Chapter 18 #3
Nakir turned as if he’d just noticed this woman and hadn’t felt her presence across the gardens the way Alethea had. He knit his brows for a moment, but he erased the expression from his face as quickly as it came. He cleared his throat, placing his hand on the small of her back.
“That is Xytharia Quellcrest. High Priestess of the Primal god of Death, Aevensor.”
She was coming closer, and now it made sense why she was heading directly toward him. This woman was from Nakir’s past.
“I didn’t know Aevensor had High Priestesses,” Alethea murmured before she was in earshot.
“He only has one,” Dawes added, admiration clear in his every word. “She is his Chosen.”
The woman was even more terrifying up close.
Alethea became acutely aware of how small in stature she was.
Xytharia might have been nearly six feet—the same height as Nakir.
She smiled a wide, white, fanged smile when she saw the three of them together, but there was something urgent behind her eyes as she addressed them.
“Nakir Hasan. Perrin Dawes,” she greeted with a warm smile and an inclination of her head. Her voice was velvety smooth and didn’t match her terrifying physique.
Dawes bowed deeply, showing her more respect than she’d seen him give anyone before.
She turned to Alethea standing between them. “And you must be the mysterious Alethea Onasis. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” The Aeshlien woman reached her hand forward for Alethea to take.
She was perfectly pleasant—kind, even—which shocked Alethea. She shook her hand, and Xytharia smiled wider as she glanced at Nakir, a mischievous glint in her eye.
“You look well, Nakir. And in good company. I came to say I am so sorry for the loss of Goran Arranil. I know what he meant to you—to all of you.”
A blur of a young woman approached them with a tray, upon which sat a single silver goblet she presented to Nakir.
“For Lord Hasan, from the hosts,” the servant stated meekly, head bowed.
Nakir took the goblet and raised it to his lips, taking a sip mid-conversation before he turned back to Xytharia.
The servant slipped away into the dark before Alethea could thank her for the delivery.
She was still under the effects of the ambrosia, which certainly contributed to her overwhelm at this imposing Aeshlien.
Xytharia carried herself with grace and confidence, occasionally drinking from a beautiful red chalice.
“Thank you, Xytharia,” Nakir returned graciously. “It’s good to see you, though quite unexpected.”
“I’m certain Kerrigan is making her own fun this evening, but where is your notorious spymaster?
” The High Priestess stepped closer, lowering her voice.
Her red eyes, like pools of swirling blood, bore into Nakir.
“We have much to discuss,” she told him, her tone serious despite the smile that remained for show. “It’s about Roman. He’s—”
“I am not in contact with Roman Kentigern,” Nakir interrupted—something Alethea had so rarely seen him do.
Xytharia shook her head, concern and determination etched on her features.
“We need to find a time to speak privately. A Revel isn’t the best place for what I need to share with you.
” She turned back to Alethea, and another shiver ran down the Oracle’s spine.
The High Priestess watched her carefully, halting whatever she was about to say to acknowledge her.
“You felt that?” the Aeshlien woman asked. Alethea must have visibly shuddered.
“I thought it was just a chill,” she answered honestly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Xytharia Quellcrest smiled, her eyes glinting with fascination. “Interesting.”
“What is it?” Nakir asked, suspicion clear in his features.
Xytharia’s smile grew wider. “That was a message I received from Aevensor,” she said, the word a whisper. It was spoken with the same reverence and familiarity one might use to speak of a lover. “What kind of mage are you?”
“We can discuss that later,” Nakir said, his arm encircling Alethea’s lower back in a protective gesture.
Despite the discomfort trickling through her, Alethea tried hard not to let her feelings get the better of her.
The High Priestess, though, showed no signs of unease at the way Nakir hovered over her—she merely observed their interaction with an intensity bordering on hunger, her eyes capturing every nuance of their exchange.
“Certainly.” Xytharia took a long sip of her wine, and Nakir raised his glass to his lips a second time.
He winced—small, contained—and brought the goblet closer to his face, his nostrils flaring. It was only then that Alethea noticed the sheen of sweat at his temple, catching the firelight. She hadn’t seen it before. She didn’t know how long it had been there.
Xytharia went very still beside him. Her red eyes dropped to the goblet, then rose to Nakir’s face. Something passed between them, wordless, immediate.
“Nakir.” Her voice was quiet but stripped of all pleasantry.
He upended the goblet without a word, letting the contents spill dark onto the grass at his feet. His jaw was tight, his eyes were already moving across the crowd.
“Nightshade.”