CHAPTER EIGHT
KEPT THREATS I remind him that Mathson Kyler would sooner wander into a blizzard fully nude than treat me like a daughter, and Yelina would’ve stabbed me in my sleep as a child if she thought she’d get away with it; and Luc denies it even though we both know I’m right.
“I promise, Mira, it won’t be as bad as you think,” he says.
“No. It’ll be much, much worse.” Foreboding forms a bottomless cavern, making me feel ill. “They’re going to be furious about the Tournament.”
“That wasn’t your fault. I won’t let them blame you for it.” Luc knocks his knee into mine, enticing me to look at him. “They’ll behave tonight. If they so much as scowl at you, give me a look and I’ll shut them up.”
Warm hope relieves some of the pressure on my chest. “You mean it?”
“Of course. I know they’re worse when I’m not there.
I won’t leave your side all night. Promise.
” He gives my hand a squeeze, and for a moment, I feel lighter.
Moments like this—moments in between—are rare.
Between eavesdropping and plotting, when he’s not the Honored Praeceptor and I’m not a tool he uses to collect secrets; when he actually feels like my brother, and I actually feel like his sister.
Our conversation is cheery for the rest of our short trip.
To live above the Collar of the mountain is to be an elite.
The homes here, closest to Widow’s Hall, are some of the only aboveground structures on Mount Saidu, aside from the temples.
Everything about the Kylers’ manor—from the stone exterior to the intricately decorated interior—is splendid.
The floor in the entryway is swirling tiles of alternating black and green marble like a chess board.
Household servants move around in green uniforms, carrying trays of food and drink for guests.
Luc and I hand our outer layers to an attendant in the foyer and make our way through the lounge in search of his parents. The ground floor is crowded with the wealthiest members of Virdeian society, and just about all of them greet Luc as we pass:
“Honored Praeceptor, we are so looking forward to the Tournament this year.”
“Pleasure to see you tonight, sir.”
“Good luck in the Tournament, sir.”
Everywhere we turn are warm smiles for Luc that freeze over at the sight of me. I surreptitiously drag my sleeve over the flicker of gold.
It’s only supposed to be dinner, but all the guests are dressed extravagantly, in embroidered dresses and overdresses, tapered pants and wool coats, and pearls far as the eye can see.
Petruvia blocks Virdei’s access to the ocean, so the few Virdeians who can afford pearls, shells, and sea crystals love to show them off.
We’re a few steps into the dining room when Luc is enveloped by bony arms. “Lucien!” Yelina trills, tugging his elbow from my grip.
“You’re finally here.” Tonight, her hair falls to her rib cage in dark, glossy ringlets, secured with pearl pins.
Her natural hair is short, kinky, and almost all gray now. I haven’t seen it in years.
“Of course.” Luc smiles. “Mira and I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
Yelina’s sharp brown eyes find me and narrow frostily, searching for a fault to attack.
I’ve never confessed to Sef how much seeing Yelina gnaws at my nerves and fills me with dread.
But she knows. She always does her best work on days when I’m to see my stepmother.
Tonight, she oiled my roots with rosemary oil and twisted my thick, dark hair into a series of braids pulled tight from my face and held in place against my scalp with thin golden hair cuffs.
It’s braided to the crown, where it flares in a pouf of springy curls.
I’m dressed in a gray gown and golden yellow overdress, laced up the middle with silk ribbon.
I’m not dripping in jewelry, but I look the part of an aristocrat’s daughter.
Coming up empty, Yelina bares her teeth at me. “Remira. You’re here.”
My grin is as thin and unpleasant as she is. “Yelina. You’re as delightfully observant as ever.”
Her eyes narrow in warning, but we’re in public, so we keep up our scowls, thinly veiled by fake smiles, as Yelina guides Luc and me through a stone archway carved with roses, leading into the ballroom.
At the front, a twosome of fiddlers play upbeat music on a small stage.
Some guests mill about in the corners, while others fill the center of the room, twirling in dance.
As soon as we enter, Mathson approaches with a wide, cheery smile. “I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve been looking forward to dancing with my daughter all night.”
It takes me four beats of fiddle music to realize he means me.
I mean, I am his daughter, but only in a literal sense.
Mathson has despised me from the moment I appeared sobbing and starving on his doorstep.
At the time, he was still an Honorate. He stepped down and passed the position to Luc shortly after my arrival.
He never said why, but I knew. The scandal of my existence was evidence he’d violated the rules of decorum by having an affair with my mother—an Opheran woman who used to work in his home.
His “early retirement,” however unconvincing, was preferable to a public and forced resignation. He managed to keep the Honorate position in the family, but he couldn’t keep the scandal of his bastard Opheran child from spreading through the mountain.
He’s been punishing me for it ever since.
Mathson seizes me by the elbow. Outwardly, he’s all smiles as he begins dragging me to the dance floor, away from Yelina and Luc. His tight grip is the only indication he’s not as pleased as his expression suggests.
Frantic, I twist my head, trying to make eye contact with Luc. He promised he wouldn’t leave my side, promised he wouldn’t abandon me to the wrath of his parents.
His mother clutches his arm as though she has talons, smirking as Mathson hauls me away, and Luc stares at the floor, avoiding my gaze, saying nothing.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I am. Perhaps silence shouldn’t have claws that tear me open. His guts me like a fish.
I choke down how much it hurts along with how foolish I feel for actually believing he’d do as he promised and stay by my side. At the time, he meant it, but it’s easy to mean things before they happen. Just as it’s easy to be a coward when it counts.
My heart stammers a sharp, terrified rhythm. “Mathson—” I try to speak, but the glare he shoots over his shoulder could melt steel. “Don’t.” A single word. Dripping so much venom, I purse my lips and say nothing.
He waits until we’re a safe distance from being overheard to start in. “A Tournament of Thrones was not the plan.”
My throat is dry. “I know. But—”
“But nothing.” Spit flies from his mouth as he affixes a broad and obviously fake smile to his face, settling his hands into position so we can begin this sham of a dance. “You swore Lucien would rule another term.”
“He will. I made sure the vote passed, didn’t I? I’ll do the same to ensure he wins the Tournament.”
“Your assurances mean nothing.” Mathson spins us deeper into seclusion as another pair dances too close. “This is a Tournament of Thrones. You are out of your depth. The Honorate is child’s play compared to this.”
I already know this. It’s all Sef and I have been working on since Kaidren dropped the life-shattering news that he’s competing against Luc for the throne.
The Tournament is overseen by a private committee that organizes each event and coordinates with the decurio to ensure everything goes seamlessly. Getting Sef on that committee is our top priority. Then we’ll shift our focus to preparation for the three trials.
The first trial is always the same; the second, always a surprise.
Both of these are judged solely on the skills of the candidates, but if there isn’t a winner by then, Widow’s Hall hosts a masquerade ball before the third.
It’s a chance for candidates to consort with Virdei’s elite and garner whatever support they can before the final trial, where they are allowed to use supplies (usually weapons) bought for them by constituents.
Each trial is dangerous, violent, and highly anticipated. Until now, I’ve dealt in secrets, not blood. To win, I’ll have to adjust my skill set.
Mathson isn’t finished. “There will be more eyes on you and Lucien than ever before. If anyone learns there is interference in the Tournament . . .” His dark eyes are identical to mine, but there’s a cruelty in them that sharpens as he lowers his voice.
“You’re going to wish being enlisted in the decurio was your biggest problem. ”