Chapter Eleven
One unexpected advantage to the collapse of the Empire has been the possibility of acquiring books and documents from our former enemies in the Sheltered Lands.
Though my collection is still modest, it is clear that few members of the High Court have been memorialized with the devotion that the Lover enjoys.
I have already acquired six books of poetry dedicated to Aleksi, as well as several pieces of artwork, three plays, and a book of collected songs.
Untitled manuscript in progress
by Guildmaster Klement
By the second step over the threshold of Gwynira’s impressive ballroom, Einar knew he was going to enjoy this ball a great deal more than the last one.
It wasn’t only his companions, though it would have taken a colder man than Einar not to feel his pulse quicken at the sight of them.
Naia and Aleksi had abandoned Imperial fashion to devastating results, with Aleksi adopting his usual velvet pants and vest over flowing linen that hugged his perfect body.
Naia’s gown was unfamiliar, though the floaty periwinkle-teal fabric embroidered in flowers native to Rahvekya had clearly come from a local seamstress.
It barely clung to her shoulders, the deep neckline plunging between her breasts and all but begging Einar to nudge it aside—with his fingers, with his lips, with his tongue . . .
Not yet, he chided himself, forcing his gaze from the tempting expanse of bare skin. But returning his eyes to the rest of the room underscored how very, very different tonight would be.
The assembled nobles huddled in groups, wide-eyed with nerves as they watched the High Court circulate through the crowd, somehow dressed even more elaborately than they had been at their arrival.
Gwynira’s court would not have time to waste judging and gossiping about Einar, because Gwynira’s court was terrified.
“Is it wrong to hope Jaspar irritates Zanya or Ulric?” he murmured to Naia and Aleksi.
“Yes and no, probably,” Aleksi admitted.
Naia smiled slowly—not one of her open expressions of joy, but a cool, determined curving of her lips. “If he dares show his face—here, tonight—then I will handle him myself.”
For a moment he felt that same urge that had overwhelmed him on the beach when she’d stood proud and glorious in her protective fury—the urge to drop to his knees and pay homage to the goddess. He settled for clasping her hand and raising it to his lips for a brief kiss. “Even better.”
Aleksi chuckled. “I confess, I’ve never understood the allure of a dangerous lover. I’ve always been more partial to good-natured sweetness. But I’m beginning to see the appeal.” He bent down until his lips hovered just over Naia’s. “You might change my mind, little nymph.”
“Nonsense.” Her tongue snuck out to graze the corner of his mouth. “Why choose, when Einar and I can give you both?”
Her eyes danced with mischief, and Einar couldn’t resist the urge to slide his fingers up her arm, over her shoulder, and down that tempting expanse of skin across her collarbone. “If you two keep this up,” he murmured, “we’ll be leaving this ball scandalously early.”
Naia laughed, and for a moment he hoped they both might consider it.
But then Gwynira’s voice rose from the far side of the room, where she stood on the dais in a gown of pristine white sewn with so many crystals that it looked like icy armor.
“We gather to celebrate our most honored guests from the east, the members of the High Court. You will make them welcome.”
The chill emphasis on those final words managed to make them sound more like a threat than the opening to a joyful celebration, but at a signal from Arktikos a small group of musicians sitting on their own dais launched into their first song.
Naia smiled almost at once, as if she recognized the music. Einar felt a tug of remembrance as well—not from their recent visits, but a more primal memory. Perhaps he’d heard Jinevra whistling a tune like this on the ship over the centuries, or Petya had sung it to him as a child.
The musicians must have made the deliberate choice to feature ancient Rahvekyan folk music, undoubtedly to honor their newly returned goddess.
The bright joy on her face was a suitable reward—and so irresistible he wanted to be part of it.
He didn’t care if he didn’t know the steps to this dance—he had every intention of sharing it with her.
He started to lift his hand to Naia, only for Inga to appear in a swirl of dark skirts and clasp his hand. “Honor me with a dance, Kraken?”
Aleksi smiled his encouragement, so Einar hid his mild disappointment and accepted the Witch’s hand before leading her out into the dancing.
His good mood was somewhat restored by the way several of the braver couples who had taken the floor spun anxiously out of their path—and not because of Einar this time. The Witch terrified them.
Inga seemed oblivious to the nervous looks they shot her, turning to face Einar with a dreamy smile.
She lifted one hand to his, her black-tinted nails sparkling with some iridescent sheen by the light of the massive chandeliers, and settled the other on his shoulder.
“So,” she mused, guiding him into the opening steps of a dance that seemed nothing like the one being performed around them. “The Kraken has found a lover.”
“Two lovers,” he corrected mildly, letting her lead the dance. She seemed to be moving to her own internal rhythm—but the Witch so often did.
“Two lovers,” she agreed readily. Dark, kohl-lined eyes stared up at him, and there was nothing of the dreamy, amusing woman whose whimsy so often baffled those around her.
The Witch studied him like a puzzle she meant to dismantle—and might put back together, if she liked what she found.
“Aleksi is very special to me, you know.”
One long nail brushed the side of his neck, and Einar remembered tales whispered over campfires or in shrouded taverns—that the Witch could heal a man with a brush of her finger, or kill him with one swipe of her poison-tipped nails.
Einar had a great deal of respect for the danger she hid beneath her fluttering gowns and glittering butterflies—but Einar had sworn his allegiance only to the Siren and the Huntress. He would back down before no other member of the High Court.
He let his lips curve in his cockiest pirate smile, wrapping the full arrogance of the Kraken around him as he took control of the dance, swinging her in a circle with enough force that her skirts flared wide to reveal flashes of brilliant pink the same color as the glow slowly suffusing her eyes.
“Is this where you tell me what terrible things you’ll do to me if I hurt him? ”
“I considered it,” she admitted, dragging her nail down his neck again with enough pressure that it would have broken mortal skin. “I would be very displeased if anyone hurt him.”
Einar let his own power rise within him, the crash of the sea and the seductive lure of the monster.
His skin prickled, his demigod form so close to the surface that Inga’s eyes widened, as if she could see it within him.
His eyes must have been glowing, too, the eerie teal of a creature of the deep to meet the inhuman pink of hers.
He leaned close, until his face was a mere fingerbreadth from hers. “Not as displeased as I would be,” he rumbled, letting the rage of the sea fill his voice.
Any of the nobles in Gwynira’s court would be on their knees in terror by now. Inga actually laughed, bright and joyful. Her sharp fingernails grasped his chin, holding him in place. “Good,” she whispered. “Aleksi doesn’t need a weakling. He needs someone who will take care of him.”
“I can do that,” Einar replied. “I will do that.”
She leaned up and kissed him, a quick brush of lips that left behind the lingering sweetness of the prized glowing berries that grew only in the Witchwood.
Then she released his chin and gave his cheek a fond pat.
“You’re a good boy, Einar,” she said as the glow in her eyes faded, returning them to their usual warm brown.
“Perhaps I will not poison you after all.”
“I appreciate it,” he said dryly, letting his own power dissipate. He didn’t let his cocky smile slip, however. “Though it might have been interesting to see you try. Creatures of the deep survive dangers those on land could hardly dream of.”
“So Dianthe always says. Though I wonder . . .” Her gaze grew distant, her lower lip disappearing briefly between her teeth as she hummed in thought—presumably lost in the fascinating intellectual puzzle of how best to murder him.
There was a reason people found Inga so unnerving.
He was spared the challenge of finding a casual way to segue away from discussion of his death when Inga abruptly shivered. “I should have packed something warmer. My wardrobe may not be suited to an ice kingdom.”
No, it certainly was not. Though the endless layers of ruffled fabric that flared her skirts out might provide some protection, the neckline on her gown’s bodice made Naia’s look positively modest. The entire thing looked as if it was pieced together from a hundred black flower petals, narrowing to tiny winding vines at her shoulders that left her arms—and back—bare.
“There’s a reason the fashion in Gwynira’s court tends toward many fur-lined layers,” he allowed.
“I’m sure she has a suitably dramatic cloak you could borrow, if you want. ”
“Hmmm.” She pushed gently at his shoulder, taking control of the dance to turn them so that she could peer up at where Gwynira sat, talking with Isa. “I wonder if the bear is warm.”
His brain stuttered for a moment, trying to follow the winding path of her thoughts. But then he saw Arktikos looming at Gwynira’s shoulder, gaze watchful as it scanned the assembled crowd for any signs of potential trouble.
Oh, no.
“Ulric is always very warm,” she pointed out, narrowing her eyes. “So is Ash.”