Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ispend the next two days scouring the royal arena, looking for more evidence of this sorrow that seems to permeate so much of Mouren's kingdom, trying to find its roots so that I might properly deal with it, whatever that takes.
It's easy enough to gain access to it. I just tell Reave that Sesca and I are more accustomed to practicing here, that it helps us focus to be in a familiar environment—and to be left alone while we do it.
My request becomes his royal command, and then no one dares to question it.
We do practice while we're there, too, even though memories of our first brutal sessions—and of Commander Gareth—still hover over this space like thick, acrid smoke that makes my lungs feel like they’re shriveling up.
Even then, we push through and make some progress, and afterwards, I spend as much time as I can exploring every space attached to this once grand center of royal entertainment.
Eventually, Sesca and I narrow our focus to a room tucked away at the end of a narrow corridor running past one of the fanciest viewing suites.
The door creaks badly when I push it open.
There are boxes everywhere; it appears to be nothing more than a small storage space—dark, dingy, unassuming—and I'm about to turn and head back outside when I feel warmth gathering in my palm.
The tingling soon becomes searing, and I realize it's Sesca pushing fire into my veins.
Like she's nudging my hand from a distance, trying to get me to lift it.
After a brief debate, I decide to trust her, holding my hand up and inhaling slowly, imagining myself drawing more of her heat inward.
Fiery light illuminates the lines of my palm.
I exhale and release it into the air, letting it drift upward like a torch. As the amber glow steadies and spreads, I notice there's another door behind one of the stacks of boxes.
I can't safely balance the fire while I try to move things, so I prop the door to the outside open to let in a little more light.
After giving my sight time to adjust, I carefully make my way back to the stacked boxes and move them aside, fully revealing the door's frame, which is carved with symbols I don't recognize.
Sesca lets out a low, uneasy sound. I can hear her wings fluttering and her tail swishing anxiously back and forth in the arena's sand.
She can tell something is off about this, too.
It's not exactly the same feeling I had in the temple, but it's enough to draw me in. Enough to make me want to try and open this door, for better or worse.
It's locked, of course.
I've encountered more than my share of locked doors during past jobs, though, so I'm not completely deterred. But Briar is better at breaking and entering than I am. And she'd be furious if I explored any further without her, anyway, so I decide to go look for her first.
I'm distracted before I can find her, however—lured toward the kitchen by the smell of savory things. I quickly locate the source in the same smaller prep room I’ve found Reave in before.
The tables are covered in a mess of scattered ingredients and half-finished preparations.
But there are several finished dishes, too: a small platter of herb-roasted meat; a crock of braised root vegetables still steaming; stacks of what look like strawberry tarts.
Most importantly, there’s a tray of perfectly-browned rolls, just begging me to take one.
I'm not surprised to hear Reave’s voice the moment I grab one.
“You're very predictable, do you know that?”
I turn to find him leaning in the doorway, watching me.
I don't reply, I just pop a chunk of the warm bread into my mouth without ceremony. It's soaked so completely in butter and herbs that it practically melts in my mouth, and it’s so delicious that I nearly forget what I was in the middle of doing.
“Honestly,” he continues, “if I ever need to snare you for any reason, I'll just bait a trap with loaves of bread.”
“That…” I swallow, taking a moment to savor the lingering taste on my tongue. “That would probably work, actually.”
He pushes away from the wall and strolls toward me. “Clearly, I've discovered your fatal flaw.”
“I trust you won't use it against me.”
“No promises.”
I glance toward the spread of food on the counter. “Your doing, I assume?”
“Some of it.”
“Experimenting with more recipes?”
“Always.”
“You've been busy.”
He shrugs. “We're expecting emissaries from several of our allied regions today.
Lots of careful words and stressful meetings in the afternoon ahead.
So, I thought I'd distract myself in the meantime, and maybe come up with something our chefs could recreate to bribe our visitors with. Two birds, one stone.”
“You're nervous about these meetings?”
He puts a finger to his lips. “No one is supposed to know the King of Mouren panics, remember?”
“Right.” I recall that day he carried me to his room in a panic—the night we spent together in bed—and an involuntary rush of heat sweeps all the way through me, prickling my scalp and curling my toes. “We have to keep up your reputation as a purely vile, murderous ruler.”
He inclines his head in agreement, giving me a slight smile, before his eyes dart to something behind me. “And, speaking of keeping up appearances, we seem to be gathering an audience.”
I glance over my shoulder to see a sight that's becoming familiar by now: two servants pretending to be occupied with something nearby, when it's very obvious they're just trying to get a closer look at whatever the king and I are doing together.
I tilt my face toward Reave. “Should I be standing closer to you, to make our pretend courtship more convincing?”
He quirks a brow. “Something tells me you want to stand closer to me, anyhow.”
“Arrogance is so very unattractive in a man.”
“Then it's a good thing I have so many other attractive qualities to make up for it, hm?”
I shoot him an unimpressed look…and yet I am moving closer to him, as though pulled in by some annoying, unseen force.
“You should try showing me those other attractive qualities some time,” I say.
“It would make faking a relationship with you much more bearable.” I keep my voice low and smile with the words, all while smoothing my fingers over the front of his shirt—a perfect show for anyone watching us from a distance.
“It's probably better for you in the long run if you continue to find me unbearable,” he replies.
“Probably so.”
“The more insufferable I am, the better.”
“So far, so good. You’re a natural at being insufferable, really.”
This draws a crooked smile from him, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes; he seems distracted even as he catches my hand, threading his fingers through mine to stop their roaming.
I wonder if there's more bothering him than just the upcoming meetings he mentioned.
I wonder why I care so much, either way. So much that I don't try to pull away when our gazes meet and I see something terrifyingly close to need shimmering in his eyes.
Another involuntary wave of heat rolls through me, making me draw in a sharp breath. He squeezes my fingers in what feels like a primal response, drawing me toward him with a possessive little tug.
“You’re blushing, I notice, despite my lack of attractive qualities.” He leans his mouth closer and whispers, “That's very interesting.”
“Insufferable man,” I mutter.
“Unbearable woman,” he counters, his lips so close they brush mine.
It's all I can do to not grab his face and crush his mouth completely to my own. But I'm afraid I won't be able to stop if I do that, and realizing this does nothing to help the lightheadedness overtaking me.
I carefully untangle our fingers. “I think we've given a convincing enough performance to satisfy our watchers.”
“Yes. We likely have.”
I force myself to take a tiny step back.
Briar, I remind myself, fiercely. I'm supposed to be looking for Briar.
And we're supposed to be unraveling whatever sorrowful atrocities this king and his ancestors have committed, and I'm not supposed to be standing so close to him, or to be so terribly aware of every one of his increasingly ragged breaths, of every beat of his fickle heart, of every small and almost imperceptible shift of his weight toward mine…
I take another step back. A deep breath. A measured exhale. “Good luck with your meetings, Your Majesty.”
He makes an obvious, concentrated effort to mold his expression into something cool and unbothered.
“Good afternoon, Ashwalker,” he says. Words he's said a hundred times before. But there's a hesitation in them, this time, as if something else nearly slipped out in their place.
He kisses my cheek—a slow, lingering press that feels more like purposeful claiming than polite pretending—before walking away.
My hand reaches for the warmth his lips left behind before I realize I'm doing it. Touching my fingertips to the spot only makes the warmth spread and sink deeper, leaving me even dizzier than before.
Traitor, says Lord Faron’s voice in my head.
“Idiot,” I mutter to myself—about myself—and then I clench my fingers into a fist and walk on, quickly locating Briar in the small garden that her room overlooks.
It takes a bit of time and strategy to slip back into the arena unnoticed, but we manage it just before sunset. Briar picks the door's crumbling, ancient lock with ease, opening it to reveal stairs that lead down to more dusty stone floors and cobwebbed walls…and yet another door.
This one is much wider and made of metal, with a thick iron seam running down its center. I step toward it, once again swirling fire to my fingertips so I can see better. There's no handle, only a narrow slot set into the middle of it, the shape of it uneven and strange.
“That looks like a space for a very specific key,” I mutter.
“Not a lock I can pick, in other words,” Briar says, frowning.