Princess Cyra is recovering from a failed engagement, a lack of friends, and possibly inheriting a kingdom when she meets High Prince Halewijn, who is set on making her his bride. When it is revealed to her that he is actually her assailant's son, t...
Cyra took the steps slowly, weighing Pelëa's words with trepidation. Telling Halewijn his father was the monster he suspected him of being would scare him to react unfavorably. Driving Halewijn to premature murder would mean the downfall of the entire plan. The possibility of the ruined plot could mean death, which would be her fault. Again.
Cyra found Hal sitting on the other side of the temple, looking up at the sky with his head supported on his arms. The burden of managing the wave of death that could surely befall all of them weighed heavily on her shoulders, but she found a smile upon seeing Halewijn laying underneath the bright sky with his eyes shut in perfect peace. The wind tousled his hair as Cyra stood over him, blocking his view of the clouds, which made him laugh.
"My love, you are the most beautiful thing to grace the Earth." He rose to his feet and wound an arm around her waist. "I trust Pelëa was kind to you?"
"Very kind. I think she is a wonderful High Priestess." Halewijn placed a tender peck on her cheek before letting her waist go and gripping her hand.
"We must head back to the palace. I'm sure you're eager to hear the story of the banned Priestesses." Cyra nodded eagerly, taking comfort in the gentle way he ran his thumb over her knuckles. Gwennivarr reappeared with the horses silently, motioning toward the bag strapped on Cyra's horse.
"Thank you, Gwennivarr." The woman looked up at Cyra from under her hood, showing her milk-white eyes before nodding once. Cyra didn't realize she was staring until Halewijn tapped her elbow, calling her attention back to him.
"We have to get back before sundown." She mounted her horse, and they both trotted off, leaving the temple behind without saying so much as a goodbye to the blind maid.
"Pelëa and Gwennivarr... they're blind?" Cyra inquired as they exited the temple grounds.
"The second sight takes their vision the longer they remain alive. Gwen and Pelëa are the only two in the temple who have lived past seventy-five. It isn't long after that their vision begins to fail."
"And what of their banishment?" Halewijn grunted softly, remembering.
"My father likes to make split-second choices, especially when threatened. I'm convinced my mother said something that made him feel afraid the day she 'fell' from the wall. He had been waiting to kill her, according to Pelëa, but it appears that he didn't decide until they went for their mid-evening stroll." Halewijn squinted his eyes at the sun as he glanced upward as if watching the rays of light fall to the ground with longing. "Pelëa went to warn her, but she was much too late. My father had them banished from ever stepping foot into the palace that day, so not a single priestess could speak of what she saw. To prevent any insurrection, anyone who did say anything would have their tongue cut out." Cyra suddenly remembered the mute doctor in the healing room. Had she witnessed something too? "And to prevent me from usurping the throne, he cast me out." A hint of bitterness could be heard in his voice, and Cyra looked to his facet trying to decipher his mood.
"I'm sorry, Halewijn." There was nothing else she could say to make him feel better; this was something Cyra knew quite well.
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