Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
He gives my hand a squeeze, then strides away, disappearing behind the illusory fern that hides Syla.
Even though I advocated for it, being suddenly alone makes me feel untethered. I force a deep breath and grab a tiny pastry from the table, just to have something in my hand, to feel like I have a purpose for standing here.
“Hello, mountain girl,” comes a voice at my back, and I whirl to face the shadowed man.
He’s tall, even taller than Titus, with sand-colored hair, an intense smile, and a well-fitted jacket in royal-blue velvet.
All of which surprises me. For some reason I imagined him dark haired, dark eyed, and dark clad.
At his heel is the same figure I noticed on the dais—a sturdily built man with thinning hair, an alert gaze, and the dress
uniform of a Corthan officer. His scraped knuckles are curled around the hilt of his sword.
The sway says, “You’re the most beautiful girl in the lunarium. I had to meet you.” His voice is deep and velvety, like a
caress. My skin prickles with it, or maybe with the sure knowledge that everyone is staring at us. No, they’re glaring at
me with jealous obsession for having garnered his favor.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but my pulse slows and my mind clears of nervous fog. When I smile back at him, all that’s
left is cold purpose and determination.
I say, “You flatter me, my lord,” and I execute a deep curtsy.
He steps closer, into my breathing space. Maybe I should reach up and kill him now.
A woman a little older than me inserts herself between us, shoving me off-balance and giving me a face full of heavy red brocade.
“Dance with me, my lord!” she says, her arms reaching around his shoulders. “I will die if you do not dance with me!”
Almost faster than I can blink, the woman crumples to the ground. Blood begins to creep along the grout lines of the tile floor. The sway’s lieutenant stands over her, his sword dripping. He lifts her skirt and uses it to wipe his sword.
She continues to gaze up at the sway with unbridled yearning, right until the moment the light goes out of her eyes.
“Well,” the sway says, one eyebrow lifted with amusement. “Where were we?”
His indifference is breathtaking. Rage is hot in my throat, but as he turns his entire attention to me, I feel a bit of the
tug the woman at our feet must have felt. He’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, with perfect symmetry and sultry lips, deep-set
eyes over a strong and perfect nose. He’s much older than me, closer to Da’s age, and he carries such confidence, as though
he expects the whole Sunderland and maybe the sun and moons themselves to bow to him.
I’m a child next to him. And like the assassin in Khefrita, he is a practiced predator.
Ignoring the silent scream in my mind, the bloody body at our feet, I keep my face as bland as a pail of milk and say, “I
had just accused you of flattery, my lord. How do you plead?”
He takes my hand and whispers his lips across my knuckles.
Ugh.
“Is it flattery if it’s true?” he says.
“But it’s not true, my lord. Clearly, I am the third or fourth most beautiful girl in the lunarium.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Maybe. But you are the most unexpected and exotic. In fact . . .” His astounding face moves to within inches of mine.
“I’m very curious what a mountain girl is doing here.
” His thumb softly brushes across my middle finger.
“And how she came to wear this Diamond Household ring.”
Everything in me is shrieking that I should run, keep running, never, ever look back.
I say, “It’s a long, boring story, my lord.”
His smile disappears. He reaches to the side and snaps his fingers. His lieutenant places something in his hand, which he
pops into his mouth.
His other hand grips mine. I could send my ice into his heart. But the dead woman at our feet gives me pause. We haven’t found
the dragon caller yet. And if I kill him now, I’m sure to be killed in turn, either by his lieutenant or by the mesmerized
crowd at my back. If there’s a panic, and weapons start flying . . .
I need to lure him away from this place, away from these people, lest the Sundereve Ball become a massacre.
He chews on whatever he popped into his mouth, swallows. He is refueling, filling his well of magic so he can sway me.
I turn, reach toward the refreshment table for a goblet of pomegranate wine—just to give myself some room to breathe.
He yanks me right back, and I nearly spill the wine. “That boy you were dancing with,” he says. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” The calm I found earlier has fled. Surely he can hear the pounding of my heart?
“He wouldn’t leave you. He’s besotted.”
I manage a shrug. “He probably found an assignation elsewhere. You know how boys his age are.”
“I think not.” He leans forward, examines every part of my face as though looking for the lie.
My amulet warms. Whatever happens next, I must appear to be swayed.
His mouth is right beside my ear when he says, “You must love me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where did the boy go?” His hot breath smells of honey candy.
“I don’t know.”
“What is your Gift?”
I dearly hope he does not notice the slight hitch in my breath. I say, “I can make water cold.” A partial truth, in case he
forces me to demonstrate.
He steps back and peers at me with narrowed eyes. “Just water?”
No. “Yes.”
“How many times before you Gift-starve?”
“Twice, three times if I’ve had a good night’s sleep.”
He frowns. “I was certain you’d be more useful. To have made it this far with him, you must at least be clever.” His voice
trails off, and I see the wheels of thought churning in his deep-set eyes.
I was certain you’d be more useful. The goddess Cerastes said something similar. Alarms blazon in my head.
I stare up at him, allowing myself to appear as dazed and confused as I feel. “Have I disappointed my lord?”
His thumb comes up and brushes across my bottom lip, sending an unpleasant shiver through my whole body. “I haven’t yet decided,
mountain girl.”
“Oh.” I shift my gaze as though saddened, and for the first time I notice a silk cord around his neck. Whatever amulet it holds is buried in the neckline of his blue velvet jacket.
A look at that amulet would confirm our suspicions.
I could pretend to seduce him. Coax him into removing the jacket. But the thought fills me with revulsion. I get another terrible
idea.
Taking a chance that he needs me to get to Titus, that he won’t kill me for what I’m about to do, I say, “My lord, will you
dance with me? During the next set?”
His smile is triumphant. “Yes, but you’ll have to do something for me too.”
“Anything!”
Cerastes’s coil is hot against my skin and his voice drops a register when he says, “You will give yourself to me. Utterly.
Body and soul. From this moment on, you are mine.”
I nod solemnly. “I am yours.” Then my smile turns huge, and I fling my arms wide, saying, “I am yours!”
An arc of wine from my goblet splatters his jacket, soaks his throat. My aim was perfect.
“You bitch!” His sudden transformation leaves me breathless. There is no smile, no charm, just animalistic rage. My life exists
on a knife’s edge.
Cruelty is mercurial, as unpredictable as Morvinrog, the two-faced god of storms. But unlike a storm, a man can sometimes
be mollified. “I’m sorry! I was so overcome with joy. . . .”
He wipes at his neckline, flings wine drops from his fingertips.
His henchman hands him a handkerchief, which is wonderful because it means he’s not reaching for his sword.
The sway pats himself dry, pushes aside his jacket to reach his skin.
And reveals the amulet. Pinkish coral, shaped like a trident. Sathrynos’s spear. It’s not small, like mine, but rather hefty,
like Titus’s.
We were right. He is chosen of the gods, and he’s here to kill my liege.
Time for him to learn how useful I can be.