Chapter 32 A Request
A Request
“Castivian history is as unruly as the land itself. The records are chaotic; the literature often poor.”
— Dreary Nightsong, The Onyx Scholar
My first conscious night at Xavian’s home—our family home, he’d given me a tour of the stone scaled manor, and had seen that Riven and I were paid well for delivering the deed, and that as a council member, I would receive regular compensation.
None of it felt real, but I was proud to pay for my new wardrobe. I had also visited a glamour shop and purchased a basket full of cosmetics and a few pieces of silver jewelry.
The day was young, and I sat for tea in a black gown with a silver-threaded corset, similar to the look the woodland tailor had created.
The tailor master in Eiden had been incredibly understanding of my wanting to continue the style.
The skirt was not as voluminous as Lady Jocelynn’s, but it was long, loose, and comfortable.
Lady Jocelynn refused to pay me any compliments, but she did not try to convince me to change it, unlike most other things about myself.
Three days prior, when she had first invited me to take tea with her overlooking the training grounds, I was hesitant. Not because of her abhorrent demeanor, as that was to be expected, but because of the experience I endured the last time that I drank Castivian tea.
She assured me there would be no hallucinogens, since we had much to accomplish and little time for poppy brain.
Three days had passed since the private ceremony was held to name Xavian king, and since then, Lady Jocelynn had been tasked with teaching me what to expect each day and how to not stick out like a sore thumb among nobles.
We had less than a week until the meeting with the lords, my betrothed being one of them.
Having a betrothed to begin with was nauseating, but I had made my bed and I was fully prepared to lay, wallow, and fuck in it.
“Why were you late today?” Lady Jocelynn asked, focused on a crow that sat on the arm of her chair. Another was on the circular iron table between us, anxiously waiting to be fed a piece of powdered cake or lemon tarte. Lady Jocelynn was so fond of her crows, we hardly ever spent time inside.
“My nightclothes needed a wash.”
The afternoon wind brushed my hair against my back and tickled my nose with the smell of steeped lavender and sea salt.
It would have been preferable if the breeze picked me up and carried me with it. Instead, I was forced to watch Riven absolutely wreck every man who dared to spar with him, while also enduring Lady Jocelynn’s endless lectures about Castivian policies and procedures.
“It is a waste of time to wash your own clothes.”
“And yet I will do it, regardless.” I had learned that Lady Jocelynn chose her battles.
“Then do it earlier,” she ordered. Shadows swirled around her like smoke. She never bothered concealing her Nature. How appealing would it be if I did the same, with poison dripping from me as I walked?
“I would be glad to, and you will be glad to join me.”
She finally met my gaze. “I will do no such thing.”
“You think you’re too good to wash your clothes alongside the Princess of Castivian?” I fired back.
I was not too proud to use the title to win an argument. If Fate wanted to throw royal heritage into my lap, I would make proficient use of it.
In the middle of the training grounds, Riven watched over a spar between two tragically under-trained recruits. The brotherhood seemed to be growing every day. His eyes shifted up, shamelessly locking on mine.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
A trainee called for him. He broke his focus and turned away.
In my lap, I picked at the skin on my fingers.
“Were the Waywards that terrible?” Lady Jocelynn pestered as she gave a crumb of tarte to the crow.
“In what way?”
“The men.”
“The men?”
She pursed her plum-colored lips. “They must have been dreadful if Sir Riven has caught your eye when your options as princess are limitless.”
“Are you blind,” I began, lifting my tea to my lips, “or do you prefer ugly men?”
“Sir Riven is a pleasant enough sight, but he’s such a dog.”
“Don’t say that,” I snapped, clinking my cup down.
She stared at Riven curiously, as if he were low-hanging fruit. She was already married, I had learned, to Lord Draven.
“Is it that you wish to be loved? Or do you simply need to know you can be loved?” she finally asked.
“Stop.”
Her face was shaded partially by her feathered hat, her painted lips frowning. “Do you wish me to be authentic with you, or say what you want to hear?” Another crow landed on her finger.
“I want you to quit being rude.”
“It’s not my job to be pleasant.” She shrugged. “My question was sincere, though, about the Waywards. I’m intrigued by them.”
I laughed. She hated everything about the way I was, and yet she wanted to know about the worst three years of my life.
“Why?”
“You are the first person I have met who has lived in the infamous Waywards. I host a show once a month where I discuss worldly matters. Your insight would be a nice touch.”
Riven began sparring against Lord Avan. They wore no helmets, and Lord Avan’s red curls glistened compared to Riven’s chestnut, windswept strands.
“A show for talking?” I asked to appease her, my eyes still locked on the training grounds.
Unnatural shadows clouded my vision with darkness, blocking my view. I snapped my head to her.
“Pay attention,” she said.
“I asked about your show, did I not?”
“I would like for you to come. It’s this weekend at the theater. You will need to be dressed appropriately, especially in the public eye.”
Thanks to her pestering, I had missed whatever happened between Riven and Lord Avan, as Riven was now sheathing his sword and walking away.
“I’ve had enough tea.” I said, shooting to my feet and scanning for ways he could have gone.
“You know, if you chase something, it will only continue to run.”
I would rather run than watch everything I want pass me by.
“I’ll come to your show. Now please leave me be.”
She shook her head and shrugged, and that was enough for me. I hurried across the terrace and into the fortress hallways before practically flying down the stairs. It was cool inside, the stone floors solid under my quick steps.
Out of breath, I rounded a dark corner and slammed into Riven’s chest.
He cursed, gripping me by the elbows.
“Watch where you’re walking,” I admonished, yanking my arms free.
“I could hear you making a ruckus all the way from upstairs. Yet I should watch where I’m walking?”
My face heated. “If my shoes are so loud, then you should have moved out of the way.”
The corner of his lip rose ever so slightly. “Really?”
“What is this?” I asked, throwing my arms up. “What are we doing?”
“Our duties.”
“Was finger banging me in the tavern part of your duty?”
He lowered his chin and stepped closer. “Do you want me to apologize, Princess?”
No. Of course not.
I crossed my arms. “Yes. Apologize.”
Riven’s eyes darkened as he brought his mouth dangerously close to mine. “I’m sorry, Princess Elora, for pleasuring you with my hand until you sang for me.”
Attempting to hold back a smile, I cleared my throat. “I suppose I can forgive you, if you do something for me.”
He straightened his posture and surveyed our surroundings. “What’s that?”
“I want another chance at being trained.”
I would not watch day by day, eating tarts and sipping tea as training went on for a war that I’d helped start.
Death had come close to stealing me away too many times to trust that I was safe.
Never again did I want to feel as pathetic as I had in the Waywards, sitting in my own vomit, my best friend fleeing while a Sapphire was ready to make his kill.
He took in my dress before running his eyes over my neatly brushed hair. “You don’t have to wield a sword to be useful, Elora.”
“Is that a no, Sir Riven?”
Shaking his head, he conceded. “Fine.”
He set off in the direction of the training grounds, flicking a blade in his hand. “Let’s go.”
Oh.
He thought I’d meant immediately.