A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,24

gotten used to by now. But wanting history to forget your existence was altogether different from actually experiencing the fulfillment of that wish.

His stories portrayed him more charitably than he deserved. Really, history was like warped glass. The truth of him was hidden behind several heavily redacted tales that painted him as wild and wicked—but still a hero.

He was not a hero. All his attempts at heroism eventually failed when his true nature—chaotic, cunning, and violent—was given any opportunity to take the reins.

The carvings continued through every hallway Saras led him down. Even the wood panels of the service quarters were inscribed by hand, etched with lacy patterns not unlike the embroidery decorating the hemlines of every woman in the Citadel. A few panels looked older than the rest, depicting scenes that seemed pulled right out of his memory. Fey with diadems perched on pointed ears riding beside khimaer with jeweled horns, all astride pixen, the changeling steeds that fled Myre after the Great War.

At the stirring of a familiar ache in his chest, Baccha focused on the gentle bounce of Saras’s hair. Finally she stopped before a plain door with a strange window in the center—two crescent moons back to back like open wings.

“She is expecting you,” Saras said with a bow. A tight smile danced across her lips as she straightened. “Should your visit to the Citadel last longer than a day, give any of the others my name and I will assist you in whatever you require.”

“My visit will be woefully short.” It would end as soon as this meeting was over. His headache, that gnawing pain that meant Moriya was calling him home, demanded haste. He’d only stopped here for a quick favor. “But you have my thanks.”

She gave him a warm look that made clear what sort of assistance she was offering. Even if he had planned on spending more time here, he would have declined. The women and girls Lyse took in, taught, and employed were not to be trifled with, in bed or otherwise. Lyse chose them not only because of their unusual magickal skill, but also because of traumas in their lives. Baccha did not offer the sort of stability they deserved.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Wet earth and musky loam and sweet nectar from a dozen different flowers. Wind, sweet and unfettered, ruffled the leaves of a hundred different plants, and the air tasted of rain.

There was only one window—small and circular—at the back of the room. Yet all these plants survived—no, thrived—because of the woman who sat in the room’s center.

She rested upon a wicker chair, the wood thoroughly intertwined with vines and dozens of small crimson flowers in full bloom.

Braids like ropes of woven gold hung to the ground and pooled at her feet. She wore a jade dress in the Citadel’s fashion—heavily embroidered and cinched at the waist by a wide, embossed leather belt, with a billowing skirt. Most of the women of the Citadel wore at least one knife tucked into a pocket on their belt, but she was unarmed.

Her skin was the same flawless deep bronze as her mother’s, but that hair marked Lyse as his get. Lyse was his last living descendant and great-grandchild. His only legacy not marred with grief.

But she was more than just his family.

Had Lyse been born during his age, she would have been called Godling. In the age that preceded his, perhaps a Goddess.

But in this time, she was known as Aunt Lyse, the most powerful fey alive. And besides himself, he was fairly certain she was the oldest, at nearly two hundred years old.

Lyse was not ageless like Baccha, suspended in youth; she wore her age proudly. A faint tracery of lines shown on skin pulled taut over a high forehead and full cheeks.

Heart-shaped lips spread to a wide smile as Baccha dropped to one knee. “You honor me, Lyse of the Sisters.”

“Rise and join me, Great-Father,” Lyse said, mirth in her brown eyes. “It is you who honors me. I did not think you would have a chance to visit on the way north.”

He did as she requested. He’d first missed the chair beside Lyse’s, because it was similarly enmeshed with flora. But neither the plants nor Lyse seemed to care when he sat atop it. Perhaps the small affinity he had for the earth gave him some advantage, because the leaves and petals peeled back, making room