Chapter Five
There were many moments in life where I seemingly found myself in positions entirely too preposterous to make any sense.
Sat across from Roan Delmar, the Kinslayer, with a pint of firemead warming my chilled fingers, had to be at the top of the list. In a tavern I so regularly visited, nonetheless.
His feet were propped upon the table, crossed at the ankles, as he twirled a small knife he had pulled from his boot between his fingers.
I could feel him watching me. Both the men had the hoods of their cloaks pulled over their heads, hiding within the shadows from the rest of the tavern patrons.
Kai appeared fidgety, his head never moving, but those golden eyes were on a constant swivel around the packed room.
Leaning forward, my voice became a mocking whisper, “Are you two on the run or something?”
The Kinslayer’s brow quirked as Kai snapped his focus to me and asked, “What makes you say that?”
Gesturing to their cloaks, to the hoods that concealed them from all but me, I shifted uncomfortably. “Well for one it’s hotter than Soli’s wrath in here and secondly, you’re so nervous and fidgety it’s putting me on edge. Are you expecting someone within this room to snatch you from your chair?”
A snort had my gaze shifting to Delmar, to the blade he balanced delicately between two fingers.
“I’d like to see someone try to snatch us,” he retorted, his smirk venomous as his feet dropped to the floor below.
Leaning forward, his elbows upon the table, his face inches from my own, he mused, “my friend here is just surprised you visit a tavern so populated with Solerian army recruits. We’re a rather notorious pair among the ranks. ”
My own body leaned forward, accepting the challenge. “And why exactly would it be so surprising that this is the tavern I frequent?”
I was transfixed as his strange eyes roamed down the length of what was visible of my body, before trailing back up to my face. “Because we didn’t take you for a barracks whore.”
My dagger slipped into my hand before either of us could blink, the tip pressed softly to his throat. His near feral grin gave me the faintest suspicion that if he had wanted to, he could have stopped me.
Leaning closer, my nose nearly brushing his own, my voice low and sultry, I crooned, “I’ve learned, Kinslayer, that when a man insults a woman based purely upon her sexuality, it simply means they’re insecure and lacking,” I let my eyes drop, lips pursing with mock sympathy, “in their own. Let me hear you call another woman a whore, barracks woman or not, and I’ll hang your balls in the forest for the firesprites to play with. ”
His gaze was searching, but not in the way I had come to despise.
There was no sympathy, nor pity. He wasn’t searching for the comfort of a Potions Apprentice.
There was only a challenge awaiting in his gaze.
A raging, burning fire that reflected within my own soul.
He was rage and wrath and ruin. He was waiting for me to drop my gaze, to cower, but Goddess I was so sick of hiding.
Let them see.
The shadows hissed.
Show them how they would crumble beneath your vengeance.
His hand gripped my own, tugging the blade closer, piercing the soft skin just beneath his jaw.
His grin still feral, his eyes still searching as a small trail of blood slid down his neck and disappeared beneath the seam of his cloak.
“Knives aren’t normally my thing, little menace, but for you I could make an exception.
Would you like to be the judge of just how much I am lacking?
A groan had me pulling back, wiping the tip of my blade clean as Kai tossed the man an irritated glance.
“Can you please stop antagonizing her?” A frown pulled at his lips.
“I’m sorry, he enjoys getting a rise out of people, says it tests,” his own voice shifting into a poor imitation of the Kinslayer’s low timber, “a person's character.”
I picked at my nails, brows raising. I wasn’t generally the most patient person, but being a Potions Apprentice, caring for the people that I did, I liked to think I had grown accustomed to those trying to get beneath my skin.
Yet, every time I looked into that silver and green gaze and saw my own rage reflected back at me, my patience snapped like a string pulled far too taut.
“And what exactly have you gleaned of my character, Kinslayer?”
He shrugged, an infuriating smirk upon his lips as he brought his firemead to his mouth, my eyes drifting to his throat as he drank deeply.
“You’re easily annoyed and far less tolerant than I’d assume a woman who works within the Old Quarter to be.”
My lips pursed, a retort upon my tongue, when a new mug was placed upon the table beside me. My eyes flitted up, catching a familiar shade of hazel.
“Was that a knife I saw a moment ago, Syra Sommers?”
My fingers played with the handle of the new tankard as Rosie Donnchadh, her wild red hair piled atop her head, stared down upon me.
“Well—”
“If I see it again I’m tossing you out and calling that cousin of yours down from the barracks to walk your sorry ass home.”
My jaw dropped, my finger an accusation as I stabbed it towards the cloaked man across from me. “But he—”
She tutted, pale skin flushed with the heat of the tavern as she warned, “Start another brawl within my tavern walls and I’ll ban you for life, ya hear?”
“Rosie—“
But she was already walking away, other patrons calling out to her.
“A brawl?” The Kinslayer’s question was drawn out, amusement lingering in its depths.
Rubbing at my temples, a sigh of frustration escaped me. “Can we get to the point of why I’m here, please?”
Goddess, I was tired. My body and mind ached, my heart lay in tattered ruins within my chest. I was always exhausted after rounding, always grouchy and unbearably irritated.
My compassion and patience were depleted on the people I tried to heal, to comfort.
Not to mention the training in the early morning hours with Bran.
Physically and mentally, I was spent. I just wanted to crawl beneath the covers of my bed and sleep for the next two days.
Being chastised by Rosie was just the cherry on top. The woman could make a grown man cower beneath her ire.
I took a long pull from the firemead she had brought, relishing in the burn that trailed down my throat as it soothed my aching muscles.
“Your trials begin in a few days, correct?” Kai questioned. How in the Nine Hells did he know when my trials started? He shrugged sheepishly at my bewildered expression, a ringed finger tracing the rim of his tankard. “I may have looked into your records, after we visited the shop you work in.”
He continued, “Syra Sommers, niece and apprentice to Merle Sommers, you’ve been in training since you began living with your Aunt at the age of seven. Your twenty-first birthday was a handful of weeks ago and you will begin your trials in two days time, yes?”
Shifting, apprehension had my chest tightening. “I’m beginning to think you two running into me in the Old Quarter wasn’t simply a coincidence.”
Had they been following me? My eyes darted to the entrance of the tavern, to where Rosie moved throughout the room. If I ran, would they catch me? Certainly I was faster, but…
It was the predatory way with which the Kinslayer eyed me from beneath the cowl of his cloak that had me planted within my chair. As if he were daring me to. He’d certainly enjoy the chase and I wasn’t entirely certain I’d be the victor in that game.
Kai ran a hand over the hood of his cloak as he lowly said, “My name isn’t actually Kai, or, it is, but only kind of?”
“That sounds like a personal identity crisis that I really can’t help with, so maybe I should just…”
I was halfway up, gesturing to the exit, when Roan Delmar growled, “Sit down.”
I slumped in defeat, a scowl upon my lips.
My fingers were itching to draw my blade once more, until Kai spoke again, his voice hesitant. “My true name is Kairen Breno Artius Soliel, third born son of Artius Soliel, King of Tavari, and I need your help.”
The blood drained from my face instantly, I was sure. A hiccup sounding from my mouth as disbelief stole my breath.
A Prince.
A Solerian Prince.
Shadows loomed in the back of my mind, snaking through my veins, oozing malice in their wake.
Murderer.
Tainted are his hands by the blood spilt in his father’s wake. Son of a tyrant. Son of a murder.
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.
Nausea swept through me, fast and unrelenting, as I shoved them down, casting them from my thoughts.
This was bad, so, so bad.
“Close your mouth, little menace,” that sinful voice said, snapping me out of my thoughts, my glare one of pure vexation as his mouth curved with a wicked smile. “The Prince isn’t yet finished speaking.”
The condescension in his tone had my anger surging once more, nearly choking upon it as fear and aggravation burned through me. “Does he truly need to be here for whatever this conversation is?”
“Hate to break it to you, but where the Prince goes, I go.”
Anger was my shield, as it had always been. It was the emotion that I clung to, a tool to push down any others that try to surface. Anger was easier, safer. A comfort. Controlled, hot and burning within my gut as it crawled up my throat. Fear was unpredictable, but anger I could thrive in.
I focused on that burning, honed it sharp as my blades as I glared right back.
Teeth gritting, I practically spat, “Yes, it seems they’ve trained you so well, little guard dog.”
He stilled, eyes narrowing to an almost feline slant, turning predatory and vicious.