Chapter 15 #2
I’ve never seen Blayze wearing so many clothes.
Despite the cold, and his evident struggle with it, he’s remained shirtless beneath his cloak at all our meetings, for every one of our climbing lessons, as if determined to impress those hard-earnt muscles on us; to ram them down our throats.
All his inkings are concealed tonight, but both tunic and breeches fit like a second skin.
His frame is not one Estelian tailors have previously catered for: Oralian bones are denser, their muscles larger, and every one undulates as Blayze saunters towards me with his usual lazy strut.
He’s preening, revelling in the courtiers’ pursed lips and scowls, enjoying the knowledge his presence is making everyone uncomfortable.
Blayze halts before me, brushes a stray copper curl behind his ear.
It’s strange to see him without his emberwing at his shoulder, but it appears he’s also acquiesced to my father’s order barring the non-humanoid Guardians from tonight’s festivities.
Does it bode well that he’s being this accommodating?
The Clanschief’s eyes travel my body with insolent familiarity as he extends a large, sinewy hand in greeting.
I hesitate, but have no choice but to reciprocate.
His fingers are rough and oddly warm, flecked with scars, so large they swallow mine.
I can’t help but contrast the feel of his broad, calloused hand with Astrophel’s smooth, long-fingered one.
Blayze ekes out the handshake, crushing my fingers with a minimal increase of pressure.
Remembering the savage way he handled a blade in the Armoury, I dread to think what those hands are capable of in combat. I meet his fierce gaze. Hateful brute.
I tug my hand away. The movement causes my sleeve to ride up, my brand momentarily exposed. Blayze’s eyes harden as his gaze flicks to my wrist. His upper lip twists.
‘Good evening.’ I bite out each word, and the bitterness in my voice doesn’t go unnoticed, either by Blayze, who smirks, gloating in his perceived small victory, or by Astrophel, who glares down his long nose at him.
I’m so tired of their continual bickering.
How am I going to endure moons of their one-upmanship without losing my mind?
Greetings over, my father takes my mother’s hand, helps her from her chair and leads her towards the high table. A signal for the other guests to assume their places.
I’m seated between Blayze and Astrophel – a waking nightmare.
To my right, Astrophel holds himself bone-straight, limbs drawn rigid against his body, features equally puckered.
He shuffles his chair away and avoids meeting my gaze – almost as if he knows I want to rifle his mind, discover what he and my father are up to tonight.
I’m grateful to him for interceding with my father about the healers, but I’m in his debt now, and I hate that.
Once again, the scant inches between us might as well be a cavernous abyss.
Blayze sprawls in his seat, limbs splayed.
His arms are three times the size of mine.
My chest feels like it’s been bound into one of the full-corseted gowns my grandmother used to wear, Blayze consuming all the available air.
The only saving grace is that Tansy is seated across from me.
With any luck, I can enjoy her company all evening, and I won’t have to talk to either of them.
I doubt Blayze or Astrophel would feel the deprivation.
However, in accordance with feasting etiquette, my mother immediately turns to her left and claims Tansy’s ear, meaning I’ll have to wait for a change in courses to engage her in conversation.
Izarius strikes up conversation with Astrophel, discussing likely weather conditions over the coming moons.
That leaves Blayze and me. And awkward silence.
I fight the compulsion to fill it, and instead take a large sip of shimmerwine.
The warmth trickles through my body as I swallow it.
I don’t usually drink, too afraid I’ll lose control, but tonight, I need something to take the edge off.
Even the reassuring pulse of the starstone concealed beneath my bodice is not enough to smooth my jagged nerves.
Hopefully Blayze will converse with Maris instead.
But in this, as in everything else, he proves himself disobliging.
‘So, what’s all this in aid of?’ Blayze jerks his thumb at the floral swags overhead. ‘Your peacock told Mar it’s something to do with the harvest.’
I ignore the tightening in my stomach when Blayze uses his pet-name for Maris. Perhaps Elvi’s right about them.
‘Thawtide used to mark the start of our growing season.’ And Astrophel’s not ‘my’ anything. ‘Surely, you’ve similar festivals?’
‘Once, perhaps. There’s not much cause to celebrate the seasons when you’re living in a sewer, Sparkles.’
Attendants arrive bearing platters of starfruit at the perfect moment.
A palate-cleanser: the first of nine courses.
Nine courses to match the nine points of the family sigil.
Stars only know where they foraged supplies for such a feast. I only hope the lavish preparations tonight mean rumours of blight are being greatly exaggerated.
The attendants serve me after my father, placing two glistening half-moon slices on the silver charger before me.
‘Nice to see her High and Mighty getting special treatment again.’ Maris speaks in a whisper pitched loud enough for everyone to hear, and laced with venom. She clucks her tongue. It’s a weapon sharp as any blade.
Blayze snorts and rubs the golden torc circling his neck.
He and Maris are quite the toxic double act. I’m growing used to the constant needling, but their taunts still smart.
‘I can’t eat any more of this slop. I need real food,’ Blayze grumbles as his portion is plated.
Astrophel shoots him a scornful look. ‘It provides all necessary nutrients. You’ve been told this.’
‘To survive, maybe. But it tastes flaming awful. About as satisfying as gruel. But maybe some of us are harder to satisfy, eh?’
Astrophel sighs. ‘You remember why you have to eat it, don’t you? Or must I explain again? Perhaps words like acclimate and altitude were too confusing for someone of your… intellectual limitations?’
‘Watch yourself, Peacock.’
‘You get used to it,’ Tansy says quickly. ‘It doesn’t taste nearly so unpleasant now. Like sugared water – only with a slightly bitter aftertaste.’ Maybe it’s her motherly instincts, but Tansy is assuming a peacekeeping role more and more with every passing moonsrising.
‘Your kind are used to eating like rabbits,’ Blayze mutters, collapsing back into his chair. He jerks his chin in my direction. ‘Have one of your thralls fetch me some meat instead.’
Astrophel narrows his eyes. ‘Is that any way to address a Crown Princess?’
Maris sniggers. ‘Careful, Blayze, you’ve really done it now. You’ve got Peacock all upset.’ Delphine flashes her a cautioning look, glares daggers at Blayze.
‘It’s all right, Astrophel.’ I struggle to keep my voice light.
While I might appreciate him defending me on this occasion, I don’t want him getting too used to speaking for me.
And I need to prevent another argument boiling over.
I won’t give Blayze any excuse to walk away from the Quaternity at the last hour.
I stare into his sullen eyes. ‘I’m sure no offence was intended. Was it?’
Blayze glowers, then grudgingly spears a piece of opaline starfruit onto his fork. ‘No.’ He feigns a gag as he swallows.
Astrophel wrinkles his nose. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘Yes. This stuff’s disgusting.’
‘Don’t eat it, then! Let’s see how you fare when we travel north. After all, you’ve adapted so well to conditions in Meissa, haven’t you?’
Blayze’s jaw tightens, muscles straining in his thick neck.
Looking down, I can see his hands balling into fists beneath the table.
He clearly doesn’t appreciate the reminder of how poorly he has adjusted to the Estelian climate, of the debilitating headaches and nausea that plagued him the first few moonsquarters, even with the double portions of starfruit to help him acclimate. Only Delphine struggled more.
I change the subject. ‘I trust you’re ready for tomorrow?’
‘More or less.’ He takes a large swig of shimmerwine and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. ‘You?
‘Yes – though I’m nervous.’
Stars! What in the heavens compelled me to admit that?
Blayze’s eyes seek mine. He raises a scarred eyebrow. ‘Understandable from a woman. Especially one as coddled as you.’
His contempt irks like a thorn underfoot. ‘I’m not afraid of the journey,’ I snap. ‘It’s just hard, thinking of those I’ll leave behind.’ My gaze drifts to my mother’s waxen face.
When Blayze next speaks, his voice is a throaty whisper. ‘I never knew my mother. She died birthing me and my brother. It’s been twenty-two scorchings since she passed…’
His eyes are soft for once, devoid of any confrontational glint, and I feel a rush of unexpected sympathy towards him. I didn’t realise he was an orphan, or Kyden his twin, though it explains their striking resemblance. I’m also surprised he’s only three sunrings my senior.
I grasp for appropriate words of comfort, before I remember I’m supposed to hate him. Surely, it shouldn’t be this easy to forget?
Attendants appear again, saving me from the embarrassed silence, bearing chargers laden with a clarified broth adorned with silver leaf and edible flowers, honouring Thaw’s erstwhile abundance. Maris seizes the opportunity to claim Blayze’s ear.
I exhale slowly. There’s an end to our conversation for the evening – and I survived it.
Delicate venison pies follow the soup. The latticed crusts resemble baskets of flowers. Almost too beautiful to eat, they’re also an extravagance the court can ill afford. This feast must be eroding our provision stores at a rate that doesn’t bear thinking about. What’s all this in aid of?