SEVEN #2
“What era do you think this is?” I roll my eyes, panic giving way to stabs of annoyance. “It’s your reputation that I’m worried about.”
That threat of a smile ghosts over his lips before it fades to a scowl. “I can send for someone to look at your mark.” His eyes don’t dip lower than my chin. He doesn’t even glance at the savage birthright branded into my flesh.
I swallow. “It doesn’t hurt.” Anymore.
Not physically, at least.
“Very well.” He tips his head slightly as if he understands what I’ve left unsaid. “I’ll station Vessica at the door.”
“Am I allowed to leave?” I ask.
His jaw works for a moment. “You are not a prisoner, Lady Icaros. You are allowed to leave, but I would advise against it.”
“You shouldn’t call me that,” I murmur. “The Stars marked me as …”
I can’t bring myself to say it.
He does it for me. “Ravenell.”
The name hangs between us. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard it spoken aloud.
Shadows move like omens in his eyes. “The Stars can be wrong.”
Does he actually believe that, or is he trying to trick me into saying something that will condemn me? “That’s damn near heresy.”
“That is reality.” But something unreadable flashes across his face. Still, he shrugs and crosses to the armoire.
Finally leaving the chamber door unguarded.
I glance at it. Chances are slim that I can outrun him—if I even make it to the hallway. Stars know what might be waiting for me if I manage it. But trusting him …
“I wouldn’t,” he says in a low voice, and I turn to find him strapping a sheathed dagger around his thigh. He reaches back in the wardrobe. I brace myself for more weaponry, but he only pulls out a red cloak. His eyes never leave mine.
“I wasn’t going to.”
He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. Swinging the cloak over his shoulders, he starts toward the door. “A word of warning,” he says when he reaches it. “Vessica is less charitable than I am.”
Less? I choke back the response, managing a quick nod before he leaves.
He’s been gone for all of ten seconds before I realize that he’s left me facing the real danger: being alone with my own thoughts.
That seems like a pretty bad idea at the moment.
Better to distract myself with something.
Anything. Given that his room is fittingly austere for someone in Order Marius, I come up with nothing.
Nothing that tells me anything about the man who sleeps in this bed.
No pictures. No letters cluttering the desk.
Not even a shirt wadded up and left on the floor.
My body takes over, wearing a path back and forth through the room as I try to outpace my thoughts. But there’s no escaping them. My mind and I are pretty much a package deal.
What does he actually do in here? Even sleeping seems impossible on that thin, narrow mattress.
My heart squeezes. It’s been mere hours since I explored the capital with Kieren. He probably doesn’t even know what happened, and I’m not sure Broderic will tell him.
I shake off that thought. Of course my brother will. And even if things continue to be strained between them, it’s not like Kieren won’t hear soon enough. Along with everyone else in Antares.
So much for avoiding thinking.
“Tell me there’s a bottle of wine stashed in here.” I rifle through his armoire, then his desk. No flask. Not even a pen or piece of paper. Right now, I’d settle for a book. Not that he has one of those, either.
But Bishop does have a book. I saw him steal it. And while I might not want to answer questions about my own fate, I’d be willing to dig up some dirt on his.
There are very few places he could be hiding it. It’s definitely not on him, given the way his dress uniform is tailored to flaunt the brutal, muscled lines of his body—and remind everyone that he’s a killer. Nope, the book must be here. At least it won’t take long to search for it.
I know the desk is empty, but I check the armoire again.
There’s a second cloak. Up close, it’s splattered with faint stains that send my stomach lurching.
It’s the one he wore this afternoon. I take a steadying breath and run my hands over it.
There are no pockets inside. Nowhere to hide a book.
I search the other articles of clothing half-heartedly, but they’re all freshly laundered, cotton pressed and leather oiled.
Most are so pristine, I’m not certain they’ve even been worn.
How many uniforms does he have? Stupid question.
If you’re expected to dress to intimidate, you need a threatening wardrobe for every occasion.
That only leaves searching the trunk. The most obvious place and the one that I already know is a dead end, judging by the nochtimetric pattern etched onto its lock.
I sink onto the floor in front of it anyway.
A bolted trunk is the perfect place to hide a forbidden book.
I study the pattern for a moment before I trace a few lines in quick succession.
The metal scorches my fingertip, and I rip my hand back.
That’s definitely not the right combination.
I try another, this time earning a stinging pulse. Not it, either.
I lean back on my palms and glare at the lock. “I can do this all night. I have nowhere to be.”
And now I’m talking to inanimate objects. I just need something to do. Something to focus on. Something to help me forget that I am trapped in a stranger’s room, waiting. But for what exactly? It’s the not knowing that risks driving me mad.
Shifting onto my knees, I try the lock again. This time, I don’t mind when it burns me.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve tried when the etchings on the lock start to glow. I move closer, heart shooting into my throat. The lines continue to glow for a moment before fading into a blank metal square—a fail-safe enacted after too many attempts to access it.
“Fine. Be like that.” I push up with my palms, the stiffness of my legs telling me that I’ve been at this longer than I thought.
And no one has come for me.
A pang of disappointment hits me, but I ignore it.
Who do I hope will come? A rabid crowd intent on flaying me alive?
The savior who casually killed a man in front of me this afternoon?
My brother who is probably trying to act like he has no idea who I am to save his own reputation?
Broderic is smart enough to keep the rest of my family away.
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Maybe I’ll just stay locked in here while everyone pretends this never happened.
I move to the window, staring at the sky above.
The stars have reappeared. I study each constellation, carefully avoiding that new star blazing brightly in the dark swath of the Night’s Scar.
My gaze dips to the courtyard below to find a half dozen uniformed guards stationed underneath the window.
Two of them are staring directly at me, and I stumble a step back.
There are no bars on the window, but this might as well be a cage.
Looking down, I take in my own skin for the first time since I left the throne room.
The mark of Ravenell is starting to settle into my flesh.
But even now, unlike the marks the other initiates received, it doesn’t glow with silvery light.
Instead, there’s a fiery red tinge to each bisecting line and star-tipped point, making the wings of the raven look like they’re burning.
It’s fitting, given how Ravenell was destroyed.
I don’t know why the Stars chose it for me.
I don’t know why they cursed me. But my hands move toward it, palms trying to smother that flaming light.
The mark doesn’t hurt when I touch it. Whatever caused the pain during the ritual—the pain that seemed so much more pronounced than it did for the other initiates—is gone.
Despite the mark’s fiery lines, it’s just part of me now.
And I don’t want it. I scrub at my skin. “I am Arden Icaros. I live in Damalis. My family works the land. We have for five hundred years.” My voice cracks as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
For letting that bird go. For thinking my birthright was pointless. For all the harsh things I said to Broderic tonight and over the years to Isidore and Andry.
But no matter how hard I try to wipe it away or how many tears fall or how many apologies I make, the guilt doesn’t fade.
A soft knock interrupts my prayers.
“Enter,” I call as measuredly as possible.
The female knight from earlier, rows of dark braids pulled back now with a band, steps inside, gaze moving quickly over me. An assessment of her charge. Her attention lingers for a moment on my red-rimmed eyes, but she doesn’t comment.
“I thought you might need something to eat.” There’s no friendliness in her tone. Each word is clipped and purposeful. As though everything about her adheres to the strict order of the military. She crosses to the desk and places a plate of food and a folded dress on it. “And something to wear.”
“Thank you,” I manage despite the lingering rawness in my throat.
She doesn’t seem particularly moved by my gratitude.
“What’s going on out there?” I hitch my thumb toward the window.
“The sentries Bishop ordered to stand guard?” She crosses her arms. “I would think that’s obvious. No one wants you to escape.”