Chapter 21 #2
Music returns to enliven the gathering on cue.
I hear the harp and flute, and the precise talk of a drum.
A ring of dancers slides from the crowd like fish from a net—they are dressed as wolves in gray velvet with silver teeth, stags whose antlers hold bells threaded on silk, and doves whose wings are made of gauze.
“Let the hunt—” Arion cries, delighted, “begin!”
His subjects waste no time in starting their revels, but I remain glued in place. The same fake smile pasted over my lips.
Arion extends his gloved hand. “Dance with me.”
I hesitate. I have practiced the steps with the attendants many times. But everything is different now.
I give him my fingers. They are steady where I am not, but I follow along anyway, just as I did the first night I met him. It was my duty to please him then, while the lives of many hung in the balance. Now is no different.
We turn, cross, turn again. He displays me the way men display hunting trophies. His palm rests on my lower waist. His grip tightens when we pass the balcony where his subjects watch, and it loosens when we pass the window where there are few eyes to see. He is very good at performance.
The dancers circle, predators and prey folding into each other like ribbon on a spool.
A wolf’s snout brushes a swan’s throat and withdraws in polite flirtation.
A hare runs two steps and stops because the choreography says it must. A stag kneels at the edge of the dais, and a woman in a crown of white flowers steps onto his back with a laugh that does not notice the first bloom crushed under her heel.
“Lovely,” Arion murmurs for the room. For me, he says, “I very much enjoyed the sight of you kneeling before me. I will enjoy it again tonight.”
“I prefer standing,” I say, but then pause. It might be best if my troublesome tongue doesn’t mess this all up, again.
“You prefer many things,” he answers, and turns me once more. “Preference is a luxury. You must learn to enjoy mine.”
We pass under one of the tall beveled mirrors that flank the hall.
For an instant, I spy something in the mirror, watching me from the shadows.
I turn to look, seeing a wood elf also dressed as a hunter gazing at me from the corner.
He doesn’t look like anyone I’ve seen in the court so far—his hair is so dark it is practically black, his skin is a medium brown, and his dark eyes watch me. My brows furrow, and I miss a step.
“Faster,” Arion calls at my falter, laughing at my clumsiness in a way that tells me I might pay for the error later. The musicians oblige.
The crowd claps, and the claps unify. It is a sound like a rope thrown over something wild, with everyone tugging together to capture it fully.
Arion draws me closer. My chest presses lightly against the gilt pattern on his royal coat.
“You wear it beautifully,” he says, and his mouth is almost kind. “And I will drape you like a jewel over my bed tonight, wearing nothing but the collar.”
Electricity thrums through my veins. He is in a good mood—far too good a mood for this. I thought I had more time. I thought—
He pivots me with a flourish meant to look effortless and complicated. I let the jeweled hem of the gown catch the light.
Between movements, I see my attendants standing where they were told to stand.
Merlina’s veil hides the way her mouth tightens at the corners.
Kiala’s hands are folded behind her back so that she can stop herself from correcting me if I err.
Eslina’s fan trembles once and stills. Thorne is still in the corner, still drinking.
I try to think of anything but my wedding.
In a few days, Arion will be my husband, but tonight…my stomach lurches, and my eyes burn. I’m not ready for this. I don’t know how to make myself ready.
The music climbs. The muscle under my shoulder blade cramps and releases. Someone laughs near the dais. My throat itches.
Focus, Arlet. Focus.
We tilt for the final pose. The dancers peel back into a wide circle so the court can see the desired image, the king standing tall over his hunt and me, the creature beside him, tamed. The harpist plucks the last note and lets it reverberate for too long.
Then Arion steps back. He gestures to his courtiers, and a few approach. The first one bows before me, and then I am passed to him, and another dance begins.
It takes effort to keep the surprise off my face, as I didn’t realize that I would be expected to dance with others.
“Lord Fareiris,” the man says with a curt nod.
I smile at him and we begin to spin around the room. He doesn’t ask me questions, and leaves quickly once we are finished. That’s all the time it takes for another to replace him.
Arion has left my side and now chats with a group of raucous lords and ladies, leaving Thorne to introduce me to each newcomer.
After half an hour, I lose count of the men and names, their faces blurring together.
Hunger and thirst have given me a headache, and I just want this party to end. I wish to be done and alone in my bed.
And then the next lord steps up.
“This is Lord—”
“Sprig,” the man responds. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms as he takes my hand.
That voice. He is warm and calloused, and he bows before me, gently pressing a kiss into my wrist.
Too intimate.
Instantly, I look up at the wood elf I’d seen before. His dark eyes are absolutely foreign to me, and yet, I feel I know him. It is a strange sensation.
“It is a pleasure to meet the king’s consort,” he says as he pulls me close. His large hand wraps around my waist, and suddenly, there is no space between my chest and his.
My breath turns shallow. The timbre of his voice echoes somewhere in my chest, and settles low in my belly. It’s almost familiar—the depth of it. The breadth of it. For a second, it takes me back to a forbidden moment.
“Future consort,” I correct.
The corner of his mouth tugs up. “The future consort,” he starts with a wink, “Walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright…Meet in her aspect and her eyes. You are…beautiful, Arlet.”
The last words are practically a whisper.
I stop dancing. The way he speaks is too familiar.
There’s only one person I’ve ever known who speaks like this.
A grumpy, traitorous, lying troll.
When I was on my way to Shvathemar, I had hoped he would come during the attack on our carriage. When he didn’t, I lost all hope. I have not thought of him, nor wanted him near me, since then.
The only time I came close was when I took out the Fuegorra.
But this man—I cannot see his Fuegorra. Cannot hear the song that might play if it were truly him.
Warring emotions rise inside of me. He hurt me, and he’s ruining everything.
But what is he truly ruining? I am merely a pawn in this place. Perhaps… I could leave.
And then, I cannot stop myself.
“Vann?”
The candles gutter. I let out a yelp.
“Firelocks, it’s me,” he whispers in my ear, pulling me so close my body melts into his. His voice no longer sounds similar—it is him.
I freeze in place.
He came.
He’s here.
Warmth floods over me. The first feeling since my Fuegorra was taken last week. I muse over the irony of it all. He without a heart, and I without a Fuegorra. What would he think of what’s happened?
A draft runs like a hand along the walls, turning flameheads in the same direction at once. The room takes in a single careful breath.
“You need to come with me,” he begs, and tears start to fall down my cheeks. “I brought things for you. Please, I know why you went with Arion before, but I’m ready now. I’m ready to be what you need me to be. Don’t do this.”
He came. He came. He came for me.
A shudder runs through the tall windows on the east side of the hall. Arion tilts his head.
The windows explode, and I am thrown back away from him. I bite my tongue hard to avoid shouting his name. Light and sound and shards rush inward together. Red smoke pushes into the room, and a metallic smell billows with it.
I sit up, ribs aching from the impact and my corset. Without the light, I cannot make out exactly what happened to Vann. I look for his costume, the hunter, but realize there are so many dressed exactly the same way.
The first scream comes just as courtiers and guards struggle to restore the lights. When illumination returns, I see the bodies scattered over the ground, see the odd angles some of them lie in as the smoke clears.
I smell the courtiers’ blood.
Most are alive, but enough lie there, too still, as others scream and flee the scene.
I scan the room, seeking Vann.
“Firelocks!” I hear in the distance.
Where are you, where are you? I repeat, begging him through my mind. Since we are mates, he might be able to hear me.
And then, guards gently grab me, pulling me away from the mess. I barely squeak out my surprise when the king appears at my side. Arion’s hand closes over the new collar at my throat, yanking me from the room. The hunt has ended.
Something else begins.