The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(29)
The uniformed servants of the duchess escorted Owen to a private cove along the bay where the surf came crashing against the rocks and sand. They had to hike down a little sandy trail to reach the basin, where he found the duchess walking side by side with her steward. Owen’s boots crunched in the sand as they reached the bottom of the steps. Having noticed his arrival, Sinia gestured for the steward to leave. There were a dozen or so soldiers in Raven tunics standing back along the edge of the cove, leaving room for the duchess to wander alone. As Owen passed the steward coming toward him, he noticed the tight frown on the man’s face.
“Glad you finally caught up,” the steward said with a biting tone.
“Glad you waited for me, Thierry,” Owen answered mockingly.
The steward sniffed and shook his head, heading toward the soldiers by the path. As Owen approached Sinia, he saw she was walking barefoot, two sandals dangling from her fingers. His boots left large prints on the sandy shore. The wind blew some of her golden hair into her face, and she reached up and smoothed it back before turning to face him.
He was expecting resentment in her countenance—how could she feel otherwise after having a day to stew on their unsatisfactory conversation? But her look was resigned instead, as if Owen were a trial to be patiently endured. The wind carried the salty smell of the sea and the crashing of the waves.
“I found you at last,” Owen said with an almost reproachful tone.
“Walk with me,” she said, and then she turned toward the waves and started off. She clasped her hands behind her back, the sandals still dangling in the crook of her fingers. The sun was beginning its descent and glittered off her leaflike tiara. Today’s gown matched the color of the ocean, except for the girdle and the white ruffs at her sleeves.
As Owen followed her toward the pounding surf and the hulking boulders and formations jutting up along the shore, he felt a change in the texture of the sand beneath his feet. The sand became firmer and more saturated, and his boots left crumbs in the wake of their passing. The rocks were speckled with sea life and he saw half-buried shells poking out all around them. The sun was warm, but the breeze was cool. As they approached the first crag of rock, the sand began to change again, and instead of tiny brown flecks, the shore was filled with small rocky beads of various colors. Sinia walked through it, the sticky sand clinging to her bare feet. The crunch from his boots took on a different sound. Were they pebbles? How strange that the beach would turn from sand to pebbles as they approached the waves.
A particularly large wave crested and then hissed with foam as it approached them. Sinia walked in defiance of the wave, and it receded away from her before she reached it. She set the sandals down as she crouched and scooped up a handful of the tiny beads to show him.
They were of various shapes and hues—pink, blue, orange, red, and green. She poked at the beads with her finger, pushing them aside to show him the full variety.
“This is called sea glass,” she said, and offered to drop the pile in his hand. He held out his palm and she tilted her wrist, sending the little pebbles clacking down onto his hand. The edge of her wrist grazed his and her touch sent an unanticipated jolt up his arm.
“I’ve never seen the like before,” he said, admiring the small intricate stones, trying to shake off the feelings that were stirring within him. Amidst the ebb and rush of the ocean, he heard the steady trickle of water. As he looked for the source, he discovered water running down the craggy boulder cleft that formed one of the cove’s boundaries. Little rivulets had made the stone mossy, but the water was clear. An indentation had formed at the bottom of the rock and little streams ran down the shore into the sea.
“These aren’t pebbles,” she said, picking up one from his hand. It was a misshapen red one. “Each one is truly made of glass. The sea has broken them into smaller and smaller pieces and then dragged them along the beaches here for centuries. This is the residue. Artisans come and fashion jewelry out of it. Just like gemstones, they take thousands of years to form. But the glass was made by men.” She stared out into the bay wistfully, smoothing more strands of hair from her face.
As Owen stood there, cupping the sea glass in his palm, he followed her gaze. An enormous feeling of recognition swept into him, as if he had stood in this exact spot before. Emotions swirled inside him, hammering against him like the waves buffeting the rocks nearby. The glass fragments he held in his hand were the remains of huge windows. Thousands of windows from an enormous castle that had once risen from the heart of the bay. He blinked, almost able to see it.
Owen had felt this sensation once before, while sailing through the cove to enter Edonburick in Atabyrion. He had sensed a city buried by water beneath them.
Thousands of stained-glass windows of the most majestic designs had been smashed and pulverized to become these small bits of detritus gathered on the shore. Owen’s knees buckled a bit, and a sudden dizziness washed over him, making him sway. His hand dropped and the sea glass fell back to his feet.
He felt a small hand wrap around his arm. “Are you all right?”
He blinked quickly, trying to quell the awful vision in his mind. How many people had died when the sea came rushing in? How many had drowned? An ancient ache throbbed in his heart.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he stammered, his throat thick with a suppressed groan.
“There are memories here,” Sinia said in a peculiar way.