Chapter Twelve
I burst into the cramped bedroom above the tavern. The door swings shut and I chuck my bag on to the narrow bed with a groan.
“What an arrogant, self-entitled idiot,” I grumble. “Could you believe that? Snapping his fingers at me like that, expecting me to jump to it.”
Taron closes the door quietly, looking annoyingly calm. He sits down on the edge of the bed and surveys our home for the night.
“And what about that minion of his, Gideon? A real doormat, if you ask me. Going around tending to his master’s every need…”
Silence.
“Hello? Aren’t you going to say something?” I probe.
“Oh, sure.” Taron shrugs, and I’m baffled. How is he acting all nonchalant about it now, when only a few hours ago, he looked ready to punch the Young Prince square across the jaw? “He’s a complete tool. But, if you ever read the headlines, I thought you would’ve known that already.”
“This is all messed up,” I mutter, digging my hands into my hair. “Going up against someone like Cyrus in the tournament? He’s been training his entire life. Did you see that blade? How are we ever supposed to win?”
“Believe it or not, Cyrus is the least of our worries.” Taron reclines on his elbows and his shirt rides up slightly. I catch a glimpse of the defined contours of his torso disappearing into his belt and I quickly look away.
Warmth blooms in my cheeks. I ignore it. “What do you mean?”
“That girl from the tavern, Kara DeLange,” he says. “She’s a top pick among the bookies to win the Reckoning.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
Taron finally meets my eyes. “Unlike you,” he says dryly, “I’ve done my homework and didn’t dive into this unprepared.”
“Seriously? I was only dragged into this yesterday. When was I supposed to conduct my research?”
“You don’t know anything about the competing teams?” Taron cocks a brow at me and I shrug. “Maybe grab a newspaper once in a while. The Principal Academies have been doing profiles on their selected students.”
A different kind of heat rises into my face. He’s insufferable. “Instead of berating me, why don’t you just tell me already? Who is Kara, and why is she the odds-on favourite?”
Taron sits up and fixes his gaze on the bay window. Beyond it, the city of Rava sprawls.
“For starters, she’s a Helio,” he says. “Enrolled at the Solarflare Institute in Solara – top of her class. Word has it she’s set to enlist in the Principal Guard post-graduation, and it’s not been confirmed yet, but she recently secured herself a full scholarship at Rava Academy here in the capital. ”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else do you know about her?”
Taron sighs. “She’s charismatic. Good with people.”
“What about her teammate, the other girl? Who is she?”
“Savannah Dlamini, a Psam from the White Desert. Her father’s a renowned sandshaper in the Principal Guard, so she probably has more training than any other competitor in the tournament.”
I vaguely remember Alaric and his group discussing the daughter of a renowned sandshaper. That was her? She looked … friendlier than I would imagine. But then I recall a line from the Games Master’s Post I found in Wren’s rucksack earlier.
Do not be fooled by the merriment that fills the palace halls, dear friends, for the warmest smiles may soon be the ones that cut deepest.
“Is Savannah enrolled in an Academy?” I ask.
“She’s been honing her talents at Rava Academy since childhood.” Taron sounds like he’s reading from a book. It’s starting to worry me how little I know. “They’re a deadly duo.”
Exhausted suddenly, I sit down on the edge of the bed next to Taron. I immediately regret it. The sudden physical closeness between us feels suffocating, almost too intimate for comfort.
I shift away a bit and try to lighten my tone. “Well, great. That’s just the boost of confidence I needed.”
“It’s not all bad,” Taron says.
“How so?” I turn to look at him.
“All eyes will be on them. No one will notice us.”
True, I suppose. But it still doesn’t fill me with the comfort I need.
I reach into my boot for my shears and gather the fake sigil in my palm. The stone in the centre turns a muddled grey colour, but the medallion itself glows warmly, revealing the details of my stolen identity etched into it.
“What about Maeve and Wren?” I ask. “What do the papers say about them?”
“Not much. Nothing formidable, at least. They’re both from Moondance Haven. Not enrolled in any Academies. Privately trained. No one really knows what their talents are, even.”
“They’re a wildcard.”
“Exactly.”
I bite my bottom lip. It makes sense now, why Madame Vera would choose this team in particular to impersonate. If no one knows anything about them, not even their talents, there’s nothing to expose us as impostors.
It pains me to admit it, but Taron has a point. We’re entering the Reckoning with the element of surprise on our side. People will underestimate us. And we can use that.
“Feeling better?” Taron asks, eyeing me. From his face, I can’t tell if he’s genuinely concerned or just smug. Most likely the latter.
“A little. By the way,” I say, “you didn’t have to play hero back there with Cyrus. I could’ve handled him myself.”
“You didn’t look like you were handling it.” An annoying smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” I fire back. “It might surprise you to know that I was goading him intentionally. If you hadn’t stuck your nose in it, I’d have been able to get a glimpse of his energy and learn his deepest insecurities. That would’ve been helpful in the tournament.”
Taron snorts. “We already know Cyrus’s deepest insecurity,” he says, turning away again. “He’s vain and arrogant and selfish, just like the rest of the royals. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to use that against him.”
“I still didn’t need your help,” I mutter.
“If you say so.” Taron yawns, and I let out an exaggerated sigh.
My fingers pinch at the quilt on the bed. I’m tired, too – exhausted, really – but the idea of sleeping makes my stomach churn. Because once I close my eyes, it’ll be morning and the tournament will begin.
“If we’re doing this thing,” I say, after a moment, “you’re going to have to learn to trust me. I can handle myself, OK? I didn’t have parents to take care of me, so I’ve been doing it my whole life—”
I bite my tongue, realizing I’ve said more than I wanted to. A silence fills the room, and when I glance at Taron, I find his electric-blue eyes are staring right at me. He moves towards the head of the bed, resting with his back against the wall.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and it’s annoying me. I study his face, searching for some clue to his thoughts. The smallest, most insignificant thread of energy to tell me how he’s feeling. Why doesn’t he say something?
That’s when I notice it – a small, faded scar tracing the upper right corner of his top lip. It’s barely visible, but now I’ve seen it, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.
Then I realize I’m staring at his mouth and, embarrassed, I leap to my feet and pace towards the window.
Suddenly the room feels even tinier. I look around. The décor is simple – a narrow bed, a small wooden chest, a writing desk and two rugs.
“So, this is … cosy,” I say, to break the silence. “How do you suppose we settle the sleeping situation?”
Taron is still staring at me. “Guess I’ll have to play the gentleman and offer you the bed.”
“I don’t need a man to make me comfortable. The bed is all yours.”
“Well, where are you going to sleep?”
I nod at the bay window, cushioned with a thin, padded ledge. “The window should do me fine. I’ve slept on worse.”
A look of suspicion crosses his face. “This feels like a trap. Do you want the bed or not?”
“I said I’m fine.” I drag a blanket off the bed and go back to the window.
Taron doesn’t make me say it twice before he kicks off his boots and pulls his shirt up over his head in one smooth motion. I forget to look away, and my breath sticks in my throat.
“Only if you’re sure,” he says, smirking as he slips under the quilt and fluffs up the pillows.
“You could’ve tried to resist for longer…
” I take off my boots and settle myself into the window seat.
It’s not exactly comfortable, and as I stare down at the warm lights of the city below, the stark contrast to my life back in the village hits me – our little cottage in the valley, my warm bed, Elara. It’s all gone.
I should feel sad, but my throat is thick with guilt. Another thought occurs to me – a thought that makes me shiver. Back in the parlour, when I got a glimpse into Madame Vera’s mind, I only saw her and the burly man creep up on Elara.
I didn’t want to entertain the notion before, but now it’s the only thing I can think about – what if Taron was there, too, watching as my sister’s soul was ripped away? And now here I am, sharing a room with him.
I push the urge to sob back down, blinking to banish any tears. There’s no way I’m going to cry in front of him.
“Here,” Taron says softly, and I wonder if he’s been staring at me again. “You’ll probably need this.” He chucks over a pillow and I catch it.
“Thanks,” I say, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. He doesn’t notice, and he swiftly clicks off the solar lantern beside the bed.
We’re both quiet for a while as I lie back, gazing out of the window at the three moons emerging from beyond the clouds. I close my eyes, my lips murmuring a prayer to the Ancient Spirits, a silent plea to anyone willing to listen.
“You know,” I find myself saying, “this is my first time in the capital. My sister and I used to dream about this place. Elara would open a bakery here, selling cakes to the high and mighty – royals, nobles, affluent city dwellers.”
Taron stays mute, but in the dark, I see he’s focused on the window, the light of the moons glinting in his pupils.
My curiosity gets the better of me. “Something tells me this isn’t your first time. Do you—”
“Stop.”
His abruptness catches me off guard. “I’m just making conversation.”
“Exactly, Maeve. You need to stop. We’re in this together – sure, I get that. But I’ve already told you not to mistake this for friendship. I’m here to free myself, OK? Not to bare my soul to anyone who asks.”
“Free yourself?” I ask. “What do you mean by that?”
Taron’s silence lingers. “Let’s call it a night,” he says. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.” With this, he turns his back on me.
“My name’s not Maeve, by the way,” I breathe into the dark.
But he doesn’t reply.