Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Idon't have to wait long.
Kestrel has only just disappeared into the crowd below when I hear the guards around me shuffling into a different formation, then straightening to attention. Looking toward the palace, I see the king making his way toward us.
He's annoyingly handsome, as usual, in a structured black military-style coat with fitted sleeves and subtle golden fringe at the shoulders, worn open over a heavily embroidered black and gold vest. A reddish-gold sun is pinned to the coat in honor of the celebration.
Dark trousers, black boots, and a minimalistic crown complete the ensemble.
After officially greeting him, the guards rearrange themselves again, forming two lines with a center corridor that leads directly to where I stand.
My chest tightens at the display, at the way their alert gazes track toward me after the king passes them. Reave doesn't seem to notice them at all; he has eyes only for me as he approaches and offers his hand.
We step away from the soldiers, and for a moment, it feels like we're set apart from the rest of the world, perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking an ocean of possibilities, vast and uncharted.
I think of my dream—of looking down upon the field of flowers going up in flames—and the knot in my chest pulls tighter.
Reave gives a small wave as the first people on the pavilion notice him, but his attention remains devoted mostly to me.
“You look stunning,” he says, tilting his face toward mine even as he continues to wave to his admirers.
I try to match his easy tone, looking down at my gown and pretending to be unimpressed by it all. “Crimson and gold? The colors of Mouren. Very subtle.”
He shrugs. “They suit you.”
“Why not just wrap me in a flag and parade me around?”
His eyes lift to the banners fluttering from a nearby parapet. “I can grab one for you, if you'd like to change.”
“No thank you,” I say, dryly. “Getting into this dress was quite the feat; I'm not taking it off until absolutely necessary.”
“I could help with that part, if it makes a difference,” he offers with a sly grin.
I probably should have seen this response coming.
I turn away to avoid letting him see any hint of my blush or amusement. The crowd below is growing restless, waiting for the king to join them, so that's where I redirect my attention. “Let's just get the evening over with,” I say.
“By all means.”
I expect him to offer his arm—a formal, stiff gesture. Instead, he takes my hand again, this time lacing his fingers through mine. It’s hardly the most intimate thing I’ve ever done, and yet…
So many eyes on us already, but all I can think about for far too long are the tiny points of contact between his skin and mine.
We descend together into the sea of guests below, my nerves humming quietly, my hand warm in his.
The first hour passes in a blur of faces and names that I do my best to remember.
Reave moves through his guests the way a slow-moving river winds through a forest—steady, inevitable, seemingly aware of every space he needs to fill without even having to look for it.
He introduces me to council members and merchant lords and distant noble relatives, and I smile and incline my head and say what I hope are the appropriate things while his hand frequently finds the small of my back, guiding with a steady pressure that I tell myself is purely performative.
The feast tables are something out of a fairytale, laden with roasted meats glazed in honey, loaves of bread I want to cram wholly into my mouth, towers of fruit and sugared nuts that sparkle in the setting sun's light.
We taste something from almost every table.
Reave picks things deliberately, carefully watching my face when I try them.
When I make an involuntary sound at a dish of spiced lamb—because nothing has any right to taste as good as it does—he looks quietly, insufferably pleased with himself.
I don't give him the satisfaction of admitting that I'm enjoying myself. Because I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am…this wasteful, hedonistic party.
But it's hard not to get caught up in it.
In the colors, the scents, the sheer number of people bowing and curtsying to us.
In the musicians playing one soft, bright tune after another, even though their songs are frequently drowned out by the increasingly loud laughter and conversation from the guests.
Every so often, I hear Briar's familiar laughter rising above the noise; she seems to be turning into the life of the party, as per usual—but she never goes long without tossing a more serious look in my direction, checking on me.
I reassure her with a slight nod every time.
I'm fine.
I'm focused.
I'm fine.
I've made it one hour; I can make it a dozen more, if I have to.
Even with Reave's hand pressing more and more possessively against my skin.
Even with him frequently leaning close to murmur the names of people before we reach them, his breath falling warm against my ear. Even then, I'm fine. I'm focused.
I'm fine.
But I'm also relieved when a guard catches Reave's eye and seems to give a signal; I can only somewhat make this out with my partial vision, but I feel the king tense when he sees it, and in the next instant he's finally relinquishing his hold on me.
“I need to go check on a few things. Enjoy yourself in the meantime.” He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a slow kiss across it before smoothly slipping away.
An act.
It's all an act.
But a convincing enough act that it makes my thoughts race, and for a moment, I find myself obsessing over the exact number of seconds his lips lingered against my skin, and how slowly he drew back.
How reluctantly.
After he's out of sight, I immediately find Briar and make my way toward her. She hands me a glass of wine without any preamble, waiting until I've downed half of it before she gives me one of her typical, chaotic grins.
“You two looked nice together,” she comments.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
Her grin widens. “I have to tease, or I might lose my mind over all this. It all feels entirely too surreal, doesn't it?”
“Yes.”
“So many powerful people here…” She hugs her arms around herself and lowers her voice as she adds, “And here I am, resisting the urge to steal from any of them.”
“Or stab them.”
She sighs. “Palace life is turning us so fucking soft.”
“It's all part of the job at hand,” I remind her. “Just an act.”
We're quiet for a moment, both trying to catch our breath and settle our nerves, before Briar mutters, “Trouble approaching.”
I lift my gaze and immediately spot the trouble in question: a group of finely-dressed men and women making a direct march toward us. No one I've been introduced to, yet, and perhaps they see this as a slight—perhaps that's why there's menace shining beneath their smiles.
I hold in a sigh as they approach. I'd rather be traversing the Ashlands, battling dragons or any of the other horrors those desolate places used to throw at me; somehow, it seems like it would be less dangerous than a conversation with these nobles.
They gather around us like wolves, sizing us up, searching for weak spots they might attack.
“Lady Desna, at your service,” says the apparent leader, a woman wearing so much powder and rouge it makes her face look eerily painted and smooth—more like a living doll than a human being. She gives a slight curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The rest of the circle introduces themselves. I pay attention and log their names away purely for the sake of having more information. I start to offer my own name in return, but Lady Desna cuts me off.
“You needn't introduce yourself; we all know who you are, of course.
The alleged Flamebound we've all just been dying to see in person.” Her green-eyed gaze flicks to my face, lingering on the patch Kestrel fixed over my eye, studying the bit of scarring peeking out from underneath it.
“And my, aren't you interesting looking?”
The thinly-veiled insult rolls right off of me. Briar is less indifferent; I can sense the tension gathering around her, pulling tight like a band ready to snap.
Desna continues to study me, tilting her head this way and that. She reminds me of an irritating, chirpy little bird. “Tell us, is it true that our elusive king has finally been snared by you?”
“Snared is an interesting choice of word,” Briar says in a low, deceptively pleasant tone.
Lady Desna’s eyes sweep briefly to her, assessing and apparently not finding her worth a reply; she merely turns back to me with a small, dismissive smile.
“She would know how to trap things, wouldn't she?” one of the other noblewomen chimes in.
“I've heard she's from the outer reaches of the Ashlands—from the slums of Halvgate. I imagine you have to catch all sorts of things to survive out there.” She's speaking as though I'm not standing right in front of her, and the others follow her lead.
“I heard they eat rats and snakes when the winter stretches long enough.”
“That there's no such thing as trash when you're hungry.”
“And the streets are barely fit for animals, let alone people.”
Lady Desna giggles, covering her mouth with a dainty hand as she whispers, “Could you imagine coming from dirt into a place like Lucindris?”
Briar starts to step forward, but I place a hand on her arm, stopping her.
“I'm from a place called Hell, actually,” I tell Lady Desna, while casually examining the ring Reave gave me.
“A place much lower than dirt. So I can understand how vexing it must be for you to see me ascending so far above you now.” I lift my gaze and give a sympathetic shake of my head.
“If only you were more interesting yourself, hm? Then maybe you could have had a chance to bait and snare a king for yourself. Such a pity.”