls, and leading animals through narrow lanes bright with morning.

After days of seeing nothing but sand, the green almost felt strange to Lyra.

Not the wild green of a forest.

This was a tended green. Watered. Shaped. Kept.

Farther ahead, the Citadel of Hemaliel rose among tiered gardens and layers of trees. Pale stone walls caught the morning light. Slender towers and delicate arches lifted above terraces where vines spilled over balconies and water flashed through narrow stone channels.

Beautiful. Prosperous. Alive.

It was the kind of beauty that made a person want to believe this place could nurture anything.

Lyra sat in the cart with Sion asleep beside her, her head tipped against the side. Her face was still pale from the venom, and her breathing sounded thinner than before.

Lyra had not let go of the comb once.

Haris rode beside the cart and glanced back at her.

“We’re here,” he said.

Lyra looked up at the Citadel of Hemaliel.

Among the green, the running water, and the morning light, she let herself believe, just a little.

Maybe there was still hope here.

Not long after, the cart stopped before the Citadel gates.

A guard stepped forward.

“Name.”

Haris dismounted and handed him a palace token.

“Haris, son of High Commander Rogan.”

The guard studied the token. The wariness in his face eased at once. He bowed, then signaled for the gate to open.

Just inside the gate, a stable hand came forward to take Haris’s horse. Haris handed over the reins, then rose lightly into the air and drifted beside the cart as it rolled beneath a high stone arch.

If Hemaliel had forgotten the House of Rogan, he would let the sight remind them.

As they passed, the guards lowered their heads, one after another.

The cart stopped before the great hall.

Haris lowered himself to the ground and helped both girls down from the cart. Lyra slipped the comb into her pocket before the three of them followed the guard inside.

The hall stretched wide and bright before them.

Lyra caught a faint scent in the air.

It was almost floral, but not quite. Deeper than flowers, clean and cool, as if it had passed through stone before reaching her.

Beside her, Sion suddenly went still.

Lyra turned to her.

“What is it?”

Sion was staring across the hall, at the pale walls, the arches, the light.

“This place…” she whispered. “There’s something familiar about it.”

Lyra watched her more closely.

“You’ve been here before?”

Sion shook her head.

“I don’t remember.” Her voice lowered. “But it feels like… it knows me.”

Before Lyra could answer, the guard stepped forward and bowed.

“The High Lord of Hemaliel.”

A side door opened.

The High Lord entered and crossed to the main seat beneath the high arches. He lowered himself into it with measured calm.

Only then did the guard lead them forward.

Haris, Lyra, and Sion stopped before the dais and bowed.

Sion lifted her head.

The High Lord went still.

Only for a heartbeat.

But Lyra saw it.

Then his gaze moved to Haris.

I did not expect Rogan’s son to have grown so much.

Haris stepped forward and held out the small object wrapped in golden silk.

A servant took it from him and carried it to the High Lord.

The High Lord unfolded the silk.

Inside lay a dark shard of levee brick.

For a moment, the sight of it pulled him back to the year of the great flood.

The drowned fields. The broken levees. Rogan arriving with hundreds of soldiers to help his people rebuild what the flood had torn open.

The High Lord’s mouth softened. He wrapped the shard carefully back in the silk.

“I understand.”

Then his gaze shifted to Lyra.

“And this is…”

“I am his cousin,” Lyra said before Haris could answer.

Haris gave a slight nod.

Lyra gestured toward Sion. “This is my friend, Sion.”

Sion said nothing. Her eyes wandered over the pale walls, the arches, the light.

Lyra had not exactly lied.

It was safer if no one knew she was the princess.

“The High Lady of Hemaliel,” the guard announced.

A woman entered through the side door, dressed in black with a faint mother-of-pearl sheen along the collar. She bowed to the High Lord, then took the smaller seat beside him.

“It is rare for Hemaliel to receive honored guests from so far away.”

The moment she finished speaking, her gaze found Sion.

Her smile faltered.

Only for a breath.

Then her hand tightened around the arm of her chair.

The High Lady rose.

“My lord, I will leave our guests to you,” she said, her voice still soft, but thinner than before. “I am not feeling well.”

She turned before anyone could answer. Her black skirts swept across the stone, her steps quick enough to unsettle the grace she had entered with.

Lyra watched her go, then looked back at Sion.

The High Lord had gone still.

Now the High Lady.

What had they seen in her?

The High Lord did not explain.

Instead, he ordered rooms prepared for them. Then he turned to Haris.

“Come,” he said. “Ride with me. We will speak where the walls have fewer ears.”

They left together, while Lyra and Sion were shown to a guest chamber reserved for honored visitors.

The next morning, the High Lord invited all three of them to breakfast.

The seating seemed arranged in advance. Servants pulled out each chair as they entered. Lyra and Haris sat on one side of the table, while Sion was placed across from them, a little closer to the High Lord.

The seat across from the High Lord remained empty.

The High Lady’s, perhaps.

Sion, being Sion, seemed more interested in breakfast than in the tension around the table. A little color had returned to her face, and she was eating well again.

The High Lord did not say much. Now and then, he asked Haris about the palace, or about his father. But his gaze kept drifting back to Sion, and whenever it did, his expression softened into the faintest smile.

Lyra lowered her eyes to her plate.

Now that she looked closely, she saw it too.

There was a strange likeness between them.

The High Lord suddenly stilled.

“Why has the High Lady not come?”

A servant stepped forward and bowed.

“My lord, she says she is unwell. She has not allowed anyone near her since yesterday.”

“Send for the physician.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The servant left.

Breakfast ended, but the High Lord kept them for tea and sweet cakes. Everything was careful. Almost too careful.

A while later, the servant returned with the physician. Both of them looked tense.

“My lord…”

The physician stepped forward and held up his hand. Clear bite marks stood out across the flesh.

“The High Lady is not herself. She bit my hand and would not let me examine her.”

Sion blinked and looked at Lyra.

“Was she bitten by a sand snake too?”

Lyra almost laughed, but the sound died before it could reach her mouth. Her face stayed cold and still.

A snake bite? No. I don’t think her mind is disturbed at all.

The High Lord rose.

“There is more to this, then?” he asked. “I should see her myself.”

Lyra set down her teacup.

“If her mind is truly disturbed, I may have something that can help.”

The High Lord turned to her.

The air in the room shifted, just slightly.

“What kind of help?”

Lyra reached into her pocket and drew out the comb.

“A comb made from a great serpent’s fang,” she said. “It can steady a disturbed mind.”

Haris looked at her.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Lyra said. “But if we do not try, we will not know.”

The High Lord’s gaze rested on the comb for a moment, then he nodded.

“Very well. We will see her.”

They followed the physician to the High Lady’s chamber.