Chapter Twenty-Five #3
The knight beamed at me, teeth glittering like beacons. “It would be an honor. Perhaps three days from now, I can show you my collection? I’d offer to show you now, but I am meeting with a merchant in a few days for some metals that might suit one such as yourself.”
“We’re otherwise engaged,” Raphael said before I could respond.
I cut Raphael a look, but he was staring down the knight. Ferro’s smile hadn’t flinched.
The conversation faded, and we moved on to see another diplomat. I glanced back at Ferro.
A witch. I studied his profile. Aside from Thea, I hadn’t spent any time with one since discovering my powers.
Perhaps there could be a way to find him and ask questions about his magic.
I’d told Thea I’d leave it to her, but I was antsy to know more.
Especially since I’d left the grimoire in Damerel.
“Unless you want him to die, viper, I’d suggest you stop looking so interested in another male.”
Raphael’s soft words startled me. I’d been staring.
“You’re joking,” I accused just as quietly.
“I am so known for my sense of humor,” he murmured.
More like for being overly dramatic.
I didn’t have a chance to be certain before we were called to sit. Cosette led us to two empty seats near the head of the table. In all, there were perhaps thirty in attendance. Servants moved through the room, serving food and wine for those who partook, and blood mead for those who didn’t.
As the southern king was still missing, Cosette took his place at the head.
Niceties were exchanged around the table, introductions made for those we hadn’t seen yet.
Sir Ferro was on the other side of the table, Lady Jaen as well, which suited me fine.
There was something about the familiar way she kept looking at Raphael that rankled.
With Raphael on my right, one of the fae sat to my left.
Across from us were delegates of the shape-changers.
There was a flash of interest each time Raphael introduced me as his fledgling, but mercifully few questions were asked.
No doubt inquiries would be made in more delicate manners.
“Still not trading your gems, Cyrus?” someone asked the red-haired male I’d identified as one of the fae. Cyrus was on the other side of the table looking utterly bored, the winged female still at his side.
“At this point, it’s unbecoming to ask,” was Cyrus’s droll reply.
The asker, a human or something similar, shrugged. “The rumors were that your wife had softened you. I thought your embargo might have eased.”
Cyrus’s answering smile was all teeth. “You know what they say about rumors, Septimus.”
The winged female—his wife?—caught my eye and rolled hers at me, like we shared some secret joke. Her eyes flicked to Raphael before she smiled at Septimus. In a few short words, she defused the situation and their conversation moved to a discussion of trade volumes on fabrics.
The rest of the conversations were all similar flavors—bits of gossip I lacked context for, broaching sensitive trade topics with the nonchalance of seasoned courtesans approaching a target. Mostly, it was all a prelude to more serious conversations. Raphael participated fully.
I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t expected him to. Maybe these trade discussions had been his entire purpose for coming, but somehow I doubted it. Perhaps because of what I’d seen him handle in court with an iron tongue. The minutiae of trade hardly seemed the domain of the monarch.
Then again, what did I know? The Witch Kingdom didn’t have anyone to trade with. They were isolated, trading only between towns. Of course, with magic, there was little else worth importing, but it was a sore spot in the history.
Isolated because of the vampires. Because they keep the witches weak.
Another dark thought. They’d been fewer in the past days, and I was getting better at identifying them.
Could this really all be the impact of the grimoire?
The more time that passed since I’d last held it, the more separate they seemed from my own thoughts.
There was no doubt that the witches had suffered from their seclusion.
Especially as I looked at the table and saw such richness of cultures all woven together.
Raphael made it sound like it was their own fault, but maybe it was because they always felt on the back foot, surrounded by vampires without the strength to set them as equals—like a necromancer would have allowed.
I knew I had a role to play, though I increasingly doubted it was the grimoire’s offer of angry, blunt violence.
My true goal might be helping to secure the witches a seat at the table, like this.
Of course, not in my current state. Thea had made clear exactly what vampires thought of the scourge, and I was still working to control the anger of the grimoire. I hadn’t even started trying to control its power.
The metallurgist was pitching his jewelry-making skills, but I wondered if that really was all he did.
The cursed copper blade I wore, strapped to my thigh under my dress, had very likely been made by someone like him.
Any witch could make cursed copper, given the right time and ingredients, but forging it was a challenge.
My pendant was certainly made by a skilled metallurgist. Not that I could show it to Sir Ferro, even if I dared remove it from the hiding spot in my trunks.
I choked back a sip of blood mead with as little of my distaste showing as possible and thought back to the card merchant.
I resisted the urge to glance at Sir Ferro again, not wanting to test Raphael’s humor.
There were witches trading with vampires.
No way was it sanctioned by the Storm-blooded King, but it was happening, nonetheless.
That meant there could be a path forward.
Perhaps the knight would even have thoughts on that.
One thing was clear: While I’d once thought the world was the Witch Kingdom surrounded by monstrous, animalistic neighbors, it was so much wider.
The magic, the species. Raphael made the witches out to be xenophobic, barely tolerating those they saw as lesser, unwilling altogether to welcome those they saw as different.
I’d been raised on those exact prejudices.
But what if it was because they were closed in? If they could sit at a table like this and see the opportunities, if they could trade, surely they’d be eager to.
They need to feel safe, like equals to do that. They need a protector. I pressed a palm to my forehead, squinting. Suddenly the moonlight felt too bright.
A squeeze of my hand under the table. “Samara?”
I dropped my hand immediately and reached for the goblet in front of me.
“Nothing to worry about.”
I swallowed down more blood, but it tasted like ash.