Chapter 23 Nesrina wears her favorite dress.
twenty-three
Nesrina wears her favorite dress.
Nes stood in front of Kas and beside a large potted plant, surveying the lingering crowd.
Some people conglomerated in little groups, discussing the session, some eyed her with curiosity but didn’t approach.
She assumed their lack of interaction had something to do with the man serving as her self-appointed bodyguard, glaring at everyone over top of her head.
Trying to get her shallow breaths under control, Nes hummed a moment, then admitted, “I possibly shouldn’t have spoken up like that.”
“Nonsense,” Kas rumbled. He lowered his head so close to the top of hers that his breath ruffled her hair. “I found your comments enlightening.”
She nearly tipped her head up to look at him, wanting to know if he was teasing her. A smirk was the only sign she could recognize. But she stopped short, because he might be close enough to kiss, and that would be . . . not unpleasant, but certainly inappropriate, given the crowd.
Once her mind focused on his soft mouth, a whole new set of nerves entered her system.
She wanted him to kiss her again—and more.
It was inappropriate, whether they were at the symposium or not.
But the academic event had a way of transecting Selwas’s social norms, like it came with magic of its own.
If there was an appropriate or at least mildly acceptable place to press her lips to Lord Kahoth’s, it was there. Not right there, but in Rohilavol.
And this night was her last chance.
Through a gap in the crowd, Nes spotted the author’s spokesman approaching, and the threat of conversation yanked her from her lurid thoughts with an icy hand. Leneteki. She didn’t know much Old Tongue, but figured that phrase meant “damn it” after Kas cursed at her at the inn.
She pivoted toward him, hoping to avoid the speaker who must have been incensed by her outburst at the end of his eloquent presentation.
“Should we—” She cut herself off, realizing Kas stood much closer than she thought.
His cozy scent wrapped around her, turning her legs to jelly before she took half a step back and craned her neck.
“Should we . . .” Her sentence died on her lips, again, at the panicked look that flitted across Kas’s face.
Whatever he saw over the top of her head was not to his liking.
“Kas.” The speaker, a lord whose name she hadn’t bothered to remember, greeted the duke warmly, without any formality whatsoever.
Nesrina turned partially to join the conversation, staying tight to Kas’s side. Not touching, of course. But close, nonetheless. The new arrival’s eyes flicked to her, and she was certain she was about to be berated for critiquing the mysterious Talik Thanin’s work.
“Isahn.” Kas dipped his chin.
Nes stood there, looking between the two of them, deciding they definitely knew one another, but unsure if they were friends.
“Are you going to introduce me to your beguiling companion?” Isahn directed the question at Kas, although his eyes were on her as he spoke. He punctuated the question with a wink, and Nes relaxed.
Kas’s fingers slipped between her arm and body as he urged her hand up and into the crook of his elbow. Feeling slightly awkward, she clutched him like a tree branch. He was so bloody tall. Still, the move was . . . possessive. She didn’t hate it.
“My beguiling companion is Miss Nesrina Tarisden Kiappa,” he introduced her by her full name, emphasizing every syllable. “Nes, this is my old friend, Lord Isahn Yaranbur, Earl of Midlake.”
Nes fought her eyes from widening. This was Rihan’s cousin. She didn’t want to speak of the horrid guard though, so she said, “My mother grew up in Midlake,” at the same time Lord Yaranbur said, “Tarisden. Any relation to Hothan?”
Isahn laughed. “It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Kiappa.” Lifting her fingers to his wide mouth, he pressed a kiss on the back of her hand.
“Yours as well, my lord,” she replied, retracting her hand more quickly than she’d meant to when Kas sort of stumbled back, taking her with him. She shot him a glance, then said, “And to answer your question, Lord Yaranbur, Hothan was my father.”
“News of his passing recently reached me. I know he hadn’t published in several years, but still, he was well loved. Such a tragic loss to our community.” Isahn gestured around them at the milling attendees then looked poignantly at Nes. “I imagine an even greater loss to you and your family.”
She nodded solemnly. “Thank you. I miss him dearly.” Looking down at her feet, she lost herself in memories of her beloved papa.
To think, it had been two years since their last symposium.
He’d been beloved by so many people, aristocratic and common, so why had he developed such a distaste for Selwas’s upper crust?
Nes’s own experience with the elite, what she’d learned over the past few months, was markedly different from what Papa said about them. Perhaps . . . he’d been wrong?
Lost in reverie, considering when and why her father’s opinions took shape, she watched Kas’s feet shuffle upon the floor. Nesrina considered her youth, how highly Papa used to speak of his time in Kirce, and Kas’s arm tensed beneath her palm.
At some point, Papa’s opinion changed, and he’d taken a firm stance against nobility. But, why? Kas vibrated as if holding back immense frustration.
Perhaps the aristocrats her father knew were nothing like the ones she’d met. Shoving aside her mounting confusion as she considered Papa’s views in contrast to her own, Nes lifted her head in time to catch Isahn wink at Kas, who immediately relaxed.
Restarting the conversation, Nesrina said, “Lord Yaranbur, as his spokesperson, I take it that you know the elusive Talik Thanin?”
Kas dropped her arm and looked around the room, his elbow still brushing her shoulder.
Isahn laughed heartily, looking between the two of them. “I do. I consider him a close friend, in fact. What would you like to know?”
“Oh, everything,” she gushed, as excitement flowed in.
The author had been one of her favorites for years, and the mystery around him only made him more interesting in her eyes.
Perhaps Kas had been onto something when he’d teased her for loving the academic.
She couldn’t say she hadn’t daydreamed about who he may be, from time to time.
“Let’s see . . .” Isahn pursed his lips, his gaze drifting as if he were recalling Thanin in great detail. “He’s a bit of an esheb. Rude. Extremely particular.”
The duke cleared his throat.
“Esheb?” Nes asked, her brow pleated. “What does it mean?”
Isahn chortled. “It means”—he lifted a hand to the side of his mouth as he waggled his eyebrows—“arse.”
Nes laughed. “I thought the author was your friend? Yet you call him an esheb?”
The duke coughed again as Isahn continued, “Oh, he is. One of my oldest friends, in fact.”
She nodded, understanding dawning; they were the sort of friends who could bust each other’s ven—balls—her father taught her that one. She was no stranger to delightfully fun words from the Old Tongue and always excited to learn more.
“He’s quite ugly,” Isahn continued, “which might be why he prefers to stay out of the limelight.”
Kas made a strangled sound, drawing both Isahn’s and Nes’s attention.
“Sorry, something in my throat,” he rasped, waving at them to continue.
“Oh, my, I heard Thanin might be disfigured.” Nes sighed as her secret daydreams were crushed. “It’s so sad, heartbreaking, that a man with such a brilliant mind would have to live such a tortured existence.”
“Most tortured.” Isahn leaned in conspiratorially. “In fact, he told me once—in great confidence, so please don’t repeat it—that his disfigurement manifested such that . . .” He paused, searching for the right words. “His brilliant mind will end with him.”
Her eyes widened as Kas scoffed, cutting in, “I can assure you, Nes, my friend here is mistaken. Thanin is quite whole.”
“You know him?” She searched Kas’s face, willing him to look at her. “Why didn’t you say?”
He met her gaze for a blink, before focusing on something beyond her, acting as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.
Isahn chimed in, “Unfortunately, Talik’s disfigurement is recent. Kas here hasn’t seen him in many years and must not have known.”
The duke grunted in response.
Jovially, Isahn announced, “Well, I should be going. It was great to see you, Kas.”
Their handshake was firm and fast, veins popping from the back of Kas’s hand.
“Miss Kiappa, it was wonderful to meet you.” Isahn stepped back and gave her a jaunty bow, complete with a flourish, before he strode away to strike up conversation with another group of scholars.
Dinner before the closing gala was held in the public hall’s many side chambers and spacious foyers.
The marble floors were dotted with circular tables, enough to seat hundreds of guests.
Nesrina remained relatively quiet during the meal, relishing the sensation of being the smallest mind in the room and feeling more beautiful than ever before in her life.
Her hair had cooperated perfectly, especially after she asked Kas to dry her curls.
And this dress was her favorite: A translucent layer of spun gold encrusted with a latticework of clear gems floated over underskirts of golden silk.
She’d saved the elaborate gown for that particular night, holding out hope that she’d convince the duke to bring her along to Rohilavol.
It worked, thank the fates, and here she was wearing the dress of her dreams.
Nearby, a trio of young men enthusiastically debated a rumor they’d heard. Apparently, Domossan magic wielders could “entertain” psychically, using sensory magic.