Chapter 20

in ages. He hadn’t seen her since he’d been ten and had no idea if she was still

alive or, if she was, where she was. Things had been less tense between him

and his father when she’d still been around, but he’d long since stopped

feeling nostalgia about those times—or wishing she would return.

“Is that Jev Dharrow?” a voice cried from the courtyard ahead. Laughter

rang out over the gurgle of the wyvern fountain in the center. “Dear cousin,

your own father won’t recognize you. You look like an ape.”

“Because of the beard or just in general?” Jev paused, turning as Wyleria

rushed toward him, holding up her skirts so they didn’t drag on the flagstone

walkway.

“Can it be some of both?” She grinned at him, and he experienced a

strange moment where she seemed the fifteen-year-old girl she’d been when

he left instead of the twenty-five-year-old woman she was now. “You’ve

gotten old,” she added. “You were just an apeling before.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Unless they trained you to be a scribe in the army, I don’t believe you’d

know.” Her grin widened as she reached him, and she abandoned her skirts to

wrap her arms around him.

Though he ached to find and question his father, Jev returned the hug,

warmed by her enthusiastic welcome. He hadn’t expected his cousins to be

around. Father had feuded with Mother’s sister for years after Mother

disappeared, and for a long time, Jev’s cousins hadn’t been welcome

anywhere on the land. Only Grandmother Visha had stayed from Mother’s

side of the family, either because Father had no qualm with her or because

she’d been made guardian of the Dharrow family’s heirloom dragon tears and

it had been deemed undesirable to have her living elsewhere.

“Actually, they trained me to be a linguist,” Jev said. “I speak six

languages, and apeling isn’t a word in any of them.”

“I suppose I should believe you. Vastiun was the one who always fibbed

to me, not you.” She stepped back, her grin fading.

“He did do that,” Jev agreed quietly. “You look good, Wyleria. Are you

and your mother living here now?”

“Yes. There were riots in the city earlier in the year. Uncle Heber, in his

gruffest and surliest manner, insisted we come stay.”

“Ah. Is he around?” Jev hated to rush his reunion with his cousin, but it

was possible Zenia had already been healed and was on her way out here. She

had definitely seemed the determined sort.

“He should be here soon. I saw you get out of the wagon and sent one of

the servants off on horseback to fetch him. He’s been cutting wood and

repairing one of the barns out back.” Wyleria arched her dark eyebrows, a hint

of bemusement in her eyes.

Jev merely nodded, not surprised in the least. The castle had a handful of servants, not the dozens that some zyndar families claimed, but Father did

most of the work around the place himself. He was happy enough to let

someone else cook and clean, but if something needed to be repaired or

improved, he sprang to the task, claiming the nobility had gone soft, with so

few zyndar doing anything except eating and shitting—he had a number of

favorite expressions evoking that sentiment.

“By the way, Jev…” Wyleria poked him in the side. “Care to explain why

a city watch wagon brought you home? You didn’t get drunk and start busting

up furniture in a pub as soon as you got off that ship, did you?” Her grin

returned at this image.

“There hasn’t been time. I had been dreaming of getting drunk and

sunburned on a beach, but…” Jev heard hoofbeats and trailed off.

“Most people don’t dream of sunburns.”

“I was a long time in those frigid northern forests.” Jev turned as his

father rode in on a great brown stallion, trailed by a servant Jev didn’t know,

the man riding a gray mare.

Wiry and lean, Father never looked that intimidating at a distance, but up

close, he had a presence that always made him seem tall and powerful, not a

man to be angered. His short hair had gone from dark gray to white, but he

still appeared hale, his gray eyes keen and bright above his trimmed beard. He

dismounted with easy grace and handed the reins to the servant.

Jev snorted when he realized he’d come to a rigid attention stance, his

heels together, his back straight, and his chin up, but he didn’t break it. Maybe

it was appropriate. He’d always felt like a private reporting to a general when

facing his father, and as odd as it seemed after ten years of being an officer

himself, his feelings hadn’t changed. Maybe it had to do with the fact that his

father had been a general, battling the desert nomads to the south when Chief

Sirak had united them, determined to take the kingdom’s sea ports and lush

agricultural valleys.

“Good to see you, boy.” Father stepped forward and lifted his hands.

For a startled moment, Jev thought the old man might hug him. But Father

gripped his arms briefly, then let his hands fall. Formality was the order of the

day, as it always had been.

“And you, Father.” Jev bowed slightly.

“It’s regretful that the campaign was unsuccessful.”

Father shook his head, and Jev braced himself, expecting him to talk

about how successful his campaigns had been and how soldiers had been

better trained and more disciplined in his day. As if those scruffy desert

nomads had been anywhere the equal of the Taziir elves.

“But it’s good that you’ve returned alive,” Father said.

Jev let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It wasn’t exactly

an effusive display of warmth and affection, but it was better than he had