Chapter Fifteen
Ronan’s light flickers, casting erratic shadows over the warehouse before slowly descending to the ground, illuminating the alley with a pale, trembling glow as it fades.
“Calling someone?” I ask.
“Taran and some of the others are nearby.”
I seethe, my heart still pounding from the fear and exertion of the fight. “And you didn’t think that would have been useful five minutes ago?”
He steps closer to me and waits for me to lower my weapons, which I do.
Reluctantly. He comes even closer then, standing close enough that I can hear his still-heavy breathing, his eyes pleading with me to listen.
“I will explain. When we’re back in the palace, I’ll tell you everything.
But please, Sylvie. I’m asking you to keep quiet about what happened until I do. ”
I want to say something smart about not needing to listen to him, but something in his expression stops me. It’s not a command. He’s begging me. He’s afraid of what will happen if I don’t listen to him.
“Fine,” I say, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Everything, Ronan.”
Taran arrives then with five other guards in tow. Six trained Royal Guards waiting…where? Down the street?
For fuck’s sake, this better be good.
“Take her to my chambers,” Ronan says, gesturing to me. “Gaius, go with them. The rest of you are with me.”
Taran comes along beside me. “This way, my lady.”
“I’m not a lady,” I say to him. “That’s my sister.”
I’m just Sylvie.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.”
I follow Taran into the street. Bodies are strewn across the cobblestones, some twisted and contorted, others bloodied. But a few of the fallen—the ones taken down by Ronan’s light magic—look eerily peaceful.
“Quite a fight,” says Taran. “He should have called us sooner.”
“That’s what I said.”
Taran gives me a shy smile and then leads me up the hill, tracing our steps back to the market with the other guard trailing behind at a bit of a distance.
We walk in silence for a time. Taran rolls his neck, running his hand through his blond hair. He looks tired. From the ringing of the temple bells, the hour is late.
“How long were you out here?” I ask him.
“A few hours.”
“Were you watching the warehouse?”
“No. He wouldn’t tell us where it was meant to happen.”
Interesting. I had the impression that Ronan trusted Taran, but it sounds like he keeps some things from even his closest guard.
I can sense there’s more that Taran would like to say, but he says nothing.
I can imagine why. The last time I saw him just a few days ago, I had been deeply insulting.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” I say to him.
He doesn’t turn his head to look at me. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do,” I say, and I stop, forcing him to stop and face me. “I’m sorry. Not just for what happened to you, but for what I said about you and your people. I’m realizing now that there are a lot of things I don’t know.”
“You weren’t wrong,” he tells me. “Not entirely. The history between our people…it’s long, and it’s bloody, and there have been terrible losses on both sides.”
His eyes are full of a deep sadness that I can’t comprehend.
“But that’s history,” I say. “It’s not you, and it’s not me. I know how it feels to have people hate me just because I’m Nithyrian, because of what my family has done. I see it in their faces. I hear it in their whispers. And I did the same exact thing to you, and that’s not fair.”
I knew it when I said it, knew that it sounded like what Quinn had said to me, and I said it anyway.
The people at court and in the streets of Faros aren’t wrong to whisper about me. Even Quinn isn’t wrong, as much as I hate her for it. They see me for what I am. I want to believe that I’m better than what they say, but deep down, I know I’m not.
“Ronan says—” He stops himself, looking into the distance. Is he worried that he’s betraying Ronan’s confidence? “His majesty says that you’re different. I didn’t see it at first, but I think he may be right.”
I’m not different. I’m just like the rest of my family, just like the people Ronan spoke about, the people keeping score. I tell myself I do what I do for the good of my people, but is that really true?
Or am I doing it for my own good? For my selfish need to see Ronan suffer for what he did to us. What will his suffering give me? What will it give our people?
Another war. More death, more hunger. What will it cost us all?
I can’t say any of that to Taran though. “I don’t know if I’m different. But maybe things can be different one day. Like Ronan said.”
I don’t believe my own words, but unlike Ronan, Taran can’t feel that.
He nods, and he leads me back into the palace.
The entrance to Ronan’s private chambers is not exactly where I expected.
Taran guides me past the tower I stumbled upon my first night here through a series of dimly lit hallways, our steps echoing on stone.
Finally, we reach a discreet door nestled in the shadow of a marble archway, its heavy wooden frame inlaid with subtle carvings.
The guards that protect it don’t question why I’m with Taran. They simply let us enter.
Inside, I expect to see more of the same décor from the rest of the palace: tan stone and garish amounts of gold, with a clutter of tapestries, paintings, and a thousand other decorative things that I’m sure are worth more than my life.
But the first room we enter is closer to the antechamber to Ronan’s throne room. It’s about the size of that room, big enough for only a pair of cushioned benches in a rich red fabric, the legs made from Nithyrian wood.
I had thought Ronan had brought us to the antechamber full of Nithyrian things the first day to intimidate us, to remind us that he controlled Nithyria and our lives within it as well.
But perhaps he just prefers our aesthetic.
“You can sit,” says Taran. “Ronan should be here soon.”
I’m not sure which bench to sit on. They appear roughly equal, although maybe the one on the right has bit more wear in the cushion furthest from the door. Ronan’s preferred seat?
I take it. Because I’m annoyed with him, and because I’m petty at heart.
Taran raises his eyebrows but says nothing.
He stands in front of the door at the back of the chamber, the one that must lead into Ronan’s bedchambers and other rooms beyond.
It’s a pity that Taran is there to guard me because I’d really like to sneak a peek into those private chambers.
To find a way in. A servant’s passage we can use when the time is right.
And for no other reason.
I am not thinking about Ronan’s bed or how near I must be to it.
I know it’s good for the plan, but there are limits to how far I’m willing to go.
I try to find something else to think about before Ronan gets here, but there’s little else in the room.
A seascape on the wall. A potted plant in the corner.
Taran. I didn’t notice it before when I was still blinded by prejudice, but he’s not a bad-looking guy.
His features are soft, almost boyish, but the tattoo gives him a bit of an edge.
Not exactly my type, but like the goddess Kerensa, I enjoy beauty for beauty’s sake.
The door opens, and Ronan enters, looking unamused. I imagine he felt my wandering eye from the other side of it.
Good.
“Leave us,” says Ronan. Taran exits back into the hallway, and I take a shameless glance at his ass as he leaves.
Then I flash my eyes back at Ronan, who is doing his best to conceal the fact that he’s seething.
Even better.
“When did you realize?” he asks tersely. He stands across the room, arms crossed over his tunic. He’s still wearing Soren’s clothes, and in them, it’s so obvious that they’re the same man, I can’t believe I ever doubted it.
“Realize what? That the king of Selara was prancing about darkened alleyways posing as a war-wounded?”
“I wasn’t posing. I was a war-wounded.” He turns, and Soren’s face flashes onto his so quickly it makes my stomach queasy. “These are my own scars. Or they would have been, if the healers hadn’t gotten to them.”
I suppose he wants me to feel sorry for him.
I don’t.
“They did incredible work. I suppose that’s what happens when all of the best healers in the land are at your disposal.”
“Unlike your own sister and brother, who have to wear their wounds on display for all to see,” he says sarcastically. Adria and Seth have no scars either despite the fact that we lost the war.
“When you left me because the bells were ringing,” I say, returning to his question. “You winked.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Did I?”
I roll my eyes. “You know you did.”
“I hadn’t realized…well, that probably explains why I lose so often at cards. It seems I have a tell.”
“Or you’re bad at cards when you’re not cheating. Why do you even need to cheat if you can feel what everyone feels?”
“I’m not a mind reader. As amazing as I am, it is actually possible to deceive me. If you play your cards right.”
Another wink and a gods-awful joke.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would try to deceive you.” I need to rein in the sass, but he’s really pissing me off right now.
“Are you angry with me?” he asks. He takes a seat on the bench across from me, leaning forward a bit in my direction.
“You truly are an idiot. Of course I’m angry, Ronan. You lied to me—”
“You lied to me—”
“And you dragged me into something that could have gotten us killed—”
“I told you it was dangerous. I told you not to come. You forced me to take you—”
“And you acted like you were my friend, and you tried to kiss me! How did you think that was going to go, exactly? When I touched your face and realized the scars weren’t real? What was going to happen then?”
Ronan leans back, and a soft blush blooms across his golden cheeks.
It’s really, really attractive.
Fuck.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t,” he says as I start to protest. “No one has ever come onto Soren before.”