Two
Nieve
Nieve grinned in delight as she followed Sol into Lord D’avant’s rather extravagant drawing room.
‘Put your eyes back in your head.’ Sol hissed out of the corner of his mouth and Nieve stifled a laugh.
‘You’ve got to admit it’s a bit much.’ She nodded to the statue of a penitent D’avant, artfully arranged amongst the plush velvet sofas.
Behind this tableau, a marble hearth roared and filled the room with a warm orange glow.
Lucius and Regulus, the swines, had already sprawled in the nearest armchairs to bask in the heat, attracting a curious crowd.
‘I’m not going to comment.’ Sol’s lips twitched.
‘You find all this pompous shit as entertaining as I do. Admit it.’ Nieve nudged his shoulder.
He’d come from simpler roots, as had she, of a sort.
Simpler than this, anyway. It was something they’d bonded over in the few years since he’d invited her—a foot soldier making a name for herself—to join the Guild, promising purpose and glory.
Her father’s longhouse might have loomed over her village, but it had been humbler than this; carved oak lined with furs and roaring hearths.
The memory still stung.
Sol muttered something unintelligible, and Nieve cleared her thoughts to scan the room. Her curiosity had been piqued earlier… and there, in the corner: The varanya. Her violet eyes sparkled in the firelight, fixed on the bookcase beside her.
From her position by the fire, Melixanthe repeatedly glanced at her ward as she made small talk, but Ariadnne shook her head, choosing to keep her distance—which was curious in itself.
Tall, tanned and graceful, Ariadnne’s fingers tapped her thigh in an agitated rhythm, and Nieve wanted to know what the most powerful being in the Guild could possibly be agitated about.
In fact, Nieve got the distinct impression Ariadnne was hiding. Perhaps from a certain High Lord.
Nieve absolutely shouldn’t go and speak to her. She wasn’t here to socialise, especially not with those more important than her, but… something tugged at her chest.
She’d heard the stories: the varanya’s temper, her spoiled life in her private wing, but Nieve thought that tonight, if anything, the Guild’s prize weapon looked a little lost.
‘Who are you staring at?’
Sol stiffened as he noticed Ariadnne. Nieve ignored him.
The captain avoided talking about the varanya the same way he avoided questions about the General.
Not surprising when they’d both been in the running for that position and Melixanthe had been promoted over him.
Ariadnne should have been Sol’s ward, but in truth Nieve didn’t think he’d have ever left Lucius, so the grudge held no purpose.
Plus, Nieve had chosen him over Melixanthe. He had nothing to worry about, even if she was curious…
A sharp breath left her lips, and ‘I think she looks lonely’ slipped out before she could stop it.
‘No.’ Sol gripped her arm. ‘Nieve, don’t. You've got that faraway look you get when you have a bad idea.’
Nieve flicked a spark of ice at his boots. ‘My ideas are never bad.’
‘The moors of Harthage?’
‘I saved your ass.’
‘The Redalian Coast?’
‘Worked out fine.’
‘Hmph.’ Sol raised a dark brow and Nieve suppressed a smile.
‘Fine. I just want to have a look at that display over there—' She pointed at a glass case set against the wall and Sol glowered. She didn’t have a plan.
She rarely did. Instead, she drifted toward the case to admire the priceless artifacts and watched out of the corner of her eye as Ariadnne tilted her head to examine a book.
Her braided hair fell from her neck, revealing a faded scar that encircled her throat.
Nieve was taken aback by the urge to seek out and hurt whoever had given her that scar. She was about to step closer when—
‘I see you’ve found my collection of Karganese arrowheads.’ Lord D’avant’s voice startled her. She spun, and came face to chest with his doublet. She looked up, and the High Lord’s lip curled in a wolverine smile. ‘All made entirely of emerald,’ he purred. ‘As per their custom.’
Nieve glanced at the display of coarsely cut gemstones, mind scrambling for an appropriate response to what felt like a rude interruption.
‘Emerald hardly seems a practical choice.’
‘A stone abundant in their jungles.’ Lord D’avant took on a benevolent tone.
‘The Kargans believe they can absorb the life force of anything shot with one of these, providing it’s a clean kill.
’ He drew her attention to a particular row.
‘Before battle, they hunt with these kargishna. The larger the kill, the more strength they believe they will gain.’ The High Lord glanced across at Ariadnne, tongue slipping out to moisten his lips.
Nieve disliked the hungry look in his eye and shifted to place herself between them as he continued, ‘I’d suggest a hunt, though from what I’ve heard your knights have no need of any extra prowess.
Neither does she.’ He nodded at Ariadnne.
‘No, I suspect not,’ Nieve said more curtly than she intended and Lord D’avant’s beady eyes glanced down at her.
She shifted under his gaze. Awkward. Until she was saved by a bespectacled courtier who approached to ask the High Lord’s opinion on a handwritten account of Braemish Lore.
Lord D’avant’s face brightened. ‘Ah. I think you’ll find there are multiple accounts that all speak of that era, and no two are the same.’ He brushed Nieve’s existence under the rug as he followed the courtier over to the fire.
Thank the gods. Nieve didn’t know how Ariadnne put up with the ego-inflated prick over dinner.
She turned back and saw that the varanya in question had taken a seat with a book in the corner, her long legs curled under her in a way that suggested she felt quite at home with a book in her hand.
Nieve pulled at the collar of her armour, too warm, and considered her options.
There was only one she liked.
Ariadnne looked in surprise as Nieve dragged a chair over and dropped into it with a clatter.
‘This is a nice spot,’ she said, a smile pulling at her lips as Ariadnne’s mouth opened and shut. Nieve’s nose tingled; Ariadnne smelled…good, like ice laced with brimstone, mixed with cardamon and bright winter’s sun. She smelled like something worth tasting.
A servant appeared, bearing a tray of rich-coloured wine. Nieve took the proffered glass and swirled it, banishing her wildly inappropriate thoughts.
‘Milady?’ He offered the same to Ariadnne and she took one, before setting it untouched on the small side-table and placing her book alongside it.
‘What are you reading?’ Nieve asked.
‘Oh.’ Ariadnne shifted in her seat. ‘… Just something I plucked off the shelf. A history. I think.’ She glanced away, tugging at her sleeve, and Nieve was struck with the realisation that Ariadnne was shy.
The mighty, war-ending creature of this age was shy. Of all the scenarios Nieve could concoct revolving around the supposedly spoiled Guild pet, that wasn’t one of them.
‘Umm—’ Ariadnne’s eyes flicked back, dark pupils rimmed by midnight amethyst. Nieve could have sworn they were lighter earlier. She stuck out her hand, body moving before brain, as usual.
‘I’m Nieve, by the way.’
Confusion crinkled Ariadnne’s brow, as though no one in their right mind would offer her their hand. Hesitantly, Ariadnne took it, her warm fingers both calloused and soft.
‘I’m Ariadnne.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘Though I suspect you knew that.’
Her voice slid over Nieve’s skin like molten silk; rich, soft and measured. Captivating. The spark in her belly that flickered when she’d caught Ariadnne watching her at dinner flared, and Nieve knew she was playing with fire.
She cleared her throat. ‘I think everyone in this room knows who you are, much as they’re trying not to stare.
’ She waved at an overly curious noble, who turned beetroot-red and spun away.
Chuckling, Nieve turned back. ‘I have to admit I didn’t expect you to be so…
’ She halted as Ariadnne’s brow raised, a rogue heat spreading across her cheeks.
‘I meant… well, when I pictured the only female varanyen of our generation I imagined your… you… would be different,’ she foundered and Ariadnne huffed a laugh.
‘You thought I would be a bit more ‘animal,’ like them.’ She nodded towards Lucius and Regulus. The varanyen were sprawled out on their chairs, legs akimbo as they knocked back glasses of the sweet wine under the watchful eyes of their handlers.
‘Something like that.’ Nieve bit back a grin. ‘You’re not, though. Far from it.’
There was a flush of pink at the tips of Ariadnne’s ears, a soft rose that spread to her neck, and Nieve wondered if she’d crossed a line.
She was in uncharted territory, and the attractive shifter in front of her was making her mouth run faster than her brain.
Her pulse hammered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…
‘Be that as it may.’ The hint of a smile ghosted over Ariadnne’s lips. ‘No one else in this room is risking Melixanthe’s wrath to speak to me. Tell me. Why are you over here instead of playing court with your captain?’
‘Well.’ Nieve chuckled. ‘It turns out I’m not very good at doing things I’m told to. Sol said I should leave you alone, so here I am…’
Ariadnne’s violet eyes pierced her. ‘Funny. I’ve heard a little about you. I did think you’d be a bit taller though.’ The varanya’s lip curled.
Nieve scoffed. ‘Taller?’ She leant back. A strand of hair had fallen from behind Ariadnne’s ear and fluttered past the scarred skin of her neck. Nieve wrenched her gaze away, forcing a casual grin. ‘As long as what you’ve heard makes up for my lack of stature, then I’d say I’m off to a good start—’
Ariadnne’s eyes flicked towards the crowd by the fire, her smile dropping. Melixanthe watched the pair of them with hawk-like intensity, her face far from benevolent.
Nieve straightened her spine. ‘She always watches, I take it?’
‘Always,’ Ariadnne replied, and her smile twisted into something bitter.
‘Hmm.’ Nieve fumbled for a safe topic. Something suitable for a conversation in sight of Ariadnne’s handler, away from the dangerous brink of attraction she teetered on. She settled on:
‘Are you excited about the campaign?’
‘Excited?’ Ariadnne frowned. ‘I’m not sure excited is the right word.’ She raised a brow. ‘It’s a lot of pressure—keeping everyone alive. And…’ She paused, frowning as though considering how much to say. ‘I like to know why I’m fighting, and this time I don’t.’
‘Oh…’
Thoughts of why never really crossed Nieve’s mind. There was a threat and they were being paid to take care of it. Same as in Lord Gestalt’s army. She liked to keep her life simple.
‘Melixanthe mentioned that dark fae have been sighted in the north…’ Ariadnne continued, gazing at the wall of books beside her.
Nieve nodded. She had heard the rumours but had hoped they were just that. Rumours. Dark fae were the stuff of nightmares; twisted parodies of the fey folk. They were also supposed to be buried deep in the earth, as they had been for centuries.
‘If they were the reason, surely we’d know?’
‘Would we?’ Ariadnne shrugged, gesturing towards the fire. ‘Do any of them care about what happens beyond the wall?’
Nieve frowned. ‘So…you don’t think we should fight?’
Ariadnne sighed, as though Nieve had missed the point. ‘I just want to understand. I don’t have much choice in the matter. You do. Don’t you want to know why?’
Nieve sat back, disturbed by Ariadnne not having choice. That wasn’t what she’d been led to believe by the Guild—no, the varanyen lived for glory and battle. They followed the Guild because of some ancient accord that they didn’t talk about, but Lucius always seemed willing.
Her skin itched.
‘Why isn’t something I often ask,’ she said quietly
‘Don’t you care?’ Ariadnne questioned. ‘You’re good at what you do. I’ve heard the stories. Is your love for the fight all that matters?’ Ariadnne stared as though this was an answer she genuinely needed.
‘Having a talent for something and finding joy in it can be two separate things,’ Nieve said carefully.
Ariadnne leaned forwards, two small lines appearing between her eyebrows.
‘What brings you joy, then?’ she asked quietly, and a tingle ran across Nieve’s skin.
‘You first, Ariadnne,’ she said, leaning forwards to mirror her. ‘Tell me something about you. What brings you joy?’
Ariadnne’s mouth twisted. ‘I think I’m yet to find out.’
Their eyes met.
‘Ariadnne.’ They both jumped as Melixanthe appeared. ‘It’s time to retire.’ The general fixed Nieve with her gaze. ‘Until the morning?’
Nieve bobbed her head. ‘Until the morning, Ma’am.’
The general couldn’t have picked a finer moment to interrupt. Nieve’s eyes followed Ariadnne as she unfolded from the chair, the pressure of what she’d wanted to say leaning heavy on her tongue.
Melixanthe strode towards the doorway and summoned a servant to lead them to their quarters.
Ariadnne lingered as Nieve rose, but with a tiny shake of her head, her facade snapped back into place.
Nieve wished she could interpret that look on her face as Ariadnne turned to Melixanthe—the epitome of a good little soldier.