Chapter 20 #2
Maybe someone else lied to him. The Empire’s teachings can't be wrong. The deeper you travel into the Empire, the more things grow and the more food comes from soil instead of ocean. That seems like incontrovertible proof.
And how can he say witchcraft comes from willing, living things, with how bloody the War-Father says their bonding rituals are?
“What about the children you sacrifice to get the dragons to bond with you? They aren’t willing.”
Roiven’s lips are pale in anger. He sits abruptly upright, planting both feet on the ground and leaning forward across the small table to glare at me.
“Have you ever had an original thought, or do you just spit up everything they’ve taught you?”
Oh, this foul man. My body tenses, like I’m preparing for an attack.
“The War-Father says—”
“Savasaeirn chose me. Whatever heinous stories they fed you are lies. ”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then open your eyes for once and see for yourself,” Roiven says.
I need to get away from him if I'm going to clear my head. I can't think straight when he's looking at me.
“I want to look around.”
“I already said no.”
“Open your eyes, but don’t move, and stay in this carefully curated cage?” I growl. “How convenient. It’ll be easy to make up my own mind about your people.”
Roiven shakes his head.
“You’re right. But still no,” the witch says. “I can’t risk letting you loose here while you remain loyal to the Empire.”
“What, are you scared I’ll tell them you have flowers?”
“No,” Roiven growls. “I'm scared that by letting you live, I will become the reason my people are finally extinguished from this earth.”
Something about the way he says it makes every muscle in my body tense up again. Ready to fight.
Because he is scared. That I, somehow, will be his downfall. As if I still have any power left at all.
It's true I still want to make Roiven pay. But what I really want is an end to the fighting that keeps killing the Enchanted and drafting more sailors for the Hellions.
“I need to get back inside the Empire. To Barivum. And I need you to take me.”
Roiven snorts and shakes his head.
“You’re the one who wanted to come here. Who offered to remove the enchantment.”
“I know. But…”
“Disapointed by the lack of sacrifices?” he drawls. “Or do knights just change their mind as often as the wind blows?”
I refuse to let him get to me. This is more important, and he has to see it will benefit him, too. Not that I want to help the witches survive.
“Somebody has to tell the council the truth about what happened on the Bluff. Otherwise Harfor is going to get all the funding she needs. I can nearly guarantee it.”
His face is still as he stares at me, anger still etched into his expression. Slowly, his eyebrows raise.
“And why would you want to stop that, knight?” His voice is dangerously low.
“Does it matter?” I say. He keeps staring. He isn’t going to give in if I don’t tell him something. “I don’t want them to kill any more of the Enchanted than they need to. But they will.”
That seems to satisfy him. The Witch King sits back and runs a hand through his hair.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Once they consecrate the Enchanted, it will be too late. And Barivum isn’t close. It’s…”
“I said I would think about it,” Roiven says sharply.
Another person, tall and narrow-faced, finally walks through the archway carrying a platter of food.
They freeze when they see me, a wide-eyed expression on their face.
I stare back and have the oddest feeling that they can see right through me.
It takes effort to break my gaze away. Once I do, they approach the table.
Their blonde hair hangs in braids down their back.
There are marks on their right hand, crawling up their arm like vines. It looks almost like enchantment, but wrong. The lines are more organic, green-black instead of the blue-black of ink and crystal. I’ve seen it on witches before, in combat and on bodies.
“Thank you, Nor,” Roiven says through gritted teeth.
Nor sets the tray down between us. For a moment I’m distracted from the marks on Nor’s arm, as my eyes widen at the array of food.
There’s a platter of green shoots in an oily sauce.
Some charred, red substance that looks like a plant, not meat.
Little white flakes in a large bowl, studded with green herbs and bits of red seeds.
Is the white stuff some kind of mealed fish?
No: I think I’ve had it before, years ago, at a feast on Amkreig.
Grain. Rice? The food must be playing a trick on my eyes.
For a long moment Roiven and Nor lock eyes. Then Nor nods and practically runs away. Roiven pours himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the tray. I gulp, salivating as the rich, unfamiliar smell of the food wafts into my nose.
“Go ahead,” Roiven says.
“Is the food poisoned?”
“No.”
“Is there a chance it could be poisoned?”
Roiven snorts.
“Considering they’d be killing me, too? Extremely unlikely.”
That’s good enough for me. He watches me sharply as I take one of the empty bowls and spoons off the tray and scoop food into it.
“What was that? Those marks on the witch's arm?”
“A bond.”
“Who did they sacrifice?”
“It’s nothing like enchantment,” Roiven says. “It’s connection. Not a way to control people.”
He didn’t say nobody’s sacrificed.
“If you say so.”
“Bond with me,” Roiven says. I stare at him in horror until I realize he must be joking. Because there is no reality in which I’d agree to something like that.