Chapter 17
I’ve never pretended to be soft. But, like subterfuge, callousness has its levels. I hope my brother never reaches my level. I just killed my lover because she was a spy.
Dagen is the perfect symbol for Zarr people. He’s not afraid to deliver punishment to those who deserve it. That said, he could use a little more callousness. If he gives one more extension to another struggling family in tax court, we will go broke. Broke. As in unable to fund our infantry who just fended off a Skeeve attack from the upper continent, and that scares me.
Where do we draw the line?
Save one family from the dungeons or save thousands of families from all the wars raging down on us?
Preysee tosses my blankets off me.
“Your father departs for the afternoon, so you’ll be filling in for him until he returns for the Winter Rave tonight.”
I groan and fall back into my pillow.
Today’s the end of the quarter, which means tax court. My stomach slithers as if snakes roll inside.
I might as well waltz into our subjects’ homes, beat them senseless, and empty their purses on my way out. At least that would save them travel time.
“Another departure? Did he announce where this time?”
Preysee’s silence tells me no.
Not surprising. He’s probably dealing with the Skeeves that are strangulating our trade routes. Hence why Yisabell and I might never get to try chocolate.
“He’ll return in time for the Winter Rave tonight,” Preysee assures me again.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed with minimal wincing. Sorren insisted on training after my duel despite my obliterated shoulder.
If the dueler I defeated yesterday was the lowest rung of level six, how am I going to fight my way through the tournament full of high-ranking duelers without succumbing to the temptation of so much power at my fingertips?
“I have your oils ready,” Preysee says, eyeing the grimace on my face. “Let’s hope they are enough before tonight’s festivities.”
I meet her honey gaze. “I’m used to pain.”
She swallows and positions herself next to me as I wobble to my feet, not helping, but there. “That oil you requested from Raven’s Elixirs should be delivered in a few days,” she says, then bunches her brows. “Unless their shipment is delayed through the trade routes again, then I guess it could take longer.”
I’ll pass the information along to Liha whenever she graces me with her presence again.
Preysee—realms bless her—has already drawn the bath. After dropping my robe, I dip into the hot water with an unintentional moan, the delicious heat melting away every stiff muscle from last night.
After Preysee hauls me away from the tub, I dress in a casual gown. Tax court isn’t until later, so I refuse to wear that coffin of a dress any longer than I have to.
Preysee fastens the back zipper of my red bodycon gown. It’s a simple number, but I’m sure it cost Father more than a car. He buys me things after his episodes. This dress was bought after the incident on the roof. I wish I could make a point not to wear it, but all my clothes are bought with his ren.
“Your father requested your presence at breakfast,” she says in her too-casual tone as she turns me to face her.
“Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
She shrugs. “I needed you to get out of bed.”
I glower at her.
She smiles and ushers me out to my escorting guards, who led me down the rounding staircase of my tower and down three more grand staircases to the main floor.
“What duelers made it into the King’s Duel brackets?” I ask Brunar, who marches with his hand on his hilt beside me. The last round of duels went late into the night, finalizing all the King’s Duel contestants, and I’m curious to know who my competition will be.
His gaze fixates on the polished floor ahead. “The Zem heir returned from his trip abroad and won his entry duel last night.”
Kazem, the top dog of level six, and the deadliest opponent I’ll face in the tournament. I swallow.
“Anyone else?”
“Zem has four new duelers this year that made the tournament. Zo has three notable duelers. The rest are barely ranked above you.”
I’m the underdog. That’s why Father’s been beating me to a pulp vicariously through Sorren.
Father is already eating breakfast when I arrive at the long onyx table, polished to reflect the white glo stones set in the chandeliers above.
Tarella is in her place, sliding her fork around her plate, and Mother is mirroring her. With them sitting side by side, they look like the sisters here. Black hair, beige skin darker than mine, and rich, russet eyes. I’ve always wondered if I looked more like them if I would’ve been in their circle. But I look too much like Father.
Father takes a gulp of wine despite the fact it’s morning and watches me in a way that reminds me of a spider perching behind its prey—elegant and venomous with black, glassy eyes.
When I take my seat, the motion is stiff from sore muscles.
Father smiles. “Sorren knocked you down a peg, didn’t he?”
He sets his goblet down as a kitchen maid bustles out from the door, placing a plate of greasy sausage before me that instantly turns my stomach.
“I am ready to announce your betrothed,” he says.
Both my and Tarella’s heads snap up.
Father’s grin is too sharp, his demeanor too tense, to be joyous. “You’ll be marrying the second general of the Light Jaxelli.”
Tarella’s face pinches. “Who?”
My mind reels back through books and tutor sessions to teachings about other realms and dimensions. “They are a species of warriors from the Xoshbesh Realm.”
She glares at me for answering the question that was obviously pointed at Father. Tarella may not be as well read in the sciences and the histories as I am, but that’s because she has a singing voice that few rival. All of her later studies were dedicated to vocal tutoring.
She whips her nose back to Father. “An inter-realm betrothal? How? Travel between realms is impossible.”
Father’s inky eyes pin me down, waiting for me to answer.
Tarella reluctantly slides her gaze to me. “Well?”
“A few species can travel between realms with ease, like the guardians from Ceil, but I guess those are extinct—”
Tarella huffs, rolling her eyes. “Get to the point.”
My hands ball to fists in my lap. “Both Light and Dark Jaxelli Warriors can move through the realms at will. Their power is vastly different than spirit power. They can influence elements, speak to the universe, shape-shift, and more.”
Tarella’s jaw feathers. “Well, if they are so damned powerful, why haven’t they conquered all the realms already?” She stabs a chunk of meat on her plate and tears it off her fork with her teeth.
I glance at Father, whose smug smile is pointed at Tarella.
“Very astute, Tarella.” She perks at the compliment.
Father rests his elbows on either side of his gold breakfast plate, lacing his fingers over the top. “Because they do not have the temperament.” His smile widens, showing teeth. “Not yet.”
I cut the oily meat on my plate into smaller and smaller pieces to give my hands something to do even though I won’t eat it. My hands grow clammy around my knife and my muscles wind tighter by the second.
Betrothed.
Liha chooses now to enter my shield and zips around in a pattern I’ve learned is excitement.
“Oooh. The Jaxelli men are quite delicious indeed!”
Father stabs the last piece of sausage on his plate with his knife. “Tarella, Soriah, you’re both excused.”
I look to Mother, silently begging her not to leave me alone with Father, but she doesn’t even turn my way.
Tarella stops chewing, her eyes narrowing at me, then pushes up from her half-eaten plate and is escorted out by her two guards.
Father shoots a pointed glance at my untouched plate, then at me. “I will be gone for the day. You’ll need to oversee tax court,” he says, changing the subject. “I will return for the rave.”
“Why an inter-realm betrothal? That goes against customs.”
He chuffs. “I do not give a damn about customs.”
“Why the Jaxelli?”
A darkness washes over him in the subtle turn of his mouth, and I swear hate boils in the air between us.
“Because,” he says, balling his cloth napkin into his fist, “the Jaxelli are more powerful than casters and Zem princes. I will accept no less than what you deserve.”
I set my fork down, a nauseating sensation taking root in my stomach. “You wish to absorb their warriors into our infantry lines, for their ability to move our armies through realms.”
He wipes the emotion from his face and the room seems to lighten. “Among other things.”
A piece of the puzzle clicks into place. “The celibacy—”
He wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin. “Yes. Jaxelli are quite the snobbish prudes. They do not mingle before choosing a mate.”
Raging fire steals through my chest, shoving me past my breaking point. “I do not want a betrothal!”
Liha vibrates in my shield in a way that tells me she’s getting nervous.
Father pushes up from the table, and I realize his goblet is empty. If I had to guess, it’s not his first one this morning.
“Want is a word used by the weak,” he says, his fists tightening. “Wanting something means you don’t have the power to take it. Or in this case, you do not have the power to refuse what you don”t want.”
I swallow the urge to cower, eyeing the tension through his neck, and that look in his eyes. All blaring warning signs that tell me this isn’t a battle I will win, but I get my stubborn anger from him.
I shove up from the table in the same manner he did. “I will not have a betrothal.”
He smiles a terrible, wine-induced smile and rounds the table to where I stand. When his eyes are this shade, when the room descends into a frequency that plucks the hairs on my neck, I know it’s too late to placate.
Liha shrieks with fear and juts out of my shield.
From above, I sense the cold spirit that’s been following—
Father’s hand jerks to my throat like it has so many times before, squeezing, and crushing my airway.
My guards stiffen but do nothing.
Cowards. I sense their fear. It’s in their eyes, in the way their shoulders shrink in submission. It’s so obvious I can taste it. Even if they didn’t wear silver vessels, they’d still do nothing against my father.
“When will you realize, Nizzara, that in order to get what you want, you must be the most ruthless person in the room?”
He narrows his eyes, and deep inside is a flicker of pain and regret—and something soft. “You have to take what you want!”
He squeezes harder.
“You don’t want a betrothal?” He raises his chin, his voice turning sharper. “Then stop hiding. Show me who you are.”
His grip loosens and his face falls. “Because the only way you’ll get what you want is over my dead body.”
The set of his eyes, the distant pain behind them . . . It’s almost as if he wishes I would kill him.
The red cord begins branching throughout my body, taking over every logical function inside of me. The golden spirit flickers in the corner of the dining room, and power stirs deep inside me, but I ignore it. Power and anger are what turned my father into what stands before me.
Just because I refuse to go down his path doesn’t mean I’m spineless. I spit in his face.
His eyes turn to cold, hard obsidian. And he loses it.