Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
HORNHALL
A narchy pawed the ground, kicking up dust. Katarra reined him in, turning the stallion in a tight circle before lining him back up.
She’d gotten first pick out of the entire stable for winning the last tournament. Archer had warned her to make the selection based on the limited equine experience a lesser fae would have.
With that in mind, she had taken a measly amount of time sizing up the contenders, focusing on the two most absurd choices. The sloped-back nag that slept with the donkeys. A good choice if she were to play the part of a novice rider; scared to death.
Or the hot-blooded stallion who wouldn’t let anyone enter his pen, let alone ride him. Not even the supposed best equestrians wanted anything to do with the black steed that pinned his ears and snaked his head at everyone that passed his stall. A good choice if she were to play the part of an idiot with a death wish.
Katarra had chosen the black stallion and named him Anarchy.
She was Champion Talon after all. The winner of the first rounds. Far too prideful to stop proving herself to her betters. At least, that was what she told Archer when he scowled disapprovingly. The more challenging steed was the obvious choice.
It was bullshit. She would have picked the stallion if he had been presented to her on her rightful throne. He was magnificent. Strong, fast, and mean as hell. A kindred spirit.
She had been given twenty-four hours to get her ass in the saddle if she wanted to compete with him in the joust today. Katarra didn’t let the time go to waste, using her extensive expertise when most of the castle was preoccupied watching other tourney rounds or sleeping. She made sure to emphasize falls, and general ineptitude, when anyone was watching.
By early morning though, Katarra had come to a quiet understanding with her new mount. She wasn’t going to back down. He wasn’t going to back down. So they might as well work together to do what they both wanted.
Inflict pain on everyone else.
Because of that bonding she knew something–other than the stallion’s normal monstrous personality–was making him a holy terror today. If she didn’t get him settled, this first joust might be her last.
Not an option.
“Easy boy,” she soothed as the trumpet blew.
Though he fought the bit, nostrils flaring and head jerking, Katarra managed to get him positioned at the starting point. The horse and rider on the opposite end of the divided lane did the same.
Her squire raced up, handed her the lance, and then double checked the girth-strap. “I hoped he would have calmed down by now,” the lad panted. “I insisted on a different stall for later.”
Katarra looked down sharply. “What are you talking about?” The boy balked, gaze going straight to the dirt. “Why was he worked up?” she snarled, and Anarchy sidestepped hotly. “And why would he need a different stall?”
The young squire looked to the left, then right, before his eyes hesitantly lifted to hers. “The stall next to him…they…” His voice all but disappeared amidst the robust shouting of the crowd. “After you left. Lord Durrant put a mare beside him… In heat.”
“He what!” Katarra saw red.
She had cooled down the stallion just before dawn, washed and fed him, then retired to catch a few hours’ sleep. She’d left detailed instructions on the stall door for the squire. Emphasizing the death she would bring to anyone who disturbed the horse while she was gone.
Her head snapped to the other end of the joust lanes. Where her competitor, Lord Durrant, sat smirking.
“I…I didn't know. Not until I went to get him…” her squire sputtered. “He’d kicked clean through the wall. Knees bloody from tryin–”
She silenced him with a hand. “Are his legs okay?”
The boy nodded vigorously. “I checked and double checked him over. Just scrapes. Mostly, he was just mad as hell. And wantin’ to…ya know.”
Katarra moved the stallion off the starting line. “Get back,” she warned the squire before urging Anarchy toward the berfrois.
As she approached the gawking nobility in the grandstand, she removed her helmet and smiled brightly. Archer grew tense beside his pretty sister, the widowed queen. Katarra could already see the ‘no’ forming on his lips.
She ignored him and focused her attention squarely on the lady seated three chairs down from the child king. The High-fae betrothed to Lord Durrant. A sweet young thing who had spent most of the last ball ignoring her intended and subtly glancing at Katarra.
“My Lady.” Katarra extended her lance to the beauty. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your colors?”
The female blushed profusely. “It would be my honor.” Katarra felt her opponent's glare like a battle ax to the back of the head, as the fae untied a blue sash from her wrist and looped it over the end of Katarra’s lance. “Good luck, Champion Talon.”
Katarra smiled wider as she swung Anarchy back toward the starting line. Lord Durrant looked as sour as a dried pig's ass baking in the sun over a tanner's rack.
She grinned and closed her face shield. If the yellow-bellied shit worm wanted to play games, she would show the bastard how they were done.
Her squire rushed back up and buckled her lance into the arret then bolted away.
Anarchy pinned his ears and reared straight up, striking the air, issuing his own challenge. Katarra laughed when he came down snorting and tossing his head. She was banking on the idea that her mount, same as his rider, liked to fight. As much as he liked to fuck.
Unlucky for Lord Durrant, there were no mares on this track.
“That’s it, boy,” she praised. “Let’s give these cunts a show.”
The trumpet sounded again and both combatants lowered their lances. Their steeds pawed the ground. The crowd roared around them.
On the third blare of the horn, both horses launched into a gallop, the pounding of their hooves loud and strong as they barreled down the lanes toward each other.
Katarra leveled the steel tip of her lance just as Anarchy switched leads to the inside, leaning into the wooden rail, positioning them both for impact.
Closer… She centered her balance and tightened her thighs, anchoring herself into the saddle . That’s it, fucker.
Right there. She aimed true.
She struck dead center of Lord Durrant’s chest. The deafening sound of wood striking metal reverberated across the open arena.
He was ejected from his saddle, ass over head.
Spectators bellowed with jubilation, stomping their feet in the stands.
Katarra slowed Anarchy to a trot at the end of the lane.
For a moment she basked in the cheers, waving fervently. Then she looked to where Lord Durrant lay, still flat on his back. Squires and tourney guards rushed to his side. She hoped any attempts at resuscitation would be unsuccessful.
Katarra glanced to the berfrois. Most eyes were on Lord Durrant, eager to see what carnage had been done. All except the young beauty who had given Katarra her favor.
And Archer… His silver eyes narrowed on her.
She leaned in and patted Anarchy’s neck, flashing both a smile. Archer, for sheer spite. The female, for the real injury she was about to inflict on that twatwaffle Durrant.
Nobody, nobody , messed with her pets.
Windsong
T he Temple gardens–encouraging peacefulness and reflection, their natural dirt paths barely wider than animal trails, overgrown with ferns, foamflower, ivy, and wood-sorrel–were far different from Windsong’s.
Everything in Windsong’s gardens had a place, and not a leaf was out of theirs. Each plant had been chosen for vibrancy and paired—painstakingly, no doubt—with those that would complement. Rows and rows of perfectly tiered hedgerows lined the perimeter. Manicured grass, as soft as down, didn’t dare veer off the lawn. Bushes had been trimmed into life-sized animal shapes here and there, the topiaries strategically placed to appear like a roaming zoo.
In the center, all paths leading there, was a large section of white marble. As big and polished as an interior ballroom. Bastian glanced to Eirik on his right.
After their brief reunion in the great hall, the king had called a small meeting with the Warborn. He and Teakin had recounted, in great detail, the nightmarish experience in the Arrows, including the female Bastian had encountered kneeling over him in the aftermath .
He wasn’t surprised to learn that’s where the elite regiment had been out searching when he and Teakin had arrived.
For months now, fae had been disappearing from Windsong and its surrounding borderlands, never to be seen again. King Calian had dispatched the Warborn to investigate more than three weeks ago. His and Teakin’s experience on the road, though, was the first anyone had heard of.
They were the only known survivors.
At the conclusion of the meeting, agreeing to help the Warborn, he and Eirik had gone up to Bastian’s chamber. They talked until dawn, catching up on everything they had been through over the past year.
Much had changed for them both. More so for his brother, it seemed.
Eirik was still the light of any room, joyful, easy to be around. But his time in Ventus had roughed him up around the edges. There was a hesitancy in his eyes when a door opened where there had once been eagerness.
His brother had always been the one better suited for court politics. Eirik had a way of placating people, making others feel seen in his presence, validating their opinions. Because of that, everyone gravitated to him, liked him. He, in turn, relished in the adoration.
Bastian had never welcomed that sort of attention, or understood how his brother managed such balancing acts. He preferred training and fighting to diplomatic discussions and pretty words.
Stefen always claimed they were like the sun and the moon. One to show the light, the other to bring the stars. Both equally important in their differing personalities.
Only, the day was more accepted, safer… Understood.
The night kept secrets, entertained the shadows, savored its loneliness. The depths of the dark could only be braved by a few, understood by even fewer.
His uncle was right. They were, and always had been, opposites. Best friends and bitter rivals. Forever connected, but destined to challenge one another. Two lives born to a fate that only one could obtain.
The irony wasn’t lost on Bastian that their parents had sent him to study quietly with the peacekeepers of this realm, but sent his brother to join the ranks of the Warborn. Ventus was a small act in a vast cosmic theater. It had given them both monumental challenges and humbling perspectives.
“The queen likes to dance,” his brother said, looking ahead to the marble center stage. “Have you met her yet?”
“I haven’t. Someone mentioned she had retired for the evening by the time we arrived.”
Eirik chuckled. “If by retired they meant that she had begun entertaining in the east-wing.” When Bastian looked sideways at him, he continued, “The king and queen have different interests. She prefers music and dancing. He prefers… well, anything else.”
“I see. And the twins? Were they with their mother?”
Bastian had overheard many a would-be suitor, male and female, make mention of the prince and princess during the festivities last night. He had pieced together only enough to know they were both aesthetically appealing. Eager prizes to win. Not just for the social elevation of becoming a royal.
“Griffith was likely the only one to be retired to his rooms last night. Reading, or writing a dissertation on quantum physics.” Eirik grinned. “The prince could put Einstein to shame.”
“And the princess, Mekale?”
“She was probably in the grand hall in disguise. Right under our noses, listening to everything that was said.”
Bastian laughed. “I like her already.”
Eirik stilled beside him. “Bash, you wouldn’t actually consider…”
He could have sworn his brother flinched.
“Gods, no,” Bastian scoffed. “I’m only here to test what I’ve learned.”
“Good.” Eirik’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Because she’s going to turn down anyone that wins. The princess has no desire to be wed.” He looked back toward the outside dancefloor. “Especially to a male that would think to win her through competition.”
“You seem to know her quite well.”
“You will recall, I have been here for a year.” Eirik grinned, facing him again. “I know everyone well, enough.”
“Eirik.” A light, effortless voice carried across the open space, interrupting Bastian from probing deeper.
They both turned; an elegant female strolled toward them smiling, gossamer skirts drifting on the breeze, golden hair streaming behind her. “Is this your handsome brother?”
“The one and only, Your Majesty.” Eirik smiled back, with an ease that spoke volumes about the two’s relationship. “Though handsome might be a bit of an embellishment.”
Bastian bowed. “It is a pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve heard so much about you.” She came to a stop before them. “I feel as though I know you already.”
“And yet, you’ve allowed me in your kingdom?” He grinned. “I dare say, you haven’t heard the whole truth.”
Eirik’s lips hitched into the infamous LaGoryen side smirk. “I might have omitted a few details.”
“Marvelous!” The queen stepped between them, forcing them to turn back to the marble dancefloor, as she passed. “More for me to unearth.” She said over her shoulder, “I do love a good challenge.”
Eirik winked at Bastian as she sailed on ahead. “Welcome to court, brother. I hope you dusted off your dancing shoes.”
H is brother hadn’t been kidding. The queen enjoyed her entertainment. Though she seemed to prefer observing, more so than partaking. For the latter part of the day, she lounged on a burgundy velvet settee underneath a cloth pavilion, watching her court dance before her.
A new couple stepped from a hedgerow and made their way over to the queen just as the sun was starting to set. Its brilliant tapestry of saffron and lavender stretched thin over the horizon, backlighting the pair.
Bastian inclined his head to the female he had just escorted off the dancefloor and joined Eirik on the grass. “Whoever that is, I hope they keep her attention long enough for us to sit the next one out.”
No amount of swordplay or hand-to-hand fighting could ever humble one like a Viennese waltz. They had just danced four in a row. Even his immortal healing couldn’t keep up with the blisters.
When his brother didn’t respond, Bastian followed his line of sight to the pavilion. The queen greeted the newly arrived couple warmly and beckoned them to sit. The female’s back was to them, wearing a brocade gown. The male was tall, thin, and tan, with blonde hair. His refined way of moving marked him as gentry. The queen leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“The prince?” Bastian took a guess. Eirik nodded.
“So, he does leave his studies,” Bastian commented.
The prince had inherited a little of both parents. His father’s rich coloring and his mother’s more delicate stature and hair.
Eirik’s gaze stayed fixed on the couple. “Apparently someone has coaxed him out.”
Before Bastian could dig into that observation, his brother continued, “The prince is an excellent dancer. Or, so I’ve heard.” Eirik took a sip of wine and faced Bastian. “He rarely joins in the merriment of court life.”
“Then we may be in for a treat,” Bastian said, as the prince took the hand of the mystery lady and turned her toward the dancefloor .
The jerk of his brother’s head back in the direction of the pavilion was too quick to not be suspicious. Interesting . Bastian focused his attention on the dark-haired lady as the prince led her to the center of the marble floor.
The queen stood. “His Royal Highness and Lady Kerrington will honor us with a dance to start the evening’s festivities.” She smiled. “Seems my son has been practicing for the solstice ball in private.”
Eirik took up his wine and downed the remainder of his glass. Bastian kept his gaze on the couple, even as he asked under his breath, “You disapprove?”
“I disapprove of anyone I haven’t fully vetted,” his brother grumbled. “She came to court while we were away. I haven’t been introduced, but she’s all anyone can talk of.”
The prince spun the lady out ahead of him. As she moved into a series of quick pivots, her black skirt fanned out and around her shapely legs. It became instantly clear she was no novice. She came to an effortless stop facing the prince and extended her arm, the movement as fluid as smoke atop water.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Bastian glanced at his brother, expecting to see a grin, but found only tightly pressed lips. “What gives you pause?”
“Too many unknowns.”
“Such as?”
The lady in question took the prince’s hand and let him pull her into dance frame, her body melting like poured gold into his arms. Such natural grace. When they moved, the crowd went utterly silent. Even the newly born stars in the sky seemed to hold their breath.
The prince was, indeed, an accomplished dancer. But his partner…
She moved over the polished white marble like an extension of the music, her every movement a correspondence with his. Bastian hung spellbound with the rest of the courtyard, unable to take his eyes off them.
Off of her.
“She arrived alone, for one.” Eirik lowered his voice, even as the music swelled. Seemingly the only one not entranced. “Not a lady’s maid or servant to be had.”
“Hardly denoting a malevolent nature,” Bastian teased. He’d never seen his brother like this. Certainly never heard him sound remotely judgmental.
“It’s not like it is on Earth. I know you’ve been sequestered in the Temple, but the rest of Ventus operates with a strict adherence to protocol.”
Bastian lifted a brow. “And protocol insists a lady must arrive with an entourage?”
His brother shook his head, irritated–likely as much to do with his own inability to put a finger on the problem, as with Bastian not understanding it. “Even Zaire has questions. Questions he can’t ask the king outright.”
“Such as?” Bastian moved back from the edge of the dancefloor when Eirik did.
“Such as…why her cousin, who took her in when she was orphaned, didn’t come with her.” He leaned in, eyes still on the dancers. “The male is also rumored to possess wind-magic.”
A coveted and rare gift. But if her uncle was capable of such magic, surely he would be sanctioned by one of the two ruling courts.
Eirik went on, “Gideon Kerrington is the only High-fae in the region that never comes to court. Chogan has only met him once. And now here his niece is, alone. ”
“A reclusive fae is hardly…”
Bastian reined in the reprimand. This was his brother’s court now. He had made a home here. If he had suspicions, that was his right. Arguing against them would do no good.
“You’re right. This Kerrington fellow does seem to be an interesting exception to the rules.” Bastian turned his attention from the dancefloor. “Forgive me for being pessimistic of your pessimism.” He grinned. “I’m not used to it.”
The smile returned to his brother’s face. “A lot has changed in the last year, Bash. I might give your grumpy, aloof ass a run for its money now.”
“It would be fitting if mother and father had sent us to this realm just to try and switch our personalities,” Bastian chuckled.
Applause went up for the prince and his mysterious partner as they finished their dance.
Bastian glanced away and added, “Pay us back for all the shit we put them through.”
“Eirik LaGoryen, mischievous?” someone asked behind them.
Both brothers turned.
“Do tell.” A female version of the Prince of Windsong looked up at them, a sly grin on her cupid-bow lips.
“The Princess Mekale,” Eirik introduced. Bastian bowed. “This is my brother, Bastian.”
The princess smiled when he straightened. “A pleasure to meet you, Bastian.” She looped her arm over his before he could respond. “Tell me all about what naughty children you and your dastardly brother were while we dance.”
She led him onto the dancefloor. Bastian glanced over his shoulder to see Eirik smirking after them. On the periphery, he caught sight of the prince and his partner as they passed. Not close enough for a formal greeting, but they were close enough for him to detect their scents.
His heightened vampire senses immediately disentwined the masculine from the feminine. It wasn’t hard to do. Lady Kerrington’s wrapped around him like a cloak; a mixture of sweet and woody, with hints of vanilla and citrus– autumn .
She smelled like fall.
Bastian glanced back in time to see Eirik intercepting the picturesque couple as they stepped off the dancefloor. Whatever suspicions his brother had were well concealed. He smiled broadly and inclined his head of tousled auburn curls.
The trio was eclipsed by bodies as other dancers took to the floor around him and the princess .
The queen’s voice rose above the chatter. “Dear friends, I am pleased to announce that the king has granted me a competition of my own.”
Everyone stopped dancing and faced her.
“A dance competition. Tomorrow,” she declared. Hushed, excited whispers floated on the air. “So please, at the behest of your queen, use the rest of the evening to select your partners carefully.”
Clapping and cheering ensued and the band struck back up.
Princess Mekale swung into dance frame with Bastian. “No time to waste, LaGoryen.” She smiled up at him, brown eyes full of challenge. “Impress me.”
E nchanting.
Lady Kerrington, Sage, as she had insisted Eirik refer to her, was absolutely enchanting. It was no surprise the prince was taken with her.
It wasn’t just her beauty that made her so. Some inner light shone from her. A truth and regalness that made others take notice and gather near. But it didn’t end there.
She laughed, light and captivating. Her admirers crowed around, eager to hear what she would say next. In a court that wielded smiles like weapons, it was saying a lot that none seemed to brandish them now.
No, those approving nods and inquisitive questions to Sage Kerrington were genuine.
Eirik caught himself wanting to do the same as everyone else. To step closer–to ask her something. Hear her response.
“She’d make a good princess,” Borgen remarked.
Eirik jumped. “Damn it, I thought we talked about not sneaking up on people.”
His comrade chuckled. “I thought we discussed you being more observant.” He tossed a grape up into the air and caught it with his mouth.
“Are we giving him a hard time for being the least aware vampire of his kind?” Fenrir asked from Eirik’s other side.
“I don’t recall there being any official studies that claim my senses should be any more advanced than either of yours,” Eirik retorted.
Fenrir looked past him to Borgen. “Did you hear me say anything about fae hearing versus vampire?”
Borgen shook his head of floppy blond hair and leaned in, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I think he meant you–as an individual one.”
Eirik laughed. “My field awareness is just fine.”
“A test then.” Fenrir lowered his voice to barely a whisper and proceeded, “I heard Bastian’s cock is…”
Across the dancefloor, Bastian’s head swiveled to them.
Borgen, Fenrir, and Eirik broke out in laughter.
“Point made,” Eirik conceded. His brother arched a brow at them and went back to his conversation. “I’ll work on it.”
“I think you’d fare better if you weren’t trying so hard to figure out the new lady at court.” Borgen popped another grape in his mouth.
“Don’t you think it odd that no one really knows her?” Eirik again sought out the beauty in question.
She was talking to Zaire and Chogan now, with the prince still by her side and a gaggle of new courtiers on the fringe. Chogan must have said something funny for she laughed heartily, head tilting back as she did. Zaire even smiled, a bigger and brighter smile than Eirik had ever seen from the male in public.
“See!” he exclaimed. “She’s even making Zaire appear…unintimidating.”
His two brothers in arms nodded in unison. “I’ll give you that,” Borgen agreed. “A rare sight.” He shivered. “One that shouldn’t be repeated. ”
“Even Zaire can be persuaded by a lovely lady.” Fenrir plucked a glass of champagne off a passing server’s tray. “Let’s go join the party, shall we?”
“I’ve already met–”
Fenrir didn’t give Eirik time to finish. He sauntered toward the group, cutting through the crowd like a snake through the grass, catching the attention of more than a few ladies.
Borgen shrugged when Eirik opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and looked at him. “I’m curious now, too.” Borgen followed Fenrir. “Come on. You can talk to someone more than once in a night.”
The span of a ballroom floor later, Fenrir and Borgen were making their introductions. Out of the corner of his eye, Eirik caught Bastian’s glance in their direction. He didn’t have to wonder if his brother had one ear in his present conversation and the other honed in on what they were discussing.
“We saw Zaire crack a smile and had to know what manner of magic had made it happen.” Fenrir threw a puckish grin at his comrade.
“Chogan was just telling us about a carnival where the wrong bear ended up in their first act.” Lady Kerrington smiled at Zaire, a twinkle in her eye.
“An unfortunate incident, indeed,” Chogan said. “One I doubt our esteemed brother will ever live down.”
Zaire, gods be damned, smiled again. Perhaps she was using a form of magic Eirik hadn’t heard of. Most unusual.
It led him to voice the next question, “Will you be competing in the games, Lady Kerrington?”
“Sage,” she corrected politely, but not weakly. “And, only if the king wishes.”
“What is your skill set?” Borgen asked, then he added, “If you don’t mind me prying.”
“Not at all.” She waved off his concern. “A very meager form of wind-magic. I can barely sustain a breeze. I wouldn’t last very long against such skilled practitioners as those gathered for this tourney. ”
“That won’t be the case tomorrow.” Fenrir nodded. “You’ll wipe the dancefloor clean.”
“Which is exactly why I shall be watching from the sidelines.” Zaire chuckled, the sound rumbling like storm clouds.
“Not unless the king commands it.” Fenrir gave Lady Kerrington a roguish wink, then looked at the prince. “Could you ask him?”
They all laughed at that, their merriment gaining the attention of others who drifted nearer.
Eirik turned to the prince. “Have you chosen a partner yet, Your Highness?”
“Not yet. Though I better choose soon. Lest my mother start lining up my choices for me.”
Some giggles and agreed murmurs came from the pressing crowd. Less sincere though; the court vultures creeping in.
The prince seemed to recognize it, too. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, expression dropping from merry to severe. “I believe she’s summoning me now.”
She wasn’t. But no one dared correct him before he turned to Sage. “Care to accompany me?”
Lady Kerrington was robbed of her answer when Princess Mekale swooped in. “You’ve had her long enough, brother.” She sashayed between the prince and Sage. “Let the rest of us have a chance to win her over.”
The princess linked arms with Lady Kerrington and leaned in conspiratorially, though she whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “Fifty gold coins if you feign a sprained ankle tomorrow.”
More laughter from the onlookers. The prince looked hesitant, but he took his leave.
His absence was scarcely noted as the princess waved a hand to Bastian just walking up. “Have you met the other, more refined, LaGoryen twin, Lady Kerrington?” Princess Mekale asked, smirking at Eirik.
Eirik put a hand to his heart, earning more amusement from the crowd. He eased away as a sea of perfectly coifed hair, colorful dresses, and tailored suits swallowed up the princess, Lady Kerrington, and his brother. Everyone was eager to meet the evening’s shiny new bauble.
Eirik caught Bastian’s sapphire gaze long enough to ascertain he didn’t require saving. Then he followed the crowned prince off the dancefloor.
S omewhere around three in the morning the queen stood, and a footman called for everyone’s attention. The dancers stilled and waited as the prince inched closer to Sage’s side.
Her Majesty looked out over the starlit ballroom, her flare for the dramatic as honed as her husband’s skill with a broadsword.
“I have made a change to the competition,” she announced. “As lovely as each of you are––I have narrowed my choices down to two couples I wish to see compete tomorrow.” The queen’s smile landed on her daughter. “I have no doubt she has already selected an adept partner.”
She had. The princess made no attempt to hide the pairing when she told, rather than asked, the Warborn warrior, Borgen, to be her partner.
“However, I would like to see her challenged.” Her Majesty’s eyes sparkled. “The princess will be paired with Eirik LaGoryen.”
Sage was sure she heard the handsome auburn-headed vampire cough. But the queen wasn’t done. “I think it only fair; if I asked one of the king’s most coveted fighters to dance… I mustn’t exclude his newly arrived brother.”
All eyes went to the darker-haired twin. Her Majesty said, “Bastian LaGoryen will be paired with Sage Kerrington.”
The prince tensed beside her. Sage kept the surprise from her own countenance and smiled, inclining her head to the queen .
Obligatory clapping, excited whispering, and a susurration of disgruntled murmurs filled the courtyard. Eyes sharp as knives found her back–some at her throat. She kept the pleased expression in place and faced the prince, a disappointed reply already forming on her tongue.
Another spoke first, from directly behind her. “We should dance a few rounds before the competition.” His accent was subtle. Lovely.
Sage turned, tracking her gaze up his expertly tailored black surcoat, and up again along the strong column of his neck. Further still, she found the piercing blue eyes of her intended partner and a faint silver scar that cut through his thick brow.
For the second time this evening, she marveled just how disarmingly handsome Bastian LaGoryen was, despite the promise of violence that never left those sapphire eyes.
She hadn’t spoken a word to him other than their initial introductions, but she had studied him well. Him, and his brother.
Eirik was considerably easier to read, but both males were powerfully gifted. Each possessed the same intense energy. As if lightning lived in their veins, crackling just under their skin, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. It would be a mistake to call them anything but what they were–deadly.
But it wasn’t their elemental magic that gave Sage pause. It was the mythical beast prowling through their blood. The dragon .
“I suppose you are right,” she concurred. She looked again at the prince. “Do we know what time the queen wishes the competition to begin?”
“After dinner,” Bastian answered, before the prince’s lips could even part. “If we want any time to practice without the other competitors crowding the dancefloor, we should meet early.”
Sage nodded. “Agreed. Would noon–”
“Eight a.m. I have plans at noon.”
“Eight a.m. it is then,” she said.
Bastian waved an elegant hand and offered the slightest of bows to the prince. Then he was off, spine straight as an arrow, midnight-colored hair gleaming under the lantern light. He cut through the crowd, met up with his brother on the edge of the ballroom, and disappeared into the night.