24
Valine excused herself to freshen up, and as she did so, she used it as an excuse to check the adjoining door between hers and Malik’s suites in case he had any pertinent information to pass along before dining. Alas, his rooms were empty, and Valine sighed, readying herself to rely on the information she already possessed, and that which she would glean at the table. Gossiping and gloating were two things that were always present at dinner parties, and no matter how secretive or humble the person, pride and desire won out.
As she donned a fresh coat of claret lipstick, Valine touched up her cosmetics, adding a swish of gold liner to her lids and added bits of crushed gold to the apples of her cheeks. She still wore red, but instead of the gauzy pants, she had swapped it for a gown that was little more than sheer panels stitched together. The plunging neckline, in addition to the high slits, left little to the imagination. If the light hit it just right, one could just see her nipples. She added a finely woven gold chain bralette in order to encourage some imagination. It was provocative and elegant, and the heavy ruby earrings she added only enhanced this effect. She kept her rings—deadly ones included—she did not keep her undergarments.
When she exited the room, Alastair was there, holding out an arm, bedecked in Adraali viridian. He was wearing copious gold chains in lieu of a shirt beneath a vibrant jacket—she noticed absently that they matched. His pants were high-waisted with fabulous gold buttons embossed with starbursts, and he wore strappy metallic sandals.
“Don’t you look ravishing,” Valine commended, admiring Alastair up and down.
“Me? Do you own a mirror, darling?” Alastair was awed, spinning Valine with a hand. She twirled for him, showing off the non-existent back of her dress, and the long creamy length of her legs. “Everyone will be tight in the pants at the sight of you.”
“Mm, I do love an excuse to make loins stir.”
“You are an unrepentant tease.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
They laughed as the two of them escorted the other to the Zodiac Hall. She was taking in the grandeur of polished white walls, gilt-edged apses framing them, columns the only walls offered against the Twilight Sands and the sea beyond. Their shoes clicked against the pale stone, and Valine’s dress made a whisper against the floor. Guards stood at regular intervals, more than one startling at the bold dress she wore, and in response, Valine smiled and lifted her chin.
The Zodiac Hall was done up in more than just Talloh’s signature colors. In addition to all the bleached stone, yellow metal, and plum shades, the hall was awash with a variation of hues. The curtains which fluttered in the wind were magenta and the carpet beneath the mahogany table was lemon with a pattern of exotic birds. The high-backed chairs were upholstered in a riot of fuchsia, emerald, orange, and canary. The loud fabric depicting either flora or mythos, Valine couldn’t tell from the distance. The table was set with goldware, chalices encrusted with jewels, and a flourish of greenery ran the length of the wood.
Perched and lounging in their chairs were important people festooned in rainbow hues, most donning the signature Talloh flavor, while others—such as Valine and Alastair—elected for something new. Jacira, Balchon, and Tallulah were already seated, the three of them in flamingo, tangerine, and coral, respectively. The princess was the only one with a rose quartz crown. Next to the crown princess was a slender woman with a sheet of platinum hair. Her gown was a secret of colors, flashing in the light from green to lilac, to citrus to powder. She was serene, and despite her beauty, Valine noticed her rough hands—she was no royal.
Handwritten papyrus name cards were folded on each plate, and Valine found hers directly in front of the woman in the shimmering dress. Alastair’s on her right. She swallowed when she noticed Malik’s name at one head of the table—a place of honor. Only Sarim’s and Alastair’s names separated them. Freyja’s was across from the princess herself. They took their seats, and Jacira quickly introduced them.
“Valine, Alastair. I’d like to introduce you to Pandora.”
Alastair cocked a brow. “The infamous Pandora. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Infamous?” Pandora asked, her melodic voice light with teasing. “Jaci, what filthy lies have you told them?”
“Oh, only the filthiest of truths, my love.” Jacira grinned like a fiend, and heat rose on Pandora’s lovely cheeks.
“Is that a hint of a Lunethian accent, I hear?” Valine inquired, delicately sipping water as she eyed the allegedly tongue-talented woman.
“It is!” Pandora glowed. “My father was a travelling merchant from Bastia, and my mother a midwife here in Selyndyr, though she was originally from Valencya.”
“A woman from two capitals, a rare find!”
“Yes, despite their different views, I value both sides of my heritage. I hope to continue to blend my two cultures and perhaps share them with a particular crown.”
“Your open-mindedness is admirable.”
Pandora blushed again prettily.
As more guests filtered in and drinks were poured, Valine made small talk with the princess and her friends, watching each new individual take their seat. There was a duchess from Luneth and her bumbling idiot of a husband, a drunken lord, and a pinched-faced lady hailing from the border of Runell, a countess from Valencya, several Tallohian nobility, and a council member from Pravo—the only country in Enneive that did not follow a monarchy. But then a figure appeared, and Valine’s stomach bottomed out and filled with wings.
Malik entered, dressed in a shade of light blue that brought out the tone of his eyes. Copper accouterments glittered on his person, from his buttons to the fine stitching on his jacket. His shirt was more substantial than Alastair’s, but that wasn’t much of a feat at current. It was ivory lace, the first few pearl buttons undone to show off his chiseled chest and smooth brown skin. She realized that his tattoo was covered with makeup, and it only confirmed what she thought it was.
As he scanned the room his eyes fell on her, and heat instantly gathered in his eyes. She turned liquid under his gaze. She could see his thoughts in his eyes, the slow, languid way he devoured her that only showed how much he wanted to put his own hands on her. She imagined what it would be like to be splayed out on this table among the gold chalices and monstera leaves, of Malik sweeping the dinnerware with a powerful arm and pinning her down as he—
Valine forcibly tore her mind from the fantasy, but she knew it showed on her face, and it showed on his that he knew all the filthy dreams she’d summoned.
The King of Adraali crossed the room, and took his seat at one head of the table. It did not miss notice that upon his effortlessly styled hair was a small bronze crown. Spiked and studded with pearls. Valine wondered distantly how many he owned.
When Malik had entered, so had the King of Talloh. He, too, was crowned, but only his was starlight and Starfire—a matching pair to the one which sat upon his own queen’s brow. King Jericho gestured grandly to the room and the feast being delivered to them.
“Is this not proof that the gods have chosen us? That we, of the Mayar line, are the true prophets of their Word? We are devout and so have we been rewarded thus.” Jericho’s voice was powerful, near fanatical in its belief. “The moons shine upon us, the glow of the orbs pouring from our very flesh. Evidence that we are divine.”
Valine stifled a snort into her wine. Malik’s eyes zeroed in on her, amusement flashing. She marveled at how the Tallohians were eating up the nonsense the king was spouting, and she was internally grateful to the other royals’ forced composure. A lord was particularly struggling, and the duchess was coughing to cover up her slip.
Unfortunately, a countess—Magdalena something or other—of Valencya was absolutely enamored. Likely because her own complexion was exactly the color that Talloh valued. It infuriated Valine to no end that this delusion was so active in an otherwise forward-thinking kingdom. Aside from the slavery, Talloh’s beliefs and laws were a far cry from the restrictive traditionalism of Runell and Valencya. How was it that these royals were “divine” simply because they were fair-skinned? They had usurped the original natives from the land when they’d crossed eldritch seas and set foot on violet shores. It wasn’t just that they’d stolen their land, culture, and heritage, but to add insult to this theft, the people were enslaved and continued to be so.
Thinking such dark truths sparked an anger in Valine. Did this palace originally belong to the first natives? Or was it built anew on the bones of its predecessor? Were the portraits torn from the walls and murals painted over? Or were tapestries burned and buried beneath rubble? The more she thought about it, the more furious she became and the more she wanted to see the kingdom burn.
Hatred festered in her eyes as she stared down the Usurper King. His silver and white visage branding against her psyche like a hot iron poker. She adjusted her brow—softened it—and righted her jaw—unclenched it. With more imperceptible changes, she’d thus altered loathing into adoration, and when the king met it, he believed it.
Jericho licked his lips when he saw Valine’s heavy gaze, pools of darkness a seductive lure that only coaxed with a slow drop of lashes. An encouragement to follow their path to her decolletage. And follow they did. She was careful not to let her looks linger too long—for fear of getting caught out. She used servants passing courses—a savory broth soup and a mixed greens salad topped with goat cheese and dried fruit—and topping wines to weave the labyrinth of deception through the feast. Valine watched and waited, eager for him to slip-up in his body language.
And slip he did.
His eyes flickered guiltily to his daughter when he heard a feminine laugh—he was being a sleazy father. His hand tightened on his wife’s placid fingers as his brow lowered with internal thought—he was being an unfaithful husband. His gaze shot skyward—he was sinning against his gods. But the fourth slip up had Valine gasping behind her water glass—horrible, wicked triumph utterly burning through her.
Malik noticed, questioning her with a raised brow. She smirked, her tongue skirting her molar as she shrugged. Malik let loose a sweet, sharp smile. A crooked little thing that would have buckled her had she been standing. Her king dipped his head to hide his pride—not from her, but from everyone else. Valine decided in that moment she would tear asunder the entire Tallohian monarchy to see that smile grace his lips again, and that’s when the assassin realized she had it bad.