Chapter Thirty-Three
We make quick work of the fruit and cheese. The flagon is filled with orange juice blended with honey and spices, and it’s
the most delicious and decadent thing I’ve experienced in my life. Not even the gods themselves could sip something more magnificent.
Eventually we find ourselves sitting side by side on the foot of the high bed, satiated and sleepy, but too keyed up to sleep.
Titus curls his toes into the rug. My feet don’t reach the floor.
“We should sleep,” he says gruffly.
“We should,” I agree. I’m staring at the bath screen, the painted waves beneath stormy skies, the bare-chested god striking
a massive sea creature with razor teeth and writhing tentacles. What would it take to get that bath barrel emptied and refilled?
I’d enjoy another hot bath. Or maybe a hundred.
“You know, you don’t have to sleep on the floor,” Titus says. He pats the quilt. “There’s plenty of room for both of us on
this monstrosity.”
“There really isn’t, trust me.”
“I’m not that big.”
“Have you ever seen a flying squirrel leaping between trees?”
“Um . . . yes? There were lots in the Grimsvolder Mountains.”
“That’s what you looked like on this bed, spread out in that robe. Trust me, there was no room.”
He laughs, and my insides go soft and warm.
Titus says, “I promise to be less squirrel-like. I’ll make myself thin and long instead, like a . . . uh, like . . . a newly
spawned grootslang?”
“Ew.” But a thought is tickling my awareness. The god of water. The grootslang.
And I’ve finally snagged it, the elusive thing that made me so uncomfortable when I walked in and saw the shrine to Sathrynos.
“Titus. Could the god of seas, lakes, and rivers send a grootslang up the Iolandria to hurt us?”
His hands go to his knees and he rocks a little on the edge of the bed, staring off at nothing. Suddenly he’s up on his feet,
pacing.
“The gods aren’t supposed to interfere,” he says in a voice so low it’s almost a growl. “Cerastes made it very clear to me that she could choose me, but aside from giving me this small token”—he grasps the goddess’s amulet at his chest—“she
could not help me.”
“That makes sense,” I say, nodding. “But what’s stopping the gods from breaking the rules?”
Titus’s hand rubs at his jawline, but he says nothing.
“I mean, life at sea must be so dull. All that space to swim freely. Why would a massive monster eat delicious, filling tuna
when it could swim up an entire freshwater river and have a tiny trout instead?”
“Maybe he swam upriver during the last spawning season and got stuck?” At the look on my face he adds, “You’re right, it’s all highly improbable.”
“But is there any way to prove that Sathrynos interfered?”
“And if we could prove it,” he says, “who would we tell? Cerastes visits us at her pleasure, not the other way around.”
Now I’m wishing I hadn’t gorged on spiced orange juice. “Assassins have tried to kill us twice,” I say. “And a giant sea monster
once.”
“The Deathsworn were sent by my father, but the others . . .”
“Another candidate. We have multiple enemies.”
He’s still pacing. His steps are long, and he must turn frequently. It’s making me dizzy. It’s a relief when he stops in his
tracks to face me and says, “We’re in unspeakable danger.”
“Yes.”
“That may be why the legatat sent us here. The Thieves’ Guild has an extensive spy network. If anything comes for us, we might
get a warning.”
“The legatat sent us here to protect you from Sathrynos?”
“Maybe not him specifically, but she knows of my quest and its inherent, earthly dangers. Everything the potentat knows, the
legatat knows too.”
So many people died on that river. So many more lost everything. Suddenly, my nose is filled with the stench of the refugee
camp, as though we never left.
Titus plunks down on the bed beside me and says, “I shouldn’t keep risking your life.”
I feel his gaze on my face, so focused and intent that a shiver runs across my skin, as though he’s touching me.
Without looking at him, I say, “It was my choice to swear myself into your service. You don’t have to feel bad about it.”
Suddenly he really is touching my face. His fingertips whisper up my cheekbone, to my hair. He pushes a lock back, tucks it
gently behind my ear.
“That’s the thing,” he says in low, gruff voice. “I should feel bad. But I don’t. Making you my companion was the best thing
I’ve ever done.”
I stare straight ahead. If I dare to look at him, I’ll be lost.
“I don’t have any regrets either,” I manage to say.
And as though to heap fire on already burning embers, he adds, “I wish we . . . I wish things . . . were different.”
“Me too.”
I can’t stand it anymore, sitting so close beside him, the unspoken things between us like a bubble about to burst. I launch
to my feet and sigh, too loudly. “I guess we’re not getting any sleep tonight.”
“We must sleep. We need to be ready to flee, fight, or do magic. I’ll sleep as the cat again. The slightest sound wakes me when I’m
in that form.”
“And then what?”
“We let the potentat’s tailor plan our wardrobe, I guess. And we stay alive long enough to get ourselves to the Sundereve
Ball.”
I fall asleep thinking of Alamandron, who ascended to godhood.
Did Alamandron become Sathrynos? And is he trying to find an ally in his quest for evil and chaos?
Maybe he thinks he can control a candidate of his choice, the way he thought he could control the blight.
Or is he trying to eliminate any candidate who might end up challenging his power?
Are we in danger of being killed in our sleep? Am I being fanciful and ridiculous?
I’m pleasantly surprised to find myself rested and very much alive when Dahlia knocks and enters with a breakfast tray. We
are near enough to winter that the sun’s daily path never quite leaves the northern sky, and light pours through our north-facing
balcony doors. We have slept late.
True to his word, Titus the cat has wakened in a flash and transformed into his human self by the time the spark maiden’s
gaze roves the room.
“The innkeep has granted your request,” Dahlia says, her amber eyes wary. “I’m yours for the remainder of your stay.” She
sets down the tray and turns to the fireplace.
It takes her several attempts to get the fire going, because her black fingertips are shaking so badly.
When she has finally finished, she takes up a stance beside the door, hands clasped before her. She wears a gray shift of
natty linen and scuffed leather shoes. Her chipped fingernails are as black and shiny as obsidian.
Gently Titus says, “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“You may do with me as you will,” she says, not meeting his gaze.
I’m not sure what to say or do to assure her. I’m not sure what to do with the girl at all. But the yeasty scent of freshly
baked bread makes my stomach growl, so I put off any decisions until after breakfast.
The innkeep has sent bread with butter and spiced bean paste, along with a bowl of pomegranate arils soaked in honey and a large bunch of purple grapes. No orange nectar this time, but a jug of fresh water is exactly what I need, especially after I dip a finger in and make it cold.
I feel Dahlia’s eyes on us as Titus and I eat in silence. It’s so strange having her here. It’s been just Titus and me for
so long now, and even though the servant girl takes up a tiny space by the door and is quieter than a mouse, it feels as though
she inhabits the whole room, stilling my tongue and making my skin prickle with the sure knowledge that she is observing us.
When we’ve eaten our fill, there’s so much food left over—half a bread loaf, all the grapes—so I lift the food tray and hand
it to Dahlia. “The rest is yours,” I say. “Have a seat out on the balcony and eat as much as you want.”
She stares at the tray in her hands, swallowing hard. “I’m not sure Innkeep Barwat would want . . .”
“I insist,” I say. “Well, that’s not very nice of me, actually. You can eat as much or as little as you want. It’s entirely
up to you.”
Dahlia looks at the tray, at my face, back at the tray, then grabs it and scurries out the balcony doors.
Once she’s outside, Titus says in a low voice, “You think the innkeeper is having her spy on us?”
“Probably. You said this place is owned by the Thieves’ Guild. She might be tasked with discovering if we have any valuables.”
Titus snorts.
“What’s so funny?”
“Remember when we stayed at that trading post in Grimsvold? I was the one who thought the innkeeper was up to no good. Now
you’re the suspicious one.”
I let that seep in. “I suppose everyone is most suspicious where they’re least comfortable. You think I’m being overly cautious?”
His expression sobers. “No, you’re right. We can’t afford the luxury of trust right now.”
Another knock sounds at the door. Titus rushes to retrieve his daggers. Dahlia bursts into the bedroom, brushing crumbs from
her shift.
A loud voice yells through the door, “Open for Master Mehuda!”
I’m reaching for my thread of magic, breathing the way Titus taught me, balancing on the balls of my feet, when Titus says,
“It’s the potentat’s tailor.”
I slump with relief. So does Dahlia.
Titus opens the door, and three men barrel in—two bare-chested loin-clothed men little older than Titus, and an older man
in red silk robes. He has a round belly and a generous black-and-gray beard that has been molded into three stiff, curling
points, so that he appears to have tusks growing from his chin.
“Master Mehuda is here!” the tusked man says. “And he will take your measure!”
The younger men set satchels on the foot of the bed and open them, revealing all different colors and textures of cloth samples.
“You,” the tusk-beard man says, pointing to Titus. “Stand there.” He gestures him toward the balcony doorway lit by morning
sunlight. His fingers are so laden with rings—in every style and metal and ornamentation imaginable—that I don’t know how
he is able to lift his hands.
Titus does as commanded, an amused look on his face. He doesn’t seem surprised or troubled, so I decide that neither am I.