Chapter Twenty-Six
Luckily, Karvek didn’t intend for her to stay all night; once she’d picked up on enough to satisfy him, he’d sent Iryana to wait for her escort back.
She still couldn’t quite believe it. She would be forged.
“Iryana?” Pyetar’s voice came from behind her. “Karvek sent for me to escort you back to the—”
She turned around, stealing the breath from his mouth.
Pyetar’s lips were parted, with the slightest crease between his eyebrows, and his eyes were wide with shock. He looked like he had been pulled from his bed, not bothering to put a vest or armor over his white shirt. She doubted he had been asleep though; his eyes were too alert.
“Let’s go then,” she answered with relief, slipping past him out the narrow door he had entered through. She felt a thrill at the way his eyes followed her, magnified by the magic she wore.
Being around Pyetar when she was like this was not a good idea.
She was only a few steps into the small alcove that looked like it stretched around the building when Pyetar stopped her with a graze of his fingers on her shoulder. The touch sent a tingle all the way down to her toes.
“Pyetar,” she admonished, more playful than she intended, spinning on her heels to face him. She liked the way he scrambled not to barrel into her, how out of breath he looked.
She felt drunk. She had won.
“He paraded you around in this.” It was an accusation, not a question. His eyes were nearly black.
Her heart skipped. The idea of Pyetar being jealous made heat spread through her. She had been equal parts celebration and regret, but both were easily knocked aside.
She stepped closer. “I was a distraction. Well, I suppose it is mostly the dress, but someone had to wear it.”
“If I had known, I wouldn’t have let him force you to wear this.” He looked down and his eyes lingered, then yanked his head up as if he hadn’t meant to look.
Iryana sucked in a slow breath, feeling tense and hot under his gaze. “I’ve seen men and women half-naked in Karvek’s hall, sprawling across each other in the dark corners. You’ve seen more skin during dinner than you’re seeing right now.”
“Barely.” He swallowed. “It’s not the same as a few lovers in the shadows. They get caught up in the act, feeding off the attention.”
“So you wouldn’t have a problem with this dress then, if I were in the process of taking it off?” She didn’t know what had come over her, but she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth.
Well, she did know what came over her. The dress amplifying her attraction to Pyetar.
She raised a brow at him. “You wouldn’t have a problem if I were entwined with some man in the hall, his hands pulling off my clothes and baring my skin instead of a dress simply not covering it?”
The air whooshed out of Pyetar as he staggered. He looked like his world had been sent tilting on its axis. His eyes struggled to hold on to hers, dipping down to her mouth, lower.
She knew she was playing with fire, that she was pushing him and herself too far, but it felt too good to stop.
She had done it. She could save her family. There was no stronger pleasure.
“Does this bother you?” she demanded.
“You being forced to wear it bothers me.”
“Of course I was forced to wear it,” she snapped without any bite. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. And it doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying the way you’re looking at me.”
He stared at her, and she found herself wondering what he saw.
She was flushed; she could feel how warm her face was. Whatever he saw seemed to make up his mind. Pyetar’s eyes explored her, trailing through her unbraided hair, tracing the curve of her shoulders, lingering on the gauzy fabric pooling above her bodice.
His gaze left a searing trail, as if he were touching her skin instead of just looking at it.
Iryana was breathing hard, her ribs straining against the tight silk, her chest rising and falling in a quickening rhythm that seemed to entrance him.
Pyetar backed away from her, moving toward the wall. He tucked his hands behind his head as if he didn’t trust them anywhere near her. She liked how the position arched his back, stretching the loose shirt across the muscles in his chest.
“I know what that dress is,” he pleaded, meeting her eyes. “I don’t—we need to go back.”
She felt out of control, incensed by his excuses.
Iryana tore through the distance between them, backed him against the wall until her chest was flush against his and there was nowhere for him to go.
Her voice was a whisper against his neck. “I know how fire-imbued craftings work. They can’t create emotion or feeling, only enhance it.”
“Yet as soon as you take that dress off and your need cools, you’ll realize you don’t want me anywhere half as bad as the way you do right now.”
Iryana didn’t argue with him. He was wrong, and he wasn’t. She was attracted to him as much as he infuriated her, and she could feel that anger burning under her need for him to touch her. If he were anyone else, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She was lonely, and she wanted.
But unfortunately, it was Pyetar.
“You’re sweet, Pyetar.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re always so careful, so serious. So disciplined. I like seeing you a little out of control. But this wasn’t an invitation into my bed.”
She turned from him, brushing down the path even though she didn’t know the way. Pyetar would catch up eventually. Her body was on fire, but for the first time in months she felt in control.
She was going to be forged.
Just as Karvek had promised, once the 18th Brigade left Redni Castle—not even a week after arriving—he selected three guards to escort her on her pilgrimage. Two of the guards were newer, from the group Karvek had recently brought to their fort. The third was Pyetar.
Because of course it was.
When Karvek had announced the assignment, Pyetar had come close enough to arguing that Iryana had feared Karvek would have him beaten. But Pyetar had begrudgingly accepted.
She heard that someone else was being sent to a well too, but it must have been a different one because their party stayed at just four.
The trip was quiet, Iryana hesitant to engage with the others.
Karvek’s soldiers watched her carefully, challenging her with every glance.
She didn’t want to give them a reason to turn around.
When no one one watched her, Iryana snuck notes in a spare journal she’d taken from the castle.
Anything that might help her find the well again.
She didn’t even care that they had to make the trip during the Storming Moon.
They hiked during the humid summer days, hiding beneath veils of netting to protect them from the biting insects.
And when evening came around, they hid beneath their tents to protect them from the worst of the evening storms. They backtracked frequently around flooded roads and packs of dakii, fighting when necessary. None of it could lower her spirits.
Pyetar scouted ahead or rode far behind the others.
Anything to keep him away from her. Iryana didn’t mind the silence; it let her scan the surrounding land, track the path they took in her mind so she could sketch it later.
She was left with enough idle time to think on her future forgings, what Captain Antar expected of her.
If it weren’t for the dakii, she would have liked to forge a sword, but a spear and bow would be far more practical.
She was relieved to her depths to be on her pilgrimage, but she couldn’t help the occasional worry about what would come after.
One success did not equal a victory won, and she didn’t live in a world where things came easy.
That building unease slowly replaced her excitement.
At least until the temple emerged from between the trees.
The temple was smaller than she expected; a fortress perhaps twenty paces wide and twenty paces deep.
Moss and vines climbed up the sturdy stone walls, the exposed rock stained brown and green.
The temple had blended so well into the dense forest that they hadn’t seen it until they were nearly upon it.
Before she could rush up to it, Pyetar hesitated beside her. She tried to ignore him, her skin prickling with awareness. Ever since she had talked to him while wearing that dress, she was almost afraid to be alone with him. She would much prefer to continue ignoring her attraction to him.
“Are you sure this is what you want? To join the brigade?” Pyetar asked in a low voice as he continued staring forward.
Iryana didn’t answer him; she couldn’t find the words.
So she just walked up to the thick metal gate protecting the temple doors.
The gate looked old, but as she neared, it was dragged up, barely creaking.
The slight sound of chains being coiled was soft amidst the noise of the forest. It was well-maintained.
She could hear the others following behind her.
The gate led to a corridor that opened up into a large courtyard. Iryana turned slowly. Thickly planted garden beds lined one side of the courtyard, and grass covered the rest. Chickens pecked around the yard, and a single furry cow looked scornfully toward them.
“Welcome to the Temple of Noshriven,” a man said as he stepped out of one of the side buildings. “I am Keeper Tomislar.”
He was a slim older man, nearly as old as her grandmother, with a short beard laced with silver. A small felt cap with the metal symbols faintly stitched around the edge sat on his head. He looked harmless and ordinary.
Iryana wasn’t sure what she was meant to do, but her escorts inclined their heads toward the man and left through another gate, leaving her alone with the man.
“I have been sent by Karvek Horvol, general of the 18th Brigade, to be forged,” Iryana announced.
The man only nodded and beckoned her to follow.
That evening, Keeper Tomislar came for her. The monk wore robes as simple as the ones she had changed into.
At night, the temple had a different air. Ethereal and ancient.