Chapter 53 #2
I tap one of the brooches I don’t recognize, and the ting of my nail against the metal is swallowed up by the racket in the room. This brooch has a beetle on it. There’s something about that bug that is disturbingly familiar.
“And this? What does this one signify?”
“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He smiles at me, and I don’t like it. It’s condescending, and he answers me in a tone that matches. Supercilious. “It’s the symbol of the king’s blood oath. It’s a badge of honor I wear proudly—to be bound to the king.”
Oath-binding magic. Horror creeps over me like a low, cold tide. This was the bug that ate the soldier the day they came for Seb. That man was bound … to the king? I’m about to ask more, when the man flicks a finger out, tracing the scar on my temple. I tense.
“I’ve never seen anything so disturbingly beautiful.”
I slap his hand away. “Beauty is not an invitation to touch.” I’ve gotten better at controlling my own strength. I don’t break a bone, but I do leave a red mark. He flushes an angry red, but leans back in his chair, an arm thrown back, hooking on the backrest, his feet spread out.
“Is it not?”
Oh no. Absolutely not. He reminds me too much of the captain who burned Irielle. I’ll ask Thalric later about that last brooch. I push my chair back, and it’s apparently an invitation. Another man comes up to my side before I’ve even fully stood up.
This one is less flashy. The fabrics of his clothes are still exceptional, but the sleeves only puff the tiniest bit, at the cuffs near his wrists.
He only wears four rings across his ten fingers.
He, too, wears two brooches. The bug brooch—he’s bound in an oath to someone, I’m assuming the king—and the one that I’m not sure what it means.
He has dark hair and brown eyes. His boots are black, and that seems like an improvement.
“Do you need some assistance, Leina?” Thalric calls from his spot against the wall.
“That depends,” I drawl, facing the newcomer.
He quirks a dark eyebrow. “On?” His voice is low and rich. Alluring.
“Are you a pompous prick, too?” I ask the new man.
The king’s nephew gives an outraged huff, coming out of his chair in anger, but he’s already being escorted away. Apparently being royalty doesn’t get you much here, except a better place in the line.
The dark-haired man shoots me a grin. “Rarely pompous. Often a prick, but never to a beautiful lady,” he says.
I decide I like his eyes and his honesty. When I sit back down at our table, he sidles up behind me.
“I’m Roran Chasen, House of Briarhelm.”
I wing an eyebrow up at the family name. But he’s not wearing the royal brooch. “Are you the king’s nephew, too?”
He laughs. “No. Simply a distant cousin.”
“I’m Leina.”
He flashes that grin. “I know who you are, Leina of Stormriven.”
“I had no idea I was so well-known.”
He gestures to the room, which is so overflowing with bodies it’s like a hive on the brink of collapse, buzzing with heat and chaos.
“They’re all here for you,” he says. “Every night they come in droves, hoping to catch a glimpse of the only female Altor. The one kissed by the gods. You’re not well-known.
You’re renowned.” His eyes scrape down, from my curly brown hair to my laced-up combat boots.
He raises his eyes back to mine with a cheeky grin.
“And trust me, Leina of Stormriven, you do not disappoint.”
I decide I’m very glad to be borrowing Elowen’s dress. It fits in here in a way I do not. I lean back in my chair, my head buzzing from the noise and the smoke. And maybe, too, from the attention.
“And you, Roran Chasen? Are you here for me, too?”
He leans forward but doesn’t touch me. “I’m here next to you, aren’t I?”
“How did you get past the guards?” They still form a line around our table, a veritable wall of muscle and blades. They’ve not let anyone else pass. It wouldn’t do much to deter an Altor. But then, they’re not there to stop Altor.
“I’m a charming guy,” Roran replies. That quick smile again. It’s nothing like Ryot’s. Ryot’s smile is a glimpse into who he is behind the shields; a window into something deeper. Roran’s is too smooth and practiced. I shove the thought away. Far away. I’m not thinking about Ryot tonight.
Nyrica leans across the table. “Don’t be a cagey bastard, Roran.” Nyrica taps that mystery brooch on Roran’s chest with more force than necessary. Roran grunts at the impact. “Roran’s a gifted.”
Now that the Stormriven men know that I’d never heard of the gifted, they’ve been a lot more aggressive about explaining the various gifts. The brooches, though, are new to me. Gifted Altor don’t wear them.
“Roran’s a velvet voice, which means he has an ability to sway others,” Nyrica finishes.
I do a quick scan of the room for more of those brooches, but I don’t see another.
“Gifted civilians are required to wear them, if their gift can be weaponized,” Thalric explains. “Like Roran’s here.” Thalric slaps Roran on the shoulder, but it doesn’t exactly look friendly.
Roran laughs, and the velvety sound is so obvious it’s a wonder to me that I didn’t figure it out on my own.
“Let’s not be dramatic, Thalric. I’m no weapon.” His eyes shift to me. “Not like you.”
Thalric keeps his eyes on me, ignoring Roran. “Walls up around this one, Leina.”
I nod and spread mental fingers around the obsidian shawl around my mind. There’s no soft velvet sneaking through. There’s just attraction. Normal, no-strings-attached desire. Something that sounds like a relief after the exhausting push-pull around Ryot.
“Do you want to play a game?” Roran asks.
My shoulders relax, and a true smile blossoms across my face.
“Yes.”
“Excellent. It’s called two truths and a lie,” he says. “I tell you two things that are true and one thing that is a lie, and you have to tell me which is the lie.”
I grin, knowing I have an advantage in this game. “Alright.” I push out with my mind, seeking his emotions. He’s shielded, but not like an Altor, or even like the king or Princess Rissa. It’s not a curtain wall; it’s more like a … wooden fence.
He holds up a ringless finger. “One. I’ve danced in the rain.” True. My smile widens. He holds up a second finger. “Two. I’m great at massages.” True. Or at least, he thinks it’s true. “Three. I’ve never thought about kissing you.” Lie.
“Oh, that’s horrible,” I tell him, but there’s laughter in my voice, and he grins like he knows he’s been caught.
“Well?”
“Three is very clearly the lie, in your opinion. But,” I interrupt before he can reply, holding a hand up. “I’ll have to ascertain the truth of your skill with a massage myself before I can make a final determination.”
“That’s only fair,” he replies. He flags down a servant circling with food and snags a plate of breads and cheeses down for us to nibble on.
He doesn’t acknowledge the man otherwise.
That grates. I murmur a thank you, but he’s already disappearing back into the crowds.
I squint at the necklace that looks terribly tight around his neck. How odd.
“Your turn,” Roran says, distracting me.
“Mmmm. I hate being stared at. I’m not ticklish. I’ve never danced with a stranger.”
“The lie has to be that you’re not ticklish, because it would be a tragedy of epic proportions if you’re not.”
I smile, licking cheese off my fingers. “Well done.”
“How about we fix the third one for you now.” He stands and then sinks down in an elegant bow, holding out a hand for me. “Would you like to dance?”
Oh, this is fun. “Yes.”
He holds me close when we get to the dance floor. The music is soft and slow. I compare his arms to Ryot’s, fleetingly, before I shove the thought from my mind. I’m not thinking about Ryot tonight.
Tonight, I’m having fun , godsdammit.
“How is training going?” he asks, seemingly genuinely curious.
“Really well.” I lie. I don’t think he notices.
“Ryot’s treating you well?”
So much for not thinking about Ryot. “You know Ryot?”
He looks at me like I’ve said something funny. I guess I have—I imagine most of Edessa knows everyone else. They all live in one city, don’t they? And I’m sure they all know the Altor.
“Of course,” he answers. “Though I haven’t seen him in years. He doesn’t often come here.”
My heart pounds at the mere mention of Ryot. What is wrong with me? There’s a perfectly nice, perfectly attractive man holding me in his arms, and I’m still thinking about Ryot.
“Mmm,” I answer noncommittally. Don’t ask about Ryot. Don’t ask a question about Ryot.
“How do you know him?” Dammit.
“We were friends before he presented as an Altor,” Roran says, but he doesn’t elaborate.
The noise is building in intensity, the smoke is making my eyes water, and the attention aimed my way is cloyingly sweet. A headache that lingers near my temple beats a steadier, firmer rhythm. I bring my fingers up to press it, like I can force the pain to retreat if I push hard enough.
“Headache?” Roran asks, tutting sympathetically.
“A little one.”
“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately, relieved. Roran nods to one of the guards, who clears a path for us through the crowd.
I wave at Thalric and Nyrica, though they both look worried.
I follow Roran up the twisting stairs to the fourth floor of the building, eager to leave the barrage of sounds and smells behind.
But as we enter a dimly lit room—with nothing but a bed—I realize that Roran and I have very different ideas about “going somewhere quieter.”
Pleasure house , I remind myself. Godsdammit.
He wraps his arms around me again, pulling me in for a kiss as he pushes me up against the back wall. He tastes perfectly pleasant, like wine and a hint of something minty. His lips are firm, and they move against mine in all the right ways. His hands are gentle, yet firm, against my waist.
I pull back, pressing my head against the wall. He takes that as an invitation to kiss his way down my neck, to the base of my shoulder. And it does … absolutely nothing except make my skin crawl.
“Actually,” I start. “I don’t think?—”
“Shh,” he whispers, “stay.” His voice is velvety sweet as the command glides around me.
But the darkness that guards my mind is having none of it. It shatters the velvet sweet in his voice into little shards, then takes the shards and spits them back out as dust.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Did you try to coerce me?”
His eyes widen. He’s surprised that I noticed. “Of course not,” he says. Lie.
I rip my hand from his arm. “Let’s play a game,” I say. “It’s called two truths and a lie. One.” I call my dagger up from the holster at my thigh, and it lands in my palm with a whisper. His eyes widen. “I’m very, very good with my daggers.”
He takes a step back, and I take a step forward, dagger pressed into his exposed neck. “Two. I’m a very efficient killer. Some might even say the gods created me for killing.” He swallows thickly. The sound echoes in the room.
“Three. I’m a woman, which must mean I’m an idiot. Which do you think is the lie, Roran?”
“I’ll j-j-j-j...”
“Yes?”
“I’ll leave,” he finally spits out.
“That’s probably for the best.”
But before he can turn around, the wooden door to the chamber slams opens with a crash.
Ryot stands in the doorway. My heart pounds at the sight of him. My heart is a godsdamn traitor.
I surreptitiously replace the dagger in its holster, hoping that Roran’s body is blocking his view of me enough that Ryot won’t notice. Because I don’t, in fact, want anyone killed today.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ryot whispers menacingly, the sound no less intimidating for its near-silence.