Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4) (8 page)

Minutes that had taken off months of stress.

I smiled at the thought just as I heard the bathroom door open behind me, my nerves cinching together at the sound before I felt Ilyan approach me, bringing with him the powerful floral smell he had created.

I drained my mug as Ilyan walked up beside me, his bare back to me as he leaned against the balcony, watching the thunderheads. His skin glistened with the last of the shower water, his dark-blue pajama pants clinging to his hips.

I saw the tension in his back, and for the first time, I began to wonder if he could feel what I could. The anger and sadness of the earth. It came on the wind as the earth mourned the coming battle, and it seeped through the ground from the army that surrounded us, ready to strike. Everything was on edge, the very core of my magic trembling with the oppressive force that threatened to cave me in.

The earth is crying
. I knew the phrasing sounded like a child’s comment, however Ilyan understood and nodded once, his gaze still focused off in the distance.

“She can feel the anger that surrounds us. She can feel what is coming,” he whispered reverently.

I could only nod, understanding what he meant. It was more than just the earth that trembled. I could sense the Trpaslíks’ anger in the trees. I could feel the strength of the weird magic off in the distance. I could see the tiny, magical lights flare just beyond the tree line as the Trpaslíks began to wake and light their fires. They were close, so close we could see them and they could see us.

There was a promise of battle in the air; the same promise which drowned my hope that nothing would happen until Edmund himself arrived. To know he was coming, that we expected him, and that I would have to fight him—perhaps when the next sun rose—was terrifying.

“I don’t know if I will be ready in time,” I reiterated my fear aloud, my eyes pulling away from the dangerous depths of the forest and back to the mug I held in my hands.

“You will be,” Ilyan said, his focus still on the bright lightning strikes that covered the sky. “I have seen it.”

“I am beginning to doubt if the sights are true at all, if I want them to be.”

“I am not talking about the sight, mi lasko. I am talking about you,” Ilyan said as he turned to face me, his body towering over me.

I looked up to him in confusion as he slid down onto the stone floor of the balcony, his back pressing into the stone pillars. He leaned forward and placed his hand on my face, the warm current of his magic flowing into me at the touch. His skin was soft as his eyes poured into me, giving me no other place to look, no other place I wanted to look.

“I have seen your strength when you protected me in the snowstorm, when you stood up to Cail in every nightmare, and when you fought Ryland in Santa Fe. I have seen it. I know how strong you are, how confident you are. You are the Silnỳ, and you will be ready.”

“I don’t feel like the Silnỳ. To me it is still just a nickname,” I confessed, my voice little more than a whisper.

“You will,” Ilyan promised, his magic slowly leaving until all I felt was that heavy relaxation the bath had given me.

“Well, maybe I will if you keep drugging me like this.” I sighed as I refilled my mug with the warm amber fluid. The sweet honey smell of the Black Water mixed nicely with the fragrance already surrounding me.

“I did no such thing.” Ilyan laughed as his hand dropped from my face. “I only cleared your mind.”

Well, it worked.

“I am glad.” Ilyan smiled at me from where he sat, his short hair glistening with water. He leaned against the banister, one arm draped over his lifted knee as he studied me, giving me an open shot of his bare torso.

I looked away, not really wanting to be caught staring at his chest again. Sometimes I wished he would just put on a shirt. It wasn’t like he looked terrible or anything. His figure was almost perfect; it was just distracting. Of course, I knew why he did it. I could feel the shadows of pain that drifted over from him, the way his chest burned when fabric rubbed against the scars.

My magic flowed through the Štít as I moved to take away the pain, surging comfortably as I trailed the burn of Black Water and numbed it. It was something I was sure only I could do—equalize the painful burn of the water flowing through him. His thoughts tumbled over to me as the sting left, a million thank yous swelling his gratitude. They all rushed through me at once and I smiled.

You’re welcome, Ilyan. You owe me nothing,
I answered his thanks before he was able to put words to them. His eyes widened in surprise as I did so, the movement ever so brief before his smile returned.

“I knew you could hear me,” he said, his accent deep as he leaned toward me, his fingers weaving through mine as he grabbed my hand. “I knew it wasn’t just me when you sang with me earlier, your voice in perfect time with mine. I knew you could hear me as well.”

I could feel his love surge before his thoughts started flooding mine—images, questions, memories, emotions, they all blended together as they drowned me in a suffocating mass that pushed away the peace I had captured. The apprehension that had been kept at bay crept in, my shoulders knitting together as my heart started pounding in my chest, a groan escaping my lips.

I fought the need to curl into myself as the flow of Ilyan’s consciousness continued, my chest constricting until I couldn’t breathe under the pressure. I crumpled beneath the weight until every muscle in my body was ironclad. A torrent of pain pressed against me and I began to rock back and forth, my hands moving to claw against the tender skin above the Štít.

Ilyan moved closer to me as my frantic movements increased, his arm pulling me into his chest as the flow of his thoughts evaporated.

“Fight it, my love,” he soothed as he ran his other hand over my damp hair that hung down my back, his magic flowing into me as he calmed me, giving me enough relief so that I could push some of the tension away. I could smell the strong scent of the flora on his skin, the scent mixed with the familiar smell of his magic, and I breathed it in, letting it take away the last of my anxiety.

“I am sorry, Joclyn. I didn’t know it would do that.” His voice rumbled through my ear as I lay against his chest, my hand moving up to run against the smooth, white lines of the thin scars that peppered his warm skin.

“It’s okay,” I whispered as he shivered under my touch.
Just don’t get so excited next time,
I spoke into his mind, the feeling of his excitement still pulsing through me.

His eyebrows rose a bit, that familiar smirk of his pulling at his lips. His enthusiasm surged as he tried to understand what I could hear from him, what I felt from him.

“I can’t hear you word for word,” I explained, answering his unasked question again. “I only hear pieces of your thoughts and feel pulses of your emotions.”

“My emotions?” he asked, his voice even more surprised as his mind ran over similarities that I didn’t understand.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“So tell me…” Ilyan’s wide hand moved over my hair, his fingers gentle as they pulled through the strands. “What am I feeling right now?”

My stomach tangled around itself as I heard the answer. It was something that I had felt a million times before, something that I had even told him. For some reason, though, this time it felt weird to sense the emotion so strongly from him, knowing he wanted me to experience it and to tell him what he felt for me. The heavy sound of his heartbeat echoed in my ear as my own matched his beat for beat, the comfort of our heartbeats taking away my embarrassment.

Love.
I sent the word into his mind, my breath catching as his emotion swelled.

“Not quite…” He chuckled, my nerves heightening again. “It is more than love; it is astounding, all-encompassing love.” He sighed into me, the last of my stress leaving as he pulled me away from his chest, his hands warm on my shoulders as he looked at me.

The chilled air swirled around us as I gazed into his eyes, and the deep pulse of his passion moved through me. I had no desire to look anywhere else.

What is going to happen to us, Ilyan?
I asked as I placed my hand over his heart, thunder rumbling at the contact as if the earth were reacting to the feel of my skin against his.

Ilyan placed his hand over my heart as I had his, the warmth spreading over my collarbone. He didn’t look at me, he only looked at his hand against me before closing his eyes.

I focused on the pulse of his heart against my hand, our breathing the only sound in my ears as I waited for an answer. Ilyan finally looked up at me, his hand lifting to glide over the side of my face before he moved to sit behind me. My heartbeat surged at feeling him there, at feeling his chest against my back while he held me from behind. Even when he had braided my hair in the hotel near Isola Santa he had never sat this close, close enough I could feel the beat of his heart. A ripple of calm moved up my spine before he leaned away, his hands moving up to weave through the damp strands of my hair once more.

Ilyan ran his fingers over the crown of my head and through the long waves in a gentle rhythm that sent goosebumps down my spine. The pressure of his hands was soft as he moved my hair away from my face and into a low ponytail, the soft tips of his fingers fluttering across the back of my neck before grazing the mark behind my ear, and I gasped, my magic jumpstarting at the contact.

I sighed as the sensation left, Ilyan’s joy and misplaced worry mixing together as heavy Czech words I didn’t understand drifted over to me. His fingers continued to move through my hair, deftly separating it before he began to twist and pull it into a braid.

“I was ten when my father first taught me how to braid.”

“Your father taught you how to braid? Isn’t that kind of girly?” I asked, unable to hide the smile from my voice, or picture Edmund himself knowing how to braid for that matter. I had always assumed Ilyan had taught himself, a necessity of having long hair.

“To you, perhaps, but to my kind, braiding is the way to care for and to show your affection to the people you love.” His words were a revered softness that ignited my soul, the real meaning as to what he was doing not lost on me. “As a Skȓítek, it is the man’s responsibility to braid his hair as well as his wife’s and his children’s.”

“I love it when you braid my hair,” I said without thinking, my heart rate pounding in sudden embarrassment. “I mean… I have never really done much with it,” I continued in a quick attempt to cover up my blunder.

“I know,” he whispered, the side of his hand pressing against my face before he went back to his gentle movements.

“For thousands of years before my birth, and centuries after, braiding was one of the most cherished traditions of the Skȓíteks. It was the way to convey moments in your life to others, to show stature and accomplishments in battle. Each braid was infused with magic of good blessings, of strength, of love. It was revered, and in many ways it still is.”

I had thought his father teaching him how to braid was silly. However, now I almost felt bad for having mocked it. I had poked fun at more than just a boy braiding hair; it was his culture, a tradition, just as it had been with my father. My eyes pinched together at the unwanted connection and I pushed it away. I could tell by the tone in Ilyan’s voice that the braiding meant more to him than he was putting on. I felt terrible for having laughed at him, yet the emotion vanished at the sensation of his fingers in my hair, relaxing me. He was braiding my hair, but I knew at once that he wasn’t just braiding it.

He was weaving the hair of someone he loved.

“Is that what you are doing now?” I asked, my voice shaking in nerves as I trembled under his touch, my eyes trained on a bolt of lightning that lit up the sky.

“He began first with the child’s braid.” Ilyan ignored my question as he continued his story. “The simple three-strand crown the girls wore, the long plait the boys wore. He made me braid the hair of every child in Prague. Parents even brought their children to line up for a chance to have the little prince braid their hair.”

They lined up?
I asked into his mind, my voice probably too loud in my surprise.

“Yes,” Ilyan chuckled as his fingers gently pulled and prodded, my head still under his ministrations. “I sat in the square before the main cathedral as the Skȓíteks brought their children out. I am sure the mortals looked at us like we were conducting some sort of exercise. I even had a few come up and ask me what I was giving away.”

He chuckled again and I couldn’t help smiling right along with him. The images from his thoughts flowed into me, painting a picture of what had happened. I could almost see the small, redheaded boy approach Ilyan. I could see the golden sleeve of Ilyan’s clothing as his tiny hands moved.

“I bet you were a pro after that,” I probed, careful to keep my head still as he worked.

“My knuckles were sore for weeks afterwards, but I mastered it.” I could feel his pride at the success he felt, even after all these years.

“After that one, he taught me every other braid in succession. The braids for council, for war, for new life, for mothers, for loss. When I was old enough, my mother taught me the sacred marriage braid; the twelve-strand, double-layered braid that is performed by a woman’s mate during the ceremony for the Zȇlství. That braid is only known by the king and is taught to the man the night before the ceremony is to take place. My mother spent years spying on my father, breaking tradition in order to learn it and pass it on to me, terrified it would be lost forever if she didn’t. I believe my mother knew of the darkness in my father’s heart before anyone else.”

I placed my hand on Ilyan’s knee as I pushed away my nerves over the braid he spoke about, my magic surging alongside his deep sadness at the memory of his mother teaching it to him.

I am glad she taught you,
I said, relieved when his sadness dissipated. I squeezed his knee, leaving my hand there against the soft cotton of his pants.

“So am I,” he whispered. My heart beat heavily at the way his soft voice flowed over my skin. “It is the most complicated of all the braids that our kind uses, and the one I have done the most. I have sat for thousands of sleepless nights as I taught my friends, my subjects, how to braid the hair of their mates for the one ceremony that would forever change their lives.”