Chapter 16 #2
Khayrivven swallowed the just-as-familiar fear, forcing his voice to remain level.
“Because I’ve been tracking the rebels’ movements for the Triad for years.
The rebels don’t have the financial backing.
Their focus is on the Amrin Mountains, holding their position there, controlling supply routes.
They don’t have the numbers or the resources to do it. ”
“Unless it’s rebel magic wielders.”
Ulder had a point. There were more rebel magic wielders than the king would have liked to hear. “That’s always a possibility,” he said instead of the many other things he wanted to say. “One we can’t exclude until thorough investigations have been conducted.”
A simple nod from Ulder, his shoulders relaxed as he leaned back in his chair.
“Did you know Khayrivven has been spying on his own people for years? He has interrogated and tortured for me, has killed for me, and he will do much worse for me without question.” Ulder’s eyes snapped to Lory.
“That’s the sort of loyalty kings dream of.
That’s why I chose Khayrivven to lead my Ebon Division. ”
Raising a brow, Ulder read Lory’s beautiful face with too much eagerness for Khayrivven’s taste, and Khayrivven waited for the moment she’d see him for the coward he was. He’d put his sister before Criulias. He’d put one person before an entire people.
But Lory had lived through worse than one man’s scrutiny, and as she pulled her lips into a saccharine smile, her reaction proved it.
“The loyalty that will outlast entire realms, my king.” She dropped into a low curtsy, drawing her hand from Khayrivven’s grasp as she gathered her skirts just enough so they didn’t touch the floor, one hand close enough to her pocket to access the knife he’d slid into the hidden compartment with a prayer to Eroth, the God of Death that he not call her to him that night, while guilt and self-loathing for what he’d put her through—and what he’d yet to demand of her—warred inside his chest.
Ulder merely grinned, turning his attention back on Khayrivven. “You certainly have more information for me than what the Triad has already reported, Khayrivven. Show me how deep that loyalty runs. Find out who initiated the attacks. Give me a name.”
Khayrivven could sense the tension in Lory without a glance. It mirrored his own, despite the almost two decades of practicing to appear unbothered in the face of someone demanding he sell out his own people.
He had plenty of names he could have given the king.
All the people he’d smuggled out of Ashthorn Ward—through the exit the king couldn’t see through his office window.
The rebels hiding out in the city, and the men and women trusting him with their lives in villages scattered along the coast of Sen Dunai.
He’d done it before. He’d bemoaned the loss of his people too many times as he’d kept convincing himself that, one day, he’d pay Criulias back by bringing them freedom.
But first, he needed to get Elina out of the palace, and to achieve that, he needed to keep up the facade.
The anxiety over seeing his sister again had been plaguing him for years, the many times he’d hoped to catch a glimpse when he’d been summoned to the palace and been disappointed. And today—Elina was just down the hallway, seemingly oblivious to the true nature of her fate.
“I’d like to talk to Elina first.” He’d pondered whether to speak these words for just as long, always needing to balance his obedience with holding Ulder to his word.
A glance from Ulder at his guards was enough for them to step closer, spears pointing at Lory, not Khayrivven—of course.
Another person Ulder could use against him stood right next to Khayrivven, and if any of them dared hurt Lory, he just might forget himself and burn this palace down with all the people inside.
Including Elina? No, he would never hurt his sister.
Grinding his teeth, Khayrivven lowered his head. “Please, my king,” he amended, listening for the breath Lory had been holding as she seemed to freeze like the splashes of water Bellmont used to ice over during training, and when the air whistled from her lungs, his own chest heaved with relief.
Giving him the gracious gesture of the monarch he liked to present himself as, Ulder inclined his head.
“You will, Khayrivven. I’ll grant you a dance with your sister tonight, if you bring me a name in a week’s time…
. And if you grant me a dance with the Flame-born thornling at your side.
” Not a question, but another version of torture, making him pick whose safety was more important to him.
“Done.” Lory responded so fast that Khayrivven couldn’t even attempt to stop her. “I’d love a dance, my king.” She gave Ulder that saccharine smile once more, almost making Khayrivven’s heart stop as she curtsied again, holding out one hand the way she’d learned.
Everything inside Khayrivven screamed for him to claim that hand before Ulder could, to not let the king come within touching distance of his Flame, but even flinching would mean to give Ulder yet another weapon by admitting how much he cared for Elory Vednis.
No, this was a battle Lory had chosen and wanted to fight—for him. And he’d be a fool not to seize the opportunity to figure out once and for all if Elina would cooperate when he finally set out to rescue her.
Heart thumping violently in his chest, he watched Ulder rise from his seat and take Lory’s hand.
The woman who would choose between the heir of Criulias and the king on Brestolya’s throne and condemn one of the two to his downfall.
Khayrivven couldn’t tell if it was the flash in Ulder’s eyes that made the wild beast inside his chest come to life or the look in Lory’s as their hands touched, but the years and years of self-restraint were the only reason he didn’t fling himself between the two like an overprotective bodyguard and drag Lory from the room, consequences be damned.
Without a word, Ulder guided Lory from the room, Khayrivven following at two-paces distance, enough to put the guards at ease, but not enough for Lory’s heartbeat to fade from his hearing. So steady in the face of danger, so brave, while his own heart was racing.
He’d dance with Elina.
With a deep inhale, he squinted, focusing on the back of Lory’s head, where her hair flowed in silken, black waves to her waist—a view which, on a normal day, he’d have devoured and committed to memory to replay in his dreams, but tonight, his focus was on what lay inside Lory’s head.
“Gutter Gem,” he called, tendrils of translucent black floating toward her as he sent fingers of his dreamweaving powers at her. “Can you hear me?”
In front of him, Lory stumbled, catching herself on the king’s arm as her attention clearly awoke inside the limited dreamscape Khayrivven conjured.
“Keep Ulder busy as long as you can…. And be careful.” His words trailed away even as he thought them, Lory blinking out of the temporary trance and gathering her bearings.
“Apologies, my king. I must have tripped.”
At least she knew how to lie to save her ass. If Ulder knew the full spectrum of Khayrivven’s skills, he’d have a serious problem on top of all the serious problems piling up on his doorstep.
A dance with Elina. Khayrivven suppressed the nervousness creeping up on him, instead watching Ulder steady Lory, whose shoulders slumped the slightest bit at the king’s touch.
Oh, she knew how to play her role. Perhaps she wasn’t outstanding in Gilded, not a master of court protocol and etiquette. Those things could be learned. The talent Lory possessed was something else entirely.
Had Khayrivven not seen her haunt Dunai’s alleys as a thief, he wouldn’t have believed her capable of it.
Had he not watched her climb the obstacles in the training yard, he would never have believed she could make it up a ladder, that was how good she was at slipping into the role of the compliant little butterfly the king wanted to see.
At the sight of how she used that tiny moment of weakness to step into a new role, Khayrivven’s chest swelled with pride, and he knew that he’d always been right about Elory Vednis.
His Gutter Gem.
He’d used that name as mockery long before it had become an endearment to her.
But for him, it had always had the same meaning: Lory was a gem.
A gem he’d found in the gutters of this sun-beaten city.
A gem for whom he’d risked far more than his reputation to retrieve, and for whom he’d put his life on the line to keep. His own, personal heist.
It was a Guardians-damned miracle that she’d spoken those sweet three little words earlier, when he’d wrung her pleasure from her with his hand.
Three little words he couldn’t afford to even think, or he’d lose himself to the sensation threading itself through his chest from the moment he’d laid eyes on her as he’d stalked Dunai’s street for the sister of the man with the golden spark of magic.
And now that he watched that same woman sparkle in ways the rest of the world would never understand, the fire in Khayrivven’s veins burned hotter, brighter, a volcano of power which he’d been aching to unleash on this palace and the king who ruled.
A power which he couldn’t let take over unless it was to harm Ulder’s enemies. He’d sworn it, and his word seemed to be more binding than he’d intended when he’d spoken the words.
Whether that was a fairy thing or a different sort of spell that had been put on him, Khayrivven had spent years trying to determine—without luck.
Unlike in the early days of his powers, when he’d been a walking inferno, these days his flames rarely showed when he summoned them, like a blanket was suffocating the embers in his blood—except, of course, to harm the king’s enemies. That they still knew how to do.
Their footsteps echoed along the marble hallway, the sound blending into the beat of the music floating in through the open ballroom doors.