Chapter 12
I didn’t knock.
Between the roaring alarm and the bewildered questions pumping through my veins, there was no room left for things as inconsequential as privacy and politeness.
I threw half a glance down the corridor to check no one had followed me, then flung open the door to Durlain’s room, burst into the ornately furnished space beyond, and kicked the door shut behind me. ‘We need to—’
And that was as far as I got.
Because in the farthest corner of the room, where an aura of whirling steam surrounded the candle flames and burnished gold tiles covered the walls and floor, Durlain had shot up from a grandiose bronze bathtub.
Naked.
Time stuttered to a breathless, mortified standstill.
I had to turn around. I had to look away.
It was very, very clear that I ought to turn around and look away, because Lark would be beside himself if he ever caught the tiniest inkling of this, and either way, I didn’t even want to look at hell-cursed Durlain Averre and his hell-cursed naked chest – and yet I stood and stared, horrified and fascinated in equal measure, because—
Hell.
His scars.
Brutally murdered, he’d said.
His body was a lean, coiled murder weapon, not broad and brawny like Lark’s but wiry and deadly, every sharply drawn edge of muscle clawing out a place for itself.
Sinewy shoulders, whipcord-strong and gleaming with wetness.
Dark nipples, contrasting sharply with the pale alabaster of his skin.
A tuft of hair, leading like an arrow down to where the decorative rim of the bath cut off the details I desperately did not want to see … and then there were the scars.
So, so many scars.
They ran in ruthless lines along the edges of his ribs, where blades had dug into his skin and laid bare the bones beneath. Punctured his biceps and forearms. Bruised his sides and stomach in strange, crystalline blotches, immortalising the traces left by feet and fists.
They got creative in their attempts to make me talk, he’d said.
It hadn’t seemed quite as real before. Not quite as vicious.
But seeing those glittering scars, the mists of Niflheim frozen in the wounds that had killed him, I could suddenly imagine far too vividly what his corpse had looked like, what his death had looked like – a slow, agonising execution that I’d celebrated as justice four years ago.
A sound I couldn’t quite name broke free from my throat.
It broke the paralysis – his paralysis, at least, as he yanked his fingers away from the edge of the bath and curled his lip, an expression I felt like blades beneath my skin. ‘Enjoying the view, Thraga?’
Fuck.
‘No!’ Now, finally, did I stumble back, towards the door, only hearing the voices in the corridor a moment later. Damn it. Not a moment to storm back outside. Half-turning, half-shielding my eyes with my palm, I added a stammering, ‘I just didn’t realise— When you said they’d tortured you—’
‘Oh, Nalzen had the time of his life.’ His voice was blistering poison, each word dripping with barely contained fury. ‘I presume you are similarly overjoyed to see the fruits of his labours? I am a limp-dicked wife-murderer, after all.’
Pol.
Whose blood he’d kept.
Whose blood he’d suffered horribly to protect, even after he must have realised he would soon be dead … and when I parted my lips again, no words came out.
‘Surprisingly little joy on your face,’ Durlain observed, icily.
The splashing of water suggested he was moving; the light thud of a foot against floor tiles followed a moment later, the whoosh of a towel unfolding.
‘Rather inconsistent of you, I must say. My house killed your mother, if you care to remember. Surely you should be exulting at every razorblade my darling brothers sliced across—’
‘Will you stop?’ I burst out, whirling back around.
A mistake.
He was still very much naked.
Even more naked now, arguably, without a shield of bronze between me and the lower half of him – nothing but the plush black towel in his hands, dangling haphazardly before his loins, to shield me from …
things. Things I was very, very much not thinking about.
I hurriedly fixed my gaze on the matte gold tiles behind his shoulder, heat flooding my face, and choked out, ‘Please. Just stop—’
‘Stop what?’ He coolly continued to dry himself without any regard for my half-watching eyes, voice dangerously soft.
‘Reminding you of every entirely justified grudge and grievance you’ve thrown in my face?
I’m being considerate, Thraga. The look on your face suggests you might be moved to do things you’ll regret, if not for that reminder. ’
‘The— Oh, you bastard.’ I’d planned – truly, honestly planned – to only send him a single furious glare before looking away again …
but my eyes betrayed me, lingering a heartbeat too long on the water dripping from his collarbone, tracing a line over his chest and down the sharply defined ridges of his stomach.
I spun back around, cheeks burning, heart pounding.
‘I didn’t come here to gawk at you! Or to talk about grudges! Hevaine found something out, and—’
‘I gathered.’ Footsteps behind me, a rustle of cloth. ‘Nothing urgent enough to take priority over my state of undress, though. What happened?’
Fuck him and that mocking little sneer in his voice. ‘Your father and Lesceron are allegedly negotiating an exchange of unspecified people.’
A beat of silence.
Then, suddenly colder and sharper – ‘Say that again?’
I summarised all Hevaine had said – the letters, the meagre information they contained.
By the time I was done and cautiously turned back around, I found Durlain standing tight-faced by the room’s mantelpiece in a deep purple dressing gown – still not nearly as clothed as I’d have liked him to be, but at least it hid all scars except the jagged cut at the base of his throat, and at least there was no more risk of … bits showing.
His narrow-eyed gaze lay trained on my face.
I swallowed when he didn’t speak after two, three heartbeats. ‘Well?’
‘She said this was all the information in there?’ If he was worried – and surely he had to be terrified, after all I’d seen him do for his sister’s sake? – his voice didn’t so much as hint at it, cool and clipped and spine-chillingly pragmatic. ‘Nothing on identities?’
‘Nothing she mentioned, at least, but—’
‘No.’ Finally he looked away, fingers tapping impatiently against the dark marble of the mantel. ‘Good. If Ancelet had found out Muri is alive, he would have written about it – so I think we may assume Lesceron at least hasn’t revealed that information yet. Could be worse.’
‘Could be a whole lot better,’ I said bitterly.
‘Yes.’ A slow hiss of breath as he stood straighter. ‘Alright. Change of travel plans, again. We’re making for Brainne before we ride on eastward.’
‘Brainne?’ A straight line away from our trajectory so far. Worse, a straight line towards Mount Estien – bringing us closer to Aranc rather than keeping a safe distance as we travelled past the heart of the kingdom and into Garnot territory. ‘Why the hell would we—’
‘Someone I need to see.’ He jerked into motion, robe rippling around his long legs as he paced to the door and locked it with a snappish twist of his wrist. There was another slice of Niflheim ice on each of his feet – as if someone had nailed him to a floor before he died.
‘He’s the only person within a few days’ ride who might be of use here, so—’
‘But Brainne is two days away from court, and it’s First Fruits!’ My voice cracked. ‘The whole town will be filled to the brim with fireborn straight out of Mount Estien looking for a party, and everyone and their mother might recognise me! Or you!’
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, yes? I just gave you plenty of reasons not to—'
‘And you think any of those points are new to me, Thraga?’ His tone was light, but the honed edge of his jaw told an entirely different story.
‘I’m aware it might be dangerous. I’m also aware the dangers of not going are far greater, and avoiding recognition in Brainne will be significantly easier than avoiding recognition while trying to smuggle a princess out of Mount Averre. ’
‘That doesn’t mean it’s not a mad risk,’ I said between gritted teeth.
‘We’re currently fleeing Aranc Estien in order to challenge Lesceron Garnot in his own home,’ Durlain pleasantly reminded me, voice brimming with sarcasm. ‘If you take objection to the notion of risks, I have some terrible news for you.’
Bastard.
I pulled out one of the table chairs and fell into it, biting my tongue. ‘So who is the person you’re so desperate to see? Why do we need him so badly?’
‘One of Lesceron’s spies in Estien.’ He crossed his arms over his silk-clad chest, leaning back against the ostentatiously bright, flowery wallpaper of the guestroom.
‘He considers me a trustworthy source, mostly because I make sure most information I trade with him is actually accurate. If I pass on the news that my dear father is planning to double-cross Lesceron on some upcoming deal …’
‘He’ll believe you and pass that on to Lesceron himself,’ I finished numbly, fighting the urge to double over in my chair and hide my face between my knees.
The worst thing was that it wasn’t a bad plan.
It sounded like a pretty solid plan, even …
and hell, if it meant we’d get to Cimmura more easily, shouldn’t I be eager to follow?
To go along for Lark’s sake? ‘And you can’t just … write a letter?’
Durlain raised an eyebrow, resting his horned head against the painted bluebells behind him. ‘I’m not putting treason in writing, Thraga. Not even if it’s fictional treason.’
No.
Fuck.
That, too, made sense.