Chapter 17
Istay for another hour – long enough to see a stocky bald man with a wiry beard and a tattoo across his scalp guide a swaying Kyor out of the room after fruitlessly trying to make him eat something.
More than once, the prince’s gaze sweeps across the room and his eyes meet mine before I hastily look away, and each time there’s a burning in my chest that’s made of anger and hatred, but also something else.
Guilt.
Guilt at the way my eyes grazed across his bare chest before I knew it was the chest I wanted to plant a dagger into.
At the way my pulse stuttered when he ran his finger across my palm, or how I let those icy eyes drift into my imagination in ways I would never dare share with anyone.
And all that time, he knew who I was. He was toying with me like a cat plays with a mouse until it has broken every bone in its body.
Well, he’ll find this mouse has sharp teeth.
I may be little, but I can still do some damage.
Let him underestimate me, let them all underestimate me. Etta doesn’t.
Kyor’s departure should have given me a reason to relax, and perhaps even enjoy the ball a little – though possibly not as much as Coulter, who, with his new alcohol-infused confidence, took it upon himself to start requesting particular tunes from the musicians.
I have no doubt that the sight of me, relaxed and merry, would be enough to make King Korvane’s blood boil, and for that reason alone, it would be worth it, but no sooner has the prince left than I get bumped from behind.
‘Queenkiller’s bitch!’ a woman’s voice hisses.
As I regain my footing, I spin around, trying to see who spoke and where they went, but the crush of people has swallowed the woman up.
Besides, I’m not sure what I would have done anyway.
I should have known that this was what balls would be like.
Sometimes a big party really is just a trussed-up hellscape.
Devils in stilettos. Still, it’s not as though I came here to dance.
I came here to win, and sometimes that’s knowing when to leave.
‘I’m done,’ I announce, placing my glass on a nearby table. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow.’
‘Already?’ Jonas’s eyebrows rise. ‘These things go on for hours.’
‘I’ve already seen enough.’
I offer Benny and Llinos a quick hug, but when I turn to Jonas to do the same, he holds out his arm for me to take instead.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ he offers.
‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘I know, but I want to. Besides, it’s a big place. You could easily get lost.’
It’s a little patronising, but I don’t bother arguing again. Instead, I take his arm, aware of the smirk and eyebrow-waggle Llinos shoots me as we walk away.
Jonas and I are silent as we head back towards the barracks, and though there’s a definite tension between us, I can’t quite tell if it’s the good type or not.
After all, the king did just threaten his family because of me.
I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if this is the moment he tells me that any form of alliance or friendship is off the cards.
I’m surprised by how sad this makes me. And not just because of how good he looks tonight.
Having Jonas by my side makes me feel like my mother hasn’t been judged wrongly by the entirety of the High Hold. That there are still people on the inside who believe she was innocent. I’d hate to lose that feeling.
When we reach the dining room, I slip my arm out of his and prepare for him to give me his excuses. Not that he needs to. He can make alliances with whoever he likes.
‘You should go back,’ I tell him. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Actually, I was going to ward your door. I found a spell before the ball. Thought it might help you sleep a bit better if you knew people couldn’t get into your room at night.’
‘You can spell?’ My gratitude for the sweet gesture is supplanted by complete surprise.
When I lived in the High Hold, people always considered spelling to be a lower form of magic.
Weaving the residual tendrils that drift through the air is – according to the haughty majority – far less impressive than channelling magic yourself.
It’s a reason that my mother’s magic was considered lower in some situations, even though it came from Etta herself.
Sure, she could grow vines fast enough to strangle a man before he even had a chance to draw a dagger, but she very rarely – if ever – did.
She preferred using her knowledge of plants and combining it with spell work.
‘My powers took so long to settle that my father thought it was a good idea to learn,’ Jonas explains. ‘He thought I stopped when my magic came in, but honestly, I find it so useful. I’m surprised more people don’t learn to do it. So will you accept my help?’
There’s pride and there’s stupidity, and while I may have a little of the former, I’m trying to keep the latter to zero.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I tell him gratefully.
The staircase creaks as we climb up to my room.
‘Can I watch?’ I ask him. You still have to have the essence of magic within you to weave, and the stronger it is, the better you are.
My mother was great at it. It’s what made her such a phenomenal healer.
She taught me a few minor spells when I was young, but my magic wasn’t attuned enough back then, so it’s not something I’m going to be able to use.
Not until I win the Retterheld and get my powers back, anyway.
Then I’m going to excel at every damn type of magic this world has to offer.
‘Sure, though it’s not very exciting.’
He pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and places his hand on my door as he begins muttering hard consonant sounds that smack of tongue and teeth. When the slightest flicker of light flares across the wood, he removes his hand.
‘All done,’ he says, turning to me. ‘Now you and I are the only people who can go in and out.’
I press my hand against the wood, indulging in the slight tickling of magic that crosses my palm.
‘Sorry?’ I tilt my head as I turn back to look at him. ‘Did you just say you gave yourself permission to enter my bedroom? Whenever you want?’
Just as I’d hoped, that bashful hue colours Jonas’s cheeks.
‘It’s because I’m the one who did the ward,’ he tells me hastily. ‘Obviously, I wasn’t going to let myself in. Not unless you invited me in, that is.’
‘And why would I do that?’
It feels good to flirt unashamedly. Particularly after learning I’ve been daydreaming about bloody Kyor since I first saw him. And from the grin that spreads across Jonas’s face, he doesn’t mind either.
‘How’s your hand?’ he asks, taking my wrist and increasing the tension between us tenfold.
‘Sore,’ I admit.
He brushes his thumb just a little way from the cut. ‘And your leg?’
‘You going to stroke there too?’ I tease, still not sure which way I want his answer to go.
‘Not tonight,’ he says softly, leaning forward and kissing me lightly on the cheek. I’m surprised when I feel a definite pang of disappointment. Maybe I’m not ready to be alone with my thoughts just yet. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. You should get some sleep.’
‘I intend on it,’ I reply. I step into my room and close the door.
A sand bucket, a spelled ward, and angering the king by standing at my side. Jonas Lorathin has grown up well.
Given everything that’s happened over the last twelve hours alone, I’m mentally and physically exhausted.
And yet sleep refuses to come. Despite being in the softest bed I’ve lain on in a long time, my mind just can’t switch off, thinking about Kay, Jonas, Kyor, and Llinos and Benny.
Not to mention the inauguration of our vows tomorrow. My mind is in a constant whirl.
Like the offering to be considered for the Retterheld, the inauguration requires a gift to the Goddess. Last time, it was tears and prayers. This time it’s blood. Thankfully, nothing more than a pinprick is required to bind your mortal body to the Goddess.
The trials begin once the blood sacrifices have been made, and there’s nothing to stop the first trial from starting the moment the inauguration is over. The thought’s enough to make me nauseous.
Night rolls on as I get lost considering all the fates that may await me, and voices start to drift up from the floors below.
The Rettlings are letting their hair down tonight, and the dormitory beneath me is noisy.
Some are drunkenly singing, some are low-level bickering, and some are moaning, having already found themselves in bed with a companion.
Whatever the noise, it’s all complicit in keeping sleep at bay, which is why, when the moon is well into its westerly traverse, I give up the ghost and get out of bed.
Is it safe? No, but neither is going into the Retterheld unprepared.
Pulling my coat tight around me, I cross the courtyard and cut through the large wooden gates that lead to the battle yard. I’ve no idea if the armoury’s weapons are locked up at night, but it doesn’t matter. I only plan on using my own. At least until I push the gates open and step inside.
I stare in awe at the vast space, which is at least three ballrooms long.
Only the small entry area under which I stand is under cover.
Everything else is open to the elements, with a wall at least thirty feet high blocking the view of what goes on in here from the rest of the palace.
Gods, I wouldn’t want to be stuck alone in here with Zara, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t get out alive.
A sense of foreboding settles uncomfortably in my stomach, but I push it aside. She’s the one who came off far worse in the scuffle, and if I wanted a sign that Etta’s on my side, that should be it. Still, better to check my aim with this new dagger than leave it to chance.
As I’m looking for a suitable target, my eye falls on a weapons cabinet only a few feet away, and I decide a quick look won’t hurt.
It’s an impressive array of weapons, with swords, axes, spears – and daggers. Gods, the daggers. My heart flutters as I run my hand along the smooth edges of the blades.
Though some of the knives are more ornate than others, the craftsmanship of each one is exquisite, and though every single variation of length and thickness is on display, it’s the few more unusual specimens that grab my attention.
Several short push daggers with broad bone hilts and stubby blades.
Devious tools, they could be easily hidden in waistbands to be drawn quickly for combat when space is limited.
My mother did her best to patch up more than one wound from such a weapon when we were living in the fifth ring.
Anyone who can wield a decent punch can do some serious damage with one of these.
But given that I’m hoping to stay far away from any adversaries, punching won’t be an option for me.
I move on to the next specimen – a masterpiece that’s double-ended with a punch blade for extra, well, punch.
I also wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of these, but that doesn’t stop me from running my hand across the cool metal.
That tickle of excitement grows stronger.
Whether I plan on using it or not, I can’t resist seeing what it feels like to hold.
Wrapping my fingers around the central hilt, I lift it.
‘Let me guess. You’re wondering which one of those is going to be the one that kills you,’ a male voice drawls.
Ice fills my veins.
Kyor is here, with an array of weapons at his fingertips.
And this time, there’s no fire bead to save me.