Chapter 15
There was nothing Quentin disliked more than being bored.
Exhaustion? That was fine; he loved to sleep. Hunger? He’d gone most of his childhood hungry; he could manage. Injuries? Healers were talented; an injury almost always came with a good story.
But boredom? Gods save him, he couldn’t stand it.
He twirled his knife on the sitting room table, sinking further into his chair with a sigh. Make no mistake, he was beyond thankful for the relative safety they’d found here in Desva. There was the drama with the Elders, but at least Mariah wasn’t under constant threat of assassination.
Not yet, anyway.
There was just nothing to do. He, Mariah, Trefor, and Matheo trained every day, then ate, then the Armature took turns on guard shift. Drystan would join occasionally, but he still spent most of his time with Feran.
Quentin had watched Mariah and Matheo slip from the house that morning while Trefor tittered about with the two housekeepers who’d arrived shortly after.
The blond-haired Armature had filled Quentin in on Mariah’s rough morning, only adding to the layer of tension that settled over the house.
With Sebastian and Ciana escorting the Onitan refugees, Feran still recovering, and Kiira and Rylla visiting their family, that left only him and Delaynie at the serekah.
Quentin tossed the knife in the air and caught it without looking.
The sharp-tongued lady had been acting a bit off since they’d arrived in Kreah.
She wasn’t normally bubbly, but she’d been more withdrawn than usual.
As much as he enjoyed antagonizing her, doing so right now, with everything going on, felt wrong.
She’d likely spend the day with her mother and the other survivors from Ryenne’s court, anyway. That’s what she tended to do when the house was quiet and empty.
He exhaled heavily, pushing an errant lock of red hair from his eyes and sheathing his dagger into the baldric across his chest. Enough of the boredom. It was about damn time he got out of this house and did something.
Mariah had left; why couldn’t he?
He stood abruptly, chair screeching across the tile floor, nearly jogging his way to the stairwell and descending a flight to the cooler lower level of the serekah.
He turned left, padding to the well-insulated room at the end of the hall.
Quentin couldn’t deny his jealousy that Drystan and Feran got to stay down here.
He’d been injured in that battle at Khento, too—not to the same extent as Feran, but enough to feel like he’d earned a day in this haven, hidden from the burning desert sun.
Maybe that was something he could ask Mariah when she returned—
“Quentin? Everything all right?” Drystan lounged in an armchair, an open book perched on his lap, golden eyes peering at Quentin with curiosity and a tinge of worry. With both Mariah and Sebastian gone, he had been left in charge.
Quentin rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I…yes, everything’s fine.”
Drystan lifted a golden brow. “Did you need something, then?”
“I was thinking about heading into the city. Just to get a feel for the surroundings. Wanted to let you know before I left; Matheo is out with Mariah and Trefor is bustling around like a mother hen over some issue with the housekeepers.”
Drystan closed his book. “And the girls? The twins and Delaynie?”
“The twins are spending time with their family.” Quentin swallowed, palms growing clammy. “I’m not sure where Delaynie is. With her mother, most likely. I haven’t seen her today.”
Why was he nervous? It was just a question. He’d answered it honestly.
Feran shifted on the cot—Quentin honestly hadn’t noticed him there and jumped a bit when the warrior let loose a low groan—and Drystan shot him a concerned glance.
A tense beat of silence followed before it became clear that sleep had found Feran once again.
Drystan raked a hand through his unbound shoulder-length hair.
“Fine,” he said. “Go do your exploring.” He pushed onto his feet. “I’ll tell Delaynie, since it seems you’re too scared to do so yourself.”
Heat flooded Quentin’s cheeks. “I’m not scared.”
Drystan chuckled. “Save your breath, brother. Whatever is going on between the two of you, it’s none of my business.”
Desva’s smooth sandstone streets gleamed in the risen sun. The sky sparkled, a stark tribute to the goddess the people of this country claimed as their own.
Quentin stalked slowly amongst the crowds, hood pulled low to hide his features, scanning the trading bazaars and vendor stalls lining the market square.
Whatever is going on between the two of you, it’s none of my business.
Quentin scoffed at Drystan’s lingering words. The golden-haired warrior was far too nosy for his own good. Besides, he had no idea what he was talking about.
There was nothing going on between Quentin and Delaynie.
He loved annoying her, that was all. Loved the way her icy eyes sparked, the way her hidden bite rose each time he called her “little wolf.” Loved the way her facade would fall and her fangs would slip free every time he pushed her just far enough.
No; there was definitely nothing going on. She was constantly irked by him. It was probably even a stretch to say they were friends.
A hard shoulder slammed into Quentin’s side. He staggered a step, wincing.
“Watch it!” a gruff voice shouted over the din of the crowd, its source already storming away, disappearing into the throng.
“Sorry,” Quentin muttered, more to himself than anything.
Fuck, he needed to focus. He wasn’t wandering around Verith, the city he knew better than the freckles smattered across his skin.
This was a foreign city, with foreign people and Elders who weren’t exactly friendly to his queen and his people.
He needed to be alert, as he’d trained to be. He hadn’t lied to Drystan; he wanted to see what was happening in the city while they had all holed up cozily in the High Counsellor’s fancy manor.
Feran may be their best tracker, but no one could spy like Quentin.
He lifted his head, just enough to see out from under the hood, and watched.
The square was actually more of a circle, fed by eight roads from all over the city and filled with rows of stalls staffed by artisans of all kinds selling their wares.
Taverns and restaurants with finely crafted facades lined the square, perfect places for shoppers to find food or a cool drink while escaping the sun’s heat.
It wasn’t that unlike the market district back home. There were no fishmongers or farmers, but the lively commotion of people haggling over prices was recognizable anywhere.
A man strode past Quentin, accompanied by a lumbering bear carrying a child astride her wide shoulders.
Well, almost like home.
The mix of animals and people was perhaps the starkest difference between Verith and Onita. Flashes of blue light flared frequently around the square, and growls or chirps or whinnies filled the air just as much as the voices did.
People were so comfortable with their magic here. It was a frequent part of daily life, something that almost all were blessed with and felt at ease using in front of others. Quentin rubbed his chest beneath his cloak, fingers twitching around his baldric.
He’d never wished for magic before. He had his own gifts and skills; he didn’t need another, especially one that many in Onita saw as antiquated and barbaric to wield.
Those who were gifted with wind could find use on a ship, helping control the sails.
But fire magic? Those bearers tended to hide their gifts.
Unless they were wealthy or elite, all it usually brought was destruction.
Quentin had been on the city walls defending Verith against the Kizar Pirates when they’d launched their assault over the winter and early spring. He’d seen the way they’d manipulated water into weapons of war. Then there were the shifters of Kreah, and, of course, Andrian’s gift of shadows.
What other magic lay in all the various corners of the world, lost to time and a millennium of closed borders?
Quentin walked a full path around the edge of the square, his pace meandering and unassuming. He wasn’t the only one who wore his hood up; it was exceptionally hot today and many hid from the sun’s strength.
Summer must nearly be here. He hadn’t bothered counting the days, but it hit him with a jolt that the Summer Solstice would be coming soon.
He wondered if Mariah knew. When was the last time she—or any of them—had looked up to the moons at night to gauge where in the cycle they found themselves?
Quentin rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. Mariah would know the Solstice was approaching. If anything had been made clear to him, it was her competence.
His job was to guard and follow. He would always do that to the best of his ability.
Quentin reached one of the streets that fed the market. It was just like the others, lined with more vendors and filled with a mix of people and animals.
But something about the air this way was darker. He couldn’t explain it, but his sharp eyes caught the flash and glint of steel strapped to thighs, shoved into the straps of sandals, nestled in thick curls of hair.
For some reason, the residents of Desva didn’t walk this street unless they were armed. Everything about the city so far seemed safe and welcoming, a bright beacon in the endless sands.
Yet even the most shining of havens had a dark underbelly.
The corner of Quentin’s lips lifted in a smirking grin as he stepped into the alley.