Castoran Havilliard and the Westfalls pay a visit to Orynth.
disclaimer: sarah j. maas owns all (except for the new generation).
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The walls of the great city were inching closer, and he knew he probably should not have asked.
Castoran Crochan Blackbeak Havilliard kept his hands carefully relaxed around his leather-bound book. His mother had not spoken of them for a reason. Had perhaps wanted to protect the memory of them—to hold them close to her heart and guard them from the world, even if the world was peaceful now. Calm.
Though he supposed there were always those few bad eggs. It would have been naive to think there weren't a few individuals out there, somewhere in Erilea—witches and humans alike—who spat on the names of the Thirteen. The former disgusted with such a sacrifice. The latter having not forgotten how they had hunted and bedded and butchered men.
But if Castoran was being honest, he didn't really care about that. Only that the coven had saved his parents. Saved the world, really.
He sighed softly, thinking of the mother and father he had left in their respective lands. They had wanted to come, to see the birth of Aelin Galathynius's newest child. But his father's duties had kept him in Rifthold, his mother's rooting her to the Witch Kingdom.
The Witch Kingdom. No longer the Wastes, as he was told they had been called before he was born. Wastes, because the land had been dead, along with the hearts of its people.
But Wastes no more. His mother had seen to that.
Though he was born in and spent most of his time in Rifthold, he loved the Witch Kingdom. Loved its capital city and its residents and that glorious palace that few in the world rivaled. As it turned out, immortal beings who wished no longer to slaughter their way through life had quite a lot of time on their hands. Time to rebuild and mend. Time to heal.
He often wondered about his part in that healing process. For both his mother and father. A shock, Lady Yrene had said, meaning he'd certainly been unplanned. But he knew he was cherished. Adored. And so he tried to be that salve smoothed across the scars and gashes of their hearts, of their souls.
A shock, he'd been.
The thought made him smile. There were many things about him that had seemed impossible. Like the fact that he was born a son. For a common witchling alone was rare—but a Crochan prince? One in a million, Bronwen once told him. And his magic—it was a fraction of what his father possessed, but magic all the same.
That had sent the scholars at Rifthold scratching their heads. He could not have been a full witch, for those possessed no power, minus the Yielding. And there was also the matter of his blood: not quite blue... but not red either. Indigo. Near violet.
A hybrid that the world had never seen. An anomaly. The first and only of his kind.
He sighed through his nose and looked again to the great white walls, to the battlements growing larger and larger with each pull forward. He didn't visit Orynth as frequently as he would have liked. But he treasured each trip. He would do so now. Even... even if he harbored a small itch for it to be over, if only so he could see that memorial.
"Excited to see her, Cas?" Lyanna asked, wiggling her brows. Terence cracked a smile.
Castoran rolled his eyes. "It's not like that. She's eleven."
"What's a mere two years? Just you wait, until she's my age. She's looking to be quite the stunner." Lyanna smirked.
"Oh, poor Cassy," Terence sighed, a pitiful frown plastered on his lips. "Would you like me to give you some advice? You must be so confused."
"She's eleven," Castoran repeated, glaring at them both. "And she's just a friend."
"A friend who runs into your arms whenever she sees you. Oh, Cas," he snickered, batting his eyelashes in a scornful impression. "Teach me how to shoot. I'm sure you're just wonderful at it."
"She knows how to shoot," Castoran snapped, "And Aelin will have your head on a pike if you ridicule her children."
"She will not. Aelin loves me." Terence grinned. Then winked. "Everyone does."
Castoran rolled his eyes again and ignored him, fixing his gaze to the world outside the carriage. To the southern gates now upon them.
Orynth.
The carriage bumped along the ancient road that led to the entrance, the soft clip-clop of the horses carrying the assemblage of Adarlanian guards sounding outside the window. Protecting the Hand of the King and his family. Protecting their Crown Prince.
The Crown Prince of Adarlan, for only a queen would rule the his mother's kingdom. And so he sometimes wondered how old he'd be when his mother informed him he was to have a sister. Because the High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth would have another witchling. A full witch, to inherit her land.
He would wait for the day when that came to pass.
They rolled to a stop before the massive gates, a smaller entrance carved within it to allow entry. Guards clad in deep green uniforms lined the battlements, the sides of the gates, all bearing gleaming swords and the stag crest upon their breast pockets. Torches smoldered in their brackets, dotting the white stone barrier, illuminating the inside of the carriage.
It was all of ten seconds before they were permitted to cross.
One of the many perks, Castoran supposed, of having Aelin Galathynius as a family friend. Immediate allowance into the city. And other special treatments, he smugly thought. Like his own personal chambers in her palace. Unrestricted access to her glorious kitchen and her magnificent library.
The carriage again lurched into motion, and then they were rolling across the threshold. He looked to the guards as they passed, stone-faced and poised to deal with any threat, any sudden danger. Which, if one thought about it, was rather unnecessary. For the Terrasen that Aelin and her court had rebuilt was as peaceful as any buzzing meadow or forest pond. The kingsflame that he hadn't failed to notice popping up every now and then during their journey was attestation to that.
He smiled a bit as Orynth swallowed them. Unsurprisingly, it was completely alive, as it consistently was, no matter the time of day or year. Always, he had long since noticed, it was brimming with activity. With magic-wielders providing little shows in the squares for children, or residents filing in and out of eating houses and taverns, or vendors yelling their wares—colorful little flames contained in glass jars, wondrous textiles of every hue, hot pots of drinking chocolate and sweet rolls of bread. Temples to the since-destroyed gods had been converted to banks and orphanages and businesses. There were new art establishments. Theaters. Moot halls. Beautiful inns. Shelters and bathhouses for the homeless. Patios with gurgling fountains for women to sun themselves.
Everything. Orynth had everything.
The Westfalls were as quiet as shadow. Marveling, he knew. Because though the city had been delightful the previous time they'd visited, it was even brighter now. Even more effervescent. Even more alive.
On and on, they rolled forth on the main street, watching the buzzing activity as they passed. There was every manner of people here: humans, Fae, demifae. He hadn't seen any witches, but Castoran had no doubt that there were a few hiding amongst the pale buildings and flitting crowds.
All cohabiting. Coexisting. Tranquilly.
A better world indeed.
But damn, if Orynth wasn't vast. Large enough that Castoran counted around an hour until the gates of the palace at last came into view, their carriage slowly weaving through the thick crowds—revelers celebrating for no particular reason. Just because they could, he supposed. But at last, he spied the white battlements and gates, standing proud and stark against the starry night sky. The massive towers and turrets glimmered with the lights of the city. Those anyone could see from any point in Orynth, unlike the lower levels and the walls. So tall and sparkling they were, the opal stone like a beacon of light, welcoming any stranger from any land. Like the Torre Cesme in the North that had been built back in Rifthold, under the supervision of Lady Yrene. An extended hand.
Come, and be accepted, they said.
The sight of it made him feel warm as they neared the castle grounds. Then paused before the lofty ingress, the smooth cobblestone street barely jostling them.
The guards posted there didn't so much as blink before they hauled open the giant doors—no doubt having been notified that the royal family was expecting them. Also perhaps informed of their arrival by some Fae in bird form from the city gates.
Again they pitched forth, up, up, up the road until they finally—finally—swayed to a halt. Right before the palace. Heartbeats passed in silence.
Then his uncle stood from his plush seat, ducking his head through the door as soon as one of their guards opened it. Sweet air swooped in—cool with the young spring and crisp with the night. Chaol hopped out, and Lady Yrene followed, taking his extended hand and folding it against the crook of his elbow. Terence exited next, then Lyanna. Until it was Castoran's turn to emerge, and he set his feet onto the first step leading to the castle's front doors.
The wind enveloped him immediately, and Terrasen's scent climbed up into his nostrils. Fresh, like a winter forest, even in the spring and summer.
They wasted no time in lingering. As soon as Castoran straightened his jacket and stretched out his legs, they were climbing the steps, and he waved for the guards to see themselves to the barracks. He welcomed the burn as it spread across his thighs, his calves. He'd spent far too long sitting, and the numbness that had settled over his body was an unwelcome one. Higher and higher they ascended, and then reached the immense oak doors, which were already wide open as they strode through. Wide open to reveal a gleaming hall, its light spilling out into the night, with floors so polished he could see his own reflection in them.
Open to reveal pillars and pristine walls and a plush carpet draping over the grand white stairwell that cut through the center of the shining room. It rose to a large landing, lined with a marble balustrade. And just beside the stairs, her silver gown shimmering, her right foot tapping, was—
"Cas!"
He couldn't fight the beam that broke out on his face. Couldn't think to even try to prove Terence and Lyanna wrong as she flung herself at him.
Ava.
He laughed, embracing her tightly and breathing in her scent—lavender, with a hint of sweet, curling steam. He could practically feel his cousins' smug little smiles, but he ignored them, giving Ava a squeeze across the back before pulling away.
She was grinning like mad, the twin braids tucked behind her pointed ears swaying as she spoke excitedly. "You, me. Armory." Her expression turned sly. "We'll see how well you've been practicing."
"Is that all I'm good for to you?" He made a show of looking incredulous. "Being your punching bag?"
"What else would males be good for?" She smirked, shoving his arm, pine-green eyes alight. He shoved right back.
Then a voice cut in, "Come now, you've had your time in the armory today, Ava."
Lady Yrene's smile was nothing short of lovely as she slid into Aelin Galathynius's waiting arms.
And there she was. Aelin, in all her regal glory, poised and graceful as she swished about, her face bright.
She was... glowing, Castoran thought, as he looked upon the Queen of Terrasen. Perhaps that was her magic, making her hair shine in golden tresses down her back, her skin radiant with the warmest light. Immortal—she was immortal, and still looked to be aged nineteen, her turquoise eyes free of any lines, skin smooth and flushed. She donned a flowing mint-green gown—one that cinched right under her chest to accommodate her rounded belly, a slender hand braced just above her navel.
Her kingsflame crown shifted against her brow as she smiled down at her abdomen. Then at Lady Yrene. "Been eating too many chocolates, I suppose."
The healer laughed, kissing the queen's cheeks before yielding Aelin to Chaol. He held her as best he could around her stomach, smiling cheerfully. "I would blame your court for allowing you to do so. Except you wouldn't listen to them, anyway."
A deep chuckle. "The world will turn on its head the day she heeds any of us."
Castoran turned to see King Rowan Whitethorn stride forth and put a hand on Aelin's back, a dozing child slumped against his shoulder, head tucked into his neck. He recognized her immediately: the dainty, silver-haired Amora.
The males clasped each other gently so as not to wake the girl, and Aelin grinned as she folded Terence and Lyanna into her arms. "Tell me, Terence," she said, eyes sparking with mischief. "How fares the Lady Rielle?"
He flushed a vivid pink before blowing out a chuckle. "Spying on me, are you, Aunt?"
She just winked, turning to Lyanna and mock-frowning. "You, I've no juicy details on."
"And it shall remain so," said Chaol, looking up from his crouch before the silver-headed boys, who had come out from their playing spot behind a large white pillar. Rendyll and Reavan.
The two families continued to greet each other, Ava skipping over to the Westfalls and giving them that little smirk before embosoming each one.
And then Aelin turned to Castoran, eyes glinting. She embraced him warmly, as did King Rowan and the boys. "Always a delight, you," the queen told him. "And your parents?"
"Disappointed to have missed this. But they have their duties."
Ava snorted. "Making you a sibling?"
He tried to hide his cringe, Aelin cutting her a sharp glace. "Their respective duties, Ava," he sighed.
She only snickered, sidling up beside him and looking up at her mother. And gods' ashes, it was like Aelin was peering down at her reflection—albeit a younger, green-eyed one. But the brilliant golden locks, the slender nose, the biting sarcasm…
He did his best not to look at King Rowan, to give him a pitying glance for having to deal with them both. With two young boys and a toddling girl to boot. And another yet to come.
Aelin tugged on Ava's hair, rolling her eyes and muttering, "You lunatic. Honestly, who raised you?"
Ava flashed her teeth, showing her sharp little canines. "Some queen. Not sure what her name was."
Aelin smacked her daughter's cheek with the end of one of her braids, turning to Lady Yrene. Who was now examining Reavan with that healer's frankness, checking for any oddity in the child she delivered. No doubt just having looked Rendyll and Amora over. Aelin scoffed. "I'll have you know, they're all in perfect health. Aren't you, my sweets?"
They smiled toothily at her, and Lady Yrene beamed softly. "So it seems. And you? How fares your newest?"
Aelin blew out a breath. "Oh, it's the usual. Kicks at all hours of the day. Insists on weighing eight entire pounds. Leaves absolutely no room for food. Doesn't allow me to wear my favorite gowns, which is just sublime."
A low laugh. "Must be torturous for you, then," King Rowan said, gently kissing his wife's temple before placing a broad, tattooed hand on Rendyll's shoulder.
"So," he announced, "You all must be hungry."
Ava nodded vigorously. Castoran elbowed her.
The king's lips curled upward. "Then let's eat."
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She would probably have to wait until tomorrow. She'd read the words in her mother's eyes: Leave him. He is likely weary from the road.
Ava Whitethorn Galathynius tried her best not to pout as she followed her parents through the winding halls of the palace, Castoran keeping pace beside her.
She was practically itching for a spar with him. A few lessons with her father had emboldened her, and she wanted to demonstrate those new maneuvers while they were fresh in her mind, while they lingered in her muscles and bones. She couldn't help the way her fingers twitched towards the little dagger carefully hidden beneath the silvery sleeve of her gown.
A gift from her both the king and queen, for her last birthday. Her very first blade, small and engraved with little flames and rolls of wind, a tiny emerald sparkling at its hilt to match her irises. It was thin enough that it was easily concealed, strapped to her forearm. But a flash of her father's eyes had warned her to keep it tucked away.
Reavan prattled to Lyanna behind her, gripping the girl's hand and swinging it as they walked. Rendyll walked beside Terence, the two of them swapping opinions on the latest plays and their musical scores. Amora still dozed blissfully on their father. She was certainly in for a surprise when she awoke; she adored Lady Yrene.
The healer padded along gracefully beside her husband, chatting with Ava's mother. She wondered if it had ever been strange between the four of them—her parents and the Westfalls—considering her mother had... history with Lord Chaol. Her uncle Aedion had whispered as much during a family dinner months ago. Of course, he'd been slightly inebriated, so it was possible he could have just been spouting nonsense.
She refrained from rolling her eyes and cast a sidelong glance at Castoran, who still gripped his leather book. She knew he probably didn't even realize he still had it.
Smirking, she took it from his hand, flipping it to read the title. "The Bosyf Theory: Empirical Evidence and Supporting Experiments." She narrowed her eyes and gave him a frown, turning her nose up at him—or at least tried to, his taller stature making it more difficult than she'd anticipated. "I forgot how dull you are."
He answered her with a half-smile. "And I forgot how daft you are."
She made a show of gaping. "Is that any way to speak to the Crown Princess of Terrasen?"
Castoran laughed, pushing her shoulder. "Oh, pardon me, Your Highness. I meant to say, I forgot how utterly brilliant... you aren't."
Ahead, her parents chuckled, the Westfalls following suit. "Charming, you two," her mother said over a shoulder, nodding to Lord Chaol. "Heartwarming to see the futures of our kingdoms are in such good hands."
The Hand's mouth twisted up, and Lady Yrene flashed a grin at the two heirs, a knowing gleam in her eyes as she looked between them.
Ava bit back her scowl. Gods' ashes, she didn't like Castoran like that. It was just fun to knock him on his backside in the training ring down in the armory. Though, if she was completely honest, it was usually him knocking her on her backside.
Whatever their families expected, it wasn't going to happen. He was older, he was far too intelligent—she wanted to be the cleverer one—and if Ava thought about it, she wouldn't be too keen on having Queen Manon Blackbeak as a mother-in-law.
But at least Castoran was an excellent friend. And quite the sparring partner.
"Tomorrow," he promised, as if reading her thoughts. "We'll go down to the armory. And we'll see if you've been practicing."
She eyed him wickedly, reaching up and tugging on a bone-white strand of hair.
They reached the smaller dining hall, the one they always used, where they ate their meals as a family. It wasn't as luxurious as the main hall, but held a coziness to it that never failed to warm Ava's bones. Dimmer, the light was, produced by torches and small little blooms of fire that did not burn, courtesy of her mother. In the center stood a long polished wooden table, set with gold plates and crystal goblets and silky cloths and surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs, sturdy enough that it took quite a bit of effort from her to scoot them around.
Homey. Welcoming.
Her mother ushered them all in, taking her usual place at the head of the table and waving to the servants posted around the room. Ava's father situated himself at her right, Lord Chaol and Lady Yrene to her left, and their children taking to the places beside them.
Ava grabbed Castoran by the elbow and hauled him to the seat next to hers, where Rendyll usually sat. Her brother didn't take kindly to having his spot stolen, and scowled. But she only stuck her tongue out at him, pushing Castoran down into the lofty chair before settling in her own.
The servants went to work immediately, pushing around carts of steaming plates. Roast lamb, she noted, the wafting scent filling her nose. Lamb and… was that wild rice?
The plates were set before each of them, the servants filling their goblets with water and wine as they went. Ava bared her teeth at one of the attendants, just because she could, cackling as the slender girl ducked behind her curtain of mousy hair.
Beside her, her father gently, gently, peeled Amora off him, setting her in her smaller, higher chair between his and her mother's. He laid her silver head on the table, pressing a light kiss into her hair. "Didn't sleep much last night," he muttered, eyes crinkling. "Too excited for your arrival, Yrene."
The lady smiled beautifully as she said, "I'll admit I was looking forward to seeing her as well."
"Her and not us?" Rendyll rumbled indignantly.
"No," Ava said, picking at her fingernails. "I'm afraid you're too vexatious for her taste."
"What does 'vexatious' mean, Mama?" Reavan asked.
Lady Yrene laughed, her husband's cheeks wrinkling with amusement. "It means 'irritating', little one. Which Rendyll most definitely is not." She shot Ava a playful glare. "Forgive me, Ren. I meant I was looking forward to seeing all of you."
"Vexatious," Reavan mumbled thoughtfully. "Mama, am I vexatious?"
"Only when you refuse to eat your greens." She winked.
He frowned, clearly not amused. Instead, he looked to their father, silvery eyebrows furrowed. "I'm vexatious?"
The king sighed. "No, Reav, Mama was jo—"
"You are when you steal my things," said Rendyll. "And pick off of my desert plate when I'm not looking. And climb into my bed when you can't sleep. And—"
"Like you don't climb into my bed whenever you've had a nightmare," Ava cut in, smirking.
Rendyll's pointed ears went scarlet. "Name the last time I did that."
Reavan was looking close to tears, his face reddening. "I don't want to be vexatious."
"Tsk tsk tsk. Do you see what you cause, Ren? You make him cry an awful lot now that I think about it think about it." She shook her head.
"Mother said he was irritating first," he nearly shouted.
Terence flinched, eyeing Amora. And sure enough, she began to stir, soft arms lifting her from her slouch on the table.
"She was joking, weren't you, Aelin?" Their father stroked their sister's hair, trying to soothe her back into a drowse.
But she didn't comply. Amora sat up, nose crinkling. Their mother ran a few fingers down her cheek, laughter dancing in her turquoise eyes. "Well, you can be difficult when you turn your nose up at your peas," she said to Reavan. "But yes, my love, I was joking."
His eyes were rimmed with red. He opened his mouth, a retort undoubtedly on his lips, but—
"Ah." Amora breathed, tiny nostrils flaring, strange blue eyes narrowing to slits.
Their family froze. The room grew silent.
And then their father grinned, turning to his two eldest. "Who wants a go?"
Ava's hand shot into the air. And Rendyll's did the same, much to her annoyance. "You had it last time," she growled.
"I did not. Tell her, Father."
"Do you think I'm vexatious?" Reavan asked Lyanna. She laughed, shaking her head.
Ava hissed, "He has nothing to tell me, because it's my turn."
"Ah." Amora let out.
"Alright," their mother said. "A coin toss."
"No time for a coin toss, Aelin."
She ignored him, fishing a small silver disk from her pocket and sending it flying towards the center of the table.
"Ah."
Ava shrieked, "I call heads!"
"No, wha—och! Fine! Tails!"
It soared, flipped midair, and then—
Plink. Plink. Plink.
"Ah."
Rendyll lurched across the table to look at the coin—
"Tails! Yes!"
"What? N—"
"Ah."
Rendyll thrust his hands out, forming a bubble of hard air around their sister, the space between his brows shrinking.
"Steady, Ren," their father instructed. "Concentrate."
"Ah. Ah...choo!"
Amora errupted in a whirlwind of azure flame, filling the little bubble and making its edges shimmer. The burning tongues pushed against the barrier, cracking it, breaking it—
Rendyll tensed, squeezing his eyes shut and adding layer upon layer of extra protection on his invisible sphere, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.
Amora's fire seemed enraged at being contained, furious at the confinement. It hurtled itself upon the shield, looking for a weak spot. Searching for that site where it would buckle under the scorching pressure. But Ava… dammit, she had to hand it to Rendyll. Not an ember escaped his globe of air.
It burned and burned as Amora coughed softly, and then...
Their sister wiped her small nose, and the flames began to recede. Until all that remained was a toddler and her charred seat, her butter-yellow gown burned away. Their mother extended a hand to grasp their father's cloak, wrapping it around Amora before scooping her up and setting her on her lap, careful to set the girl around her distended belly.
The Westfalls were all staring at the youngest Galathynius, wide-eyed.
Silent.
Until Lord Chaol burst out laughing and said to his family, "I told you. Ruckus."
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xo
