Chapter 53
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
LEINA
Faelon was right again. The Crimson Feather is a pleasure house, not a brothel.
I’d pictured something dark and ugly, where sex is exchanged like apples and coins at a market. But that’s not what this is.
The Crimson Feather itself is not a building.
It’s been carved directly into the heart of the mountain, its entrance a wide set of doors with faravar wings carved into the wood.
Red lanterns glow at the entrance and line a path that winds down the mountain.
From a distance, it appears as though the mountain itself is bleeding.
There’s a line to enter, and it wraps down the path, a slow-moving serpent of people that stretches so far down the road toward Edessa that I can’t see where it ends.
There are hundreds of Faraengardians, men and women alike, all of them brimming with an eager, impatient energy that hums in the cold evening air.
A second line stands apart from the first, shorter but somehow heavier, filled with those who walk and speak with the kind of effortless entitlement that comes with wealth and rank.
Their clothes are velvet or silk, their boots are polished, and the guards at the entrance move them forward with a careful rhythm.
At the threshold, each woman who enters is handed a drink. The cups are small and silver, and without hesitation, the women swallow the contents in a single, greedy gulp.
Thalric and I walk to a separate door, closer to the Synod, where there’s no line.
The muscled man guarding the entrance nods at Thalric and then me.
His gaze lingers a tad too long on my scars, and then he drops his eyes to the ground when he hands me that same drink all the other women have been throwing back.
Thalric catches my confused look. “Contraception tonic,” he whispers to me. “All the women take it.”
Ah. I tip the cup back without ceremony, swallowing the bitter liquid in one sharp motion. The guard gives a gruff nod, then swings the heavy wooden door open for us.
“Silent skies upon you, Altor,” he mumbles, stepping aside with awkward reverence.
We pass through into the Crimson Feather, and the first thing that strikes me is the warmth.
The air inside is thick with the scent of burning candles and some kind of sweet, spiced wine.
Lanterns hang from the stone walls, casting pools of soft, golden light and leaving thick shadows to gather in the corners.
Beautiful men and women mingle, drinking wine and fruity cocktails.
It’s easy enough to distinguish the Faraengardian civilians from the Altor.
The civilians—men and women alike—are dressed in opulence and flair, everything about their appearance designed to draw the eye.
There are high-collared jackets and sheer shawls, puffy sleeves and gauzy fabrics, dainty slippers and leather dress boots, dresses that are both scandalously high and scandalously low, and all manner of jewels dangling from necks and ears and wrists and ankles. Even from bellybuttons.
The Altor, like Thalric and the others, are easier to spot. They’re dressed in their simple, severe day-to-day attire, just cleaner.
Even were everyone dressed alike, though, I could pick out the civilians in an instant.
All of them are eyeing the Altor scattered around the room like they’re something to be sampled and enjoyed.
The room practically buzzes with the excitement of the hunt, a thrill of frenzy and dark desires.
It lingers on the air like an intoxicating drug, the energy rippling out and saturating everything it touches, even the chair cushions.
A room to my right offers tables set up for card games, while an area to my left hosts a band—a violinist, a pianist, a flutist, and a horn—whose generic, upbeat dancing music drifts into this room, the main area.
A long, polished bar divides the space, a gleaming river of glass and dark wood, where servants bustle back and forth carrying trays of wine, fruit, and more colorful cocktails.
There’s a set of stairs leading to another floor.
A dazzling woman in a crimson dress leads Faelon up the stairs with a smoldering look and a breathless laugh.
He does a double take when he catches sight of me in Elowen’s dress, and then grins and waves happily, points toward the back of the bottom floor, then disappears from sight.
I turn to where he pointed. Tables line the back wall, and that’s where Nyrica and the others sit.
Nyrica has a tankard, but I know it’s full of water, not mead.
There’s a man I don’t know sitting next to him—a civilian.
Nyrica listens with half an ear, but his eyes are on Thalric as we approach the table.
Caius seems content to flirt with a woman to his left as the two exchange constant touches on the arms and legs.
Leif is blushing, with a woman hanging on one arm and a man on the other.
The man lightly trails his fingers up Leif’s arm and leans down to whisper seductively in his ear.
The woman is nearly in his lap and laughs at whatever was said.
She grabs his hand, and the three of them also head for the stairs.
“Leina! You look stunning,” Leif tells me, even as the other two keep leading him away.
“Thanks. Have a good time,” I say with a wide grin. He blushes more.
In the span of a breath—the time it takes for Thalric and me to reach the table—a hush falls over the room. I feel the weight of a hundred stares.
“Why are they looking at us?” I whisper, trying not to let my lips move too much.
Nyrica leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, pipe balanced casually between two fingers. He exhales a stream of smoke, the scent curling through the already heavy air.
“Us? They aren’t looking at us, love. They’ve never seen a female Altor before, never mind one as exquisite as you,” He grins, flashing teeth, and tips his glass in my direction. “You clean up really well, Leina.”
The room completely quiets at his words, and the heat of a blush spreads up my chest and my neck.
I’m uncomfortably warm in this crush of bodies.
Put me in an arena with all eyes on me in a fight to death, and I can handle it.
But this? I’ve never been the center of attention in a room like this.
I didn’t even know places like this—with people like this—existed.
I tug at Elowen’s dress, feeling naked and exposed. “I shouldn’t have worn this,” I mutter, missing the comfort of my tunic and leather pants.
Nyrica scoffs. “You’ll have them eating out of your hands.” He scrapes out a chair from the table, offering it to me. “Have a seat and enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.”
A servant appears at my side, carrying a tray of drinks. “Something to drink, miss?”
I clear my throat awkwardly. “I’ll have water, please.”
Nyrica shoots me a shit-eating grin. “Joining the sober?”
I smile back, his easy bantering helping to put me at ease. “Just for tonight.”
Nyrica throws his head back and laughs, and the sound is like a herald’s horn starting a race. The crowd surges forward in a crushing assault, people desperate to approach our table. Civilian guards immediately surround us to block the stampede.
Nyrica gently taps his large tankard against the delicate glass I’m holding. He raises his cup and shouts, “Silent skies upon us!”
The entire room lifts their cups in the air, wine, cocktails, and mead sloshing over the sides and onto the floor, making a sticky mess. “Silent skies!” The room quakes with the force of their shouts.
My eyes round. The man who’d been trying to get Nyrica’s attention shifts, his body angling toward mine. Thalric takes advantage of his distraction and squeezes onto the bench, next to Nyrica.
The man angled toward me is dressed flamboyantly, like all the others.
He reminds me of the peacocks that strut around the overlord’s manor, birds raised for nothing but show.
Not so good for eating, like duck. Not so good for laying eggs, like chickens.
Not so good for defense of the property, like geese.
They’re just pretty birds. I never understood why the overlord kept them.
This man, he’s wearing one of those jackets with the puffed-up sleeves that billow around his shoulders.
The fabric of his coat is silk, the colors a mix of plum and midnight blue.
It’s a startling combination. Each of his fingers is adorned with a silver ring, and his jacket has three different brooches pinned to it—one of the royal crest and two others I don’t recognize.
He catches me eyeing them and he smiles proudly.
“Interested in the royal family, are you?” he asks, flashing perfectly white teeth in perfect straight rows.
I resist the urge to throw up on his shiny, plum-colored boots. Instead, I focus on why I’m here—to forget. And if I’m able to learn a little about the royal family while I do that? Well, that’s a boon, too.
I shift a little, leaning closer.
“Is that what you are? A member of the royal family?”
He fingers the brooch on his jacket. “I wouldn’t be able to wear this if I wasn’t in line for the throne.”
I give an appreciative hum, which I’m sure is what he expects. Princess Rissa wears hers high on her shoulder.
“So, you’re a prince, then?” I ask.
His eyes flash with anger. “Not quite. I’m the king’s nephew, Daimor Chasen.”
Sensitive subject for him. There’s apparently a lot of anger that Rissa is the king’s chosen heir. It’s the first time a Faraengardian king has allowed a woman to inherit the throne, instead of passing it to a male cousin or a nephew when there’s no son to inherit.
“Are you next in line, after Princess Rissa?”
The anger grows, leaping out of his eyes and onto the air. It’s spicy and bitter. “Yes.”