31. Basten
Chapter 31
Basten
D awn breaks with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Blazing rays cut across the horizon to torch my eyes. I swear that Samaur, that smug God of Day, cranked up the sun just to irritate me.
I tighten the straps on my leather breastplate one final time before descending the central staircase two steps at a time, headed for the southern gate that lies between the Aurora and Hailstrom Tower wings.
My breath grates. I flex my hands, anxious. Gods know I’ve spent hours agonizing over this bargain’s terms, trying to sniff out any fae trickery. Decades with Rian have sharpened my sense for deceit like a bloodhound’s nose, but I’m not dealing with second-rate cheats here.
For my own sanity, I run through the terms again.
From dawn to dusk, the game is in play.
Competitors may bruise but not break, bleed but not perish.
To the winner goes the prize.
See, when I lay it out like that, it all sounds safe. I can’t fathom how Sabine could be harmed when the rules explicitly forbid it.
So then, why do my bowels feel like they’re about to blow?
When I shoulder open one of the southern gate’s heavy double doors, blood-orange sunlight burns against my face.
Before me stretches the seemingly endless expanse of Vollen Forest. Twisted pines reaching for the clouds. A bleak ridge in the distance high above the Ramvik River. A whispering wind.
I stride toward a small treehouse pavilion constructed six feet high in the crook of a sprawling oak’s branches, where the gods are already lounging in their human glamours.
“Lord Basten. Good of you to join us. I was afraid you wouldn’t show, and it’s no fun to win on a forfeit,” Artain drawls from where he’s draped over the pavilion’s steps, basking in a band of golden sunlight with a Wicked Weed pipe in hand.
Iyre sits one step below him, drumming her nails on a green glass bottle half filled with a dark liquid.
Woudix and Samaur are in the pavilion, with Hawk, speaking quietly as they study the forest horizon.
Artain saunters down the stairs, sidestepping Iyre, to size me up with that damn smug smile. “You are still playing, yes?”
Do I have a choice?
“I wouldn’t dream of ruining your diversion,” I utter. “You’re certain that Vale isn’t aware of our bargain?”
Artain folds his arms over his half-bared chest, tossing a perfect lock of hair coquettishly off his forehead. “Vale is with the generals, drafting a plan to charbroil a few thousand villagers to make a nice straight path to the throne for you .”
I shouldn’t let this pretty bastard get under my skin—but damn, how I’d love to sink my fist into that smirk.
I cut to the chase. “Where’s Sabine?”
The words have barely left my lips when the delicate scent of violets wafts into the morning air, chasing away the gods’ purulent scents of iron and myrrh. I hear her soft footsteps long before she reaches the southern gate, but I’m still not prepared when she steps out into the dawn light.
When priests speak of angels, they speak of her.
She wears tall boots and wool military trousers that still have Captain Tatarin’s hemlock scent on them. The captain is a few sizes smaller than Sabine, so the pants squeeze Sabine’s ass in a way that reveals every curve—like a gods-damn map to paradise.
Her face is free of makeup. Bare. Natural. I struggle to swallow. Like this, she reminds me so much of my dreams of her—of us—sleeping together under stars instead of crystal chandeliers.
“Lady Sabine.” Artain offers a wolfish smile. “The key player in our game. Without you, Lord Basten and I would be left with nothing to compare as huntsmen but our shafts.” He shoots me another smirk. “I speak of arrows, of course.”
This fucking asshole.
Equally unamused, Sabine crosses her arms tightly over her chest. She looks as calm as if she’s spent years putting up with fae rogueries, but I can hear how shallow her breaths fall. How much she’s fighting to hide her nerves.
She tucks back a strand of hair, eyes briefly landing on me with a waver of uncertainty. “We’re here, Lord Artain, so give us the rest of the game guidelines.”
Artain points to the bellringer’s post, visible on the castle’s rooftop. “When the bellringer signals Seventh Hour, the hunt will begin. You, my little fawn, may scamper about anywhere within the boundaries of Vollen Forest. One hour head start. At Eighth Hour’s chime, Lord Basten and I will set out from the farthest points of Aurora Tower and Hailstrom Tower. The huntsman who captures your pretty little tail and brings you back to this pavilion at dusk wins.”
Sabine nods, adjusting the band of her trousers.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, chewing a damn hole on the inside of my cheek.
Sweat pours down the back of my shirt. My skin prickles with every breeze. I can’t shake the uncanny feeling that’s been plaguing me since making this damn bargain: Something is wrong here .
My brain might not see it, but my senses do.
“And if neither of you catches me by dusk?” She casually tosses back her hair, but she’s sweating as much as I am. On her palms. The back of her neck. Places only I can detect.
“In that unlikely event, the game is forfeit.” Artain shrugs. “A draw.” He laughs mockingly as though he knows that a draw will never happen.
She shoots back with as much derision: “And, what then? We toss a coin to determine the winner?”
“Certainly, if that’s what you like.” He winks.
I interject impatiently, “We’re losing daylight. Everywhere within the forest is fair game?” Out of the corner of my eye, I pick out the tallest trees for easy branches to climb, where I can get a high vantage point to look for Sabine.
“That’s right, Lord Basten. That high ridgeline to the southwest, the Ramvik River to the east, the Norhelm road to the northeast. Those are the boundaries.”
I wipe the nervous sweat off my brow, pretending to rake back my hair. Okay, this? I can deal with this. You could give me all the land from the port of Thrassos to the Kravadan border, and Sabine and I would still find each other.
“You’d better hope Vale doesn’t find out about this,” Woudix intones from the pavilion, taking a long toke from the pipe before passing it to Samaur.
“It bears no consequence,” Artain snaps defensively. He rests his hands on his hips, his open leather vest revealing a line of sweat running down his muscles. “When he does learn of it, he’ll be pleased that I found a way to keep his daughter safely in Volkany.”
His nostrils flare. He shades his eyes to look up at the sun. “When will Seventh Hour strike, Samaur?”
“Ten more minutes,” the God of Day answers, lifting the pipe to his lips.
I pull in a deep breath. Trying to get a head start by picking up on scents. Though I’ll admit, it’s hard to focus on game trails with Sabine so achingly close.
Her hand rests just three inches from my own as she scans the forest for her own strategy. It takes all my self-discipline not to brush the back of my hand against hers. The faintest scent of powdered sugar clings to her hair, and it’s so intoxicating that I can’t be blamed for forgetting all about the forest.
I feel confident. Artain has millennia of hunting experience, sure. Oh, and magic. But Sabine wants me to find her. It’s two against one.
Really, I almost feel bad for the guy.
Artain picks up his bow. “Time to take our places.”
I pick up my own bow, slinging it and my quiver over my shoulder. Then, gently, I touch Sabine’s chin and, for a brief second, everything else falls away. “I found you once, little violet. I’ll find you again.”
She leans her head into my palm. “We’ll find each other across any distance.”
Artain chuckles darkly. “So serious, aren’t you both? Please. It’s a game .”
I feel an itch somewhere in the center of my back that I can’t scratch. My instincts whisper that this isn’t a game, no matter how they dress it up with rules and wagers. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing in this world is ever as straightforward as it appears, especially when the fae are involved.
But what choice do we have?
As if reading my mind, Artain spins back around with a finger raised.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” A wicked curl tugs at his lips. “There’s one more thing to mention.”