“I go wherever beauty takes me,” I say with a grand sweep of my arm, “whether that’s to the lips of a man or woman.” I grin and jostle Japha with a leg. “Or neither.”
I try not to think about one particular man I find beautiful. A dead man. The beautiful woman running her fingers through my hair is once again enough to distract me.
“At least you’re not entirely hopeless. Ugh, men.” Lydea shudders underneath me. “Most of them are too hairy and not nearly pretty enough to even tolerate kissing, let alone … ugh,” she repeats. “Alldan is a green-haired … man.”
“He looked quite handsome,” I admit. “If a bit unusual.” My father looked “unusual,” too, so I don’t actually find Alldan’s appearance all that strange. But I don’t want to talk about my father.
“That’s not the problem, I suppose. My mother had white hair as iridescent as an opal and silver eyes, as does Delphia…” Lydea trails off, no doubt trying not to think of her mother or her sister.
“Did you know, those features originally came from magic?” Japha asks in a light tone. “Rumor has it, Skylleans began altering themselves centuries ago, just for fun. The colors come naturally now.” They gesture at my hair. “I guess they just stuck, over the generations. It makes sense. They’ve wielded blood magic and bloodlines longer than anyone.”
At my surprised expression, they say, “Yes, I know that bloodlines weren’t the first king Athanatos’s grand innovation. My father’s people kept their own histories.” Japha’s look grows distant as they stare up at the black ceiling. “This city was once a glorified cult of death worshippers. Here, they all say the first king—the first to conquer nigh everyone in the region and bring them all under the rule of Thanopolis—was the first to introduce blood magic into the fabric of his society. But really, it was his wife, a Skyllean. She brought with her knowledge of bloodlines and sigils, things that had once been seen as heretical witchcraft in the polis. Suspicious, is it not, that no one celebrates her as the ‘first queen’? There are historical sources, now lost along with the once-great libraries of my father’s once-great kingdom, that say the reason isn’t just because no one trusted her. It’s because she didn’t share her knowledge willingly.”
Everything that King Tyros did to Cylla, then, is an echo of what the first king did to his wife. I don’t want to mention that in case the topic is too painful for Lydea … or if she doesn’t know the full truth of her mother’s past. Still, this all begs the question: Why has Skyllea come to make peace through Alldan and Lydea’s betrothal? One would think they could never trust Athanatos’s royal line after being twice betrayed.
Japha carries on in a casual tone, as if this isn’t a risky topic all around. “The first king, like his people, despised blood magic, despised Skyllea, but not from fear. It was jealousy of their power. And you know what they say about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer…”
Something itches in my mind. Maybe Skyllea has the same idea now. I almost don’t dare hope that they can still shelter me, maybe even help me. And I certainly can’t share the thought out loud, even if my friends wouldn’t blame me for it.
Besides, the Skyllean delegation didn’t help my father at the ball. They disavowed him. Left him to Thanopolis’s vultures.
“We’re still doing that to this day”—Lydea sighs as if this is a dull and dreary conversation—“bringing the most powerful bloodlines into the family like priceless works of art to add to the royal collection. My mother. Rovan’s father.” She says it quietly, but she doesn’t shy away from it. For some reason, I appreciate that—the acknowledgment without dwelling. She taps me on the nose. “The lucky commoner here and there.”
“Some of us royals aren’t thrilled, either,” Japha grumbles. “We get the long bloodlines, but the short end of the stick. The short life.”
“And it’s a burden usually borne by royal women,” Lydea adds. “Fancy that.”
“But that’s because the women of Athanatos’s line have the greater aptitude for blood magic, didn’t you know?”
I don’t need Japha’s sardonic tone—or the evidence presented by Japha themself—to doubt this. It seems that royal women have been intentionally saddled with their bloodlines like horses and made to bear guardians.
As if reading my mind, Lydea laughs humorlessly, gently jostling my head. “Women get all the short sticks, so why not?”
I want to ask more, but our little trio has doubtlessly reached the limits of what’s safe to discuss. After all, it isn’t just the three of us in the room. Graecus and Damios might be listening in, not just Ivrilos. I don’t want their dead ears perking up any more than they already might be.
Japha seems to sense my nervousness. “Now, are you sure Alldan’s stick is short?”
Lydea hurls a pillow at them. “You’re welcome to find out, if you want.” She pauses, blinking. “Would you want? I mean hypothetically. I haven’t ever asked your preferences, dear cousin.”
Japha spreads their arms wide. “I’m with Rovan. Select the prettiest to kiss, whatever is between their legs, but also be the prettiest. I’m the best of both worlds … nay, my own world … something in between and also nowhere else. Perfectly unique.” They frame their face with waggling, bejeweled fingers.
I laugh. “It’s difficult to argue with that logic. Unfortunately, while we’re together on our preferences in others, I’m with Lydea when it comes to herself. I feel pretty thoroughly a woman.”
Japha shrugs. “Not everyone can be as perfect as I.” They glance coyly at me through dark lashes. “You are gorgeous, though, so anytime you get sick of my sweet cousin Lydea…”
The princess nudges me with a thrust of her hip, giving me that wicked grin that I’m beginning to love. “You’re not beholden to me, dear. I would neither expect it nor desire it, not with how many rules we already must follow. I would only appreciate it if you considered sharing your affections.”
Something about that sounds almost exactly right to me, but then I squint at Japha, whose finer details may be a little blurred by the wine. “You’re not serious.”
Japha raises an eyebrow. “And cross Cousin Kineas?” They purse their lips, staring back up at the ceiling. “It would almost be worth it just for that, but no. In all honesty, I … I’ve never been inspired to do much more than kiss anyone, perhaps leg wrestle at the most. No matter how beautiful they are. I’ve never sought it out. Ever. I can, I just don’t care to.” Despite their initial hesitation, they sound matter-of-fact, not embarrassed. Japha is never embarrassed, and I admire that about them. “All the more reason I wasn’t looking forward to this betrothal, even with someone as lovely as Helena. I know I should count myself lucky to have her, considering my options. She’s kind, someone I could care for, and I don’t want to hurt her. Some hurts can’t be avoided, for either of us, but I can try my best … which probably means not kissing you, my lovely,” Japha adds with a wink for me.
“Wish I could say my betrothed was someone I could care for,” Lydea mutters—accepting Japha, just like that. I admire that about her, also: her ability to take people like me and Japha exactly as we are. “I think Alldan dislikes me more than I him,” she muses, “even if he does a better job at hiding it.”
Here is where I’m supposed to complain about Kineas, but I don’t want to. Not that I don’t trust Lydea and Japha to commiserate. Kineas simply makes me sick to think about.
“What Alldan doesn’t hide,” Lydea continues, “is his abject horror at the thought of my sister in the necropolis. I can relate. But the two of them spent some time together before she was banished there, since I wouldn’t socialize with him. I think he’s infatuated. Under normal circumstances, I would encourage him. Poor fool. Now there’s only me.”
She doesn’t sound very sympathetic.
“If Helena ever takes another lover because I can’t offer her what she needs,” Japha says suddenly, “I would welcome it. I don’t blame my aunt Penelope, you know,” the
y add, glancing at us sideways, “for charming my father in my mother’s stead. They were all forced into roles they didn’t want, and they were rebelling—something I can definitely get behind. But even if they hadn’t been forced to be with anyone, and they wanted to be with more than one person … I wouldn’t blame them, either. We each have different gifts to offer, so why not share? Be a little beholden, but to more than one?”
“Now, Japha!” Lydea says, sounding both delighted and calculating. “Indeed, why should I treat my dalliances as lesser than my betrothal when they matter to me more?”
I surprise myself by speaking. “I think I’ve always wondered something similar, but I couldn’t find the words or imagine anyone understanding. So I kept everything … light … with everyone. Temporary. Well, also because I was planning on leaving the city. But now I’m stuck.” For now, I think, and then I smile at Japha. “Just so we’re clear, I can still share with you, too, only without the kissing and bed play. Those things don’t make a friendship more important.”
Japha smiles back at me. “I know. But I’m happy to hear you say it.”
I want to savor this sudden feeling. Somehow I feel rich—truly rich despite the wealth that has already been showered upon me. An inner wealth. An inner warmth, like molten gold in my chest.
I hold Japha’s eyes, trying to stay in this moment with my new friends, to let myself feel and to not brush everything aside with a joke … but I can hold out only for so long. “Frankly, I’m relieved you’re not interested in me like that. It’s better for me, too.” I stretch like a cat, untangling my legs from theirs and draping my arms over Lydea, arching my back and yawning. “Having the both of you that way would simply be exhausting.”
My yawn turns to a yelp when Lydea gooses my breast. When I roll to look at her in shock, she gives me another evil grin.
“I should already be enough to exhaust you,” she says.
Japha sighs, sitting up and dusting off their shoulder in mock disgust. “Should I leave you two alone?”
I can’t take my eyes off Lydea, who’s staring at me with a heavy, liquid gaze I want so desperately to sink into.
Let yourself, I think. Be here. Feel this. This might be all you get of happiness.
So I dive in. I reach for Lydea without another thought, and soon my lips and tongue are too occupied to answer Japha. I’m lost in the silky softness of the princess, my hands tangled in her hair. Her own fingers scrabble to unwind my strophion, while she kisses me back with a ferocity that steals my breath.
Luckily, Japha has answered their own question and left the room by the time my shoulder clasps come undone and my breasts spill out of my peplos into Lydea’s waiting palms. I sink down onto her, her hands digging into me. I put my own hands to much better use, unraveling her strophion.
I hated the sight of my own breasts covered in sigils, but Lydea’s are beautiful. Perfect, not marred. I can’t help kissing them, and she groans.
I should be nervous. I am, a little. I’ve done this a few times, but never with a princess. But it’s her gasp that lets me know: She doesn’t care that she’s a princess and I’m not. She only cares that the two of us are here, right now. And we want each other.
We do trust each other, despite all odds. At least enough for whispered secrets, clandestine kisses … and the freedom to share such things with other people.
“Rovan,” she murmurs, an ache in her voice that undoes me. Her armor hasn’t cracked, but she’s peeling some of it away voluntarily. I want to melt into those gaps. Soon, I’m clawing her peplos higher up her thighs. Finding the waiting, wonderful warmth between them. She gasps.
I lose myself in the moment for a long time.
* * *
It’s sometime later, in the middle of blissful oblivion, that Lydea surfaces to whisper in my ear in the lowest possible voice: “Both Japha and I are in. Don’t worry about cost. We can get a ship, or find some other way, but you have to take us with you. And first we have to get free of them. We hoped you might have some ideas.”
I have no doubt whom she means—and I dearly hope my guardian isn’t paying attention.
17
After leaving Lydea’s quarters later that night—much later, the palace long asleep—I take a different path than usual back to my rooms, weaving drunkenly down torch-lit, empty marble corridors. At least, I want my guardian to think I’m drunk. I quietly sing a bawdy ditty to help with that, and perhaps to scare him away. Two birds with one off-key stone.
And then I slip into seemingly contented silence and find what I’m looking for: halfway down a long hallway of swirling blue and purple mosaics of grapes, illuminated only with scattered pools of flickering light, a pair of bleary-looking guards stand before an impressive, heavy set of double doors—exactly where Japha said they’d be during our conversation on Lydea’s couch. Beyond the guarded doorway, the hallway turns a corner that’s covered in enough vines and flowers to be the entrance to a forest glen. Wherever it goes, maybe to some private garden reserved only for the king, I don’t need to know.
I duck out of sight behind a column, pretending to stifle giggles. “They can’t see me,” I whisper, seemingly to the air around me. “They’ll know I’m drunk!”
“I think that’s already obvious,” my guardian says, appearing next to me, having finally lost patience with whatever silliness he imagines I’m up to. “Your rooms are this way.” He points in the opposite direction.
“Ivrilos.” His name is like magic—saying it gets his full attention. I keep a grin on my face, and he looks charmed in return. I hope it’ll last. “I’m going to have a little fun, and nobody is going to get hurt. Trust me. Please.”
His marble-smooth forehead immediately creases. “What—?”
I follow the path of sigils in my mind, my fingers moving, and the vines at the end of the hall come alive like writhing tentacles. The guards at the double doors exclaim in surprise, but their cries are quickly gagged. I can’t see them, but I don’t need to. Armor and swords barely clatter, muffled, as both guards are yanked off their feet and dragged as quietly as possible down the hallway, out of sight around the corner, by suddenly monstrous plant life.
I probably could have knocked them out by restricting the blood to their brain or something, but I don’t trust myself enough to not accidentally kill them. They just need to be occupied.
“Rovan,” Ivrilos says, alarmed. “What are you doing? Stop this, now!”
He’s clearly not going to trust me long enough for me to get where I need to go. I’m amazed he’s let me make it this far, frankly. I grope frantically for something to use against him. It’s still too early to try the special set of sigils my father left me in his office.
But then I have it—Ivrilos’s awkwardness, his prudish sense of propriety.
I let my eyes grow heavy lidded, my lips parting, and I make my voice as sultry as possible. “This … feeling … was too powerful to resist. I just had to be alone with you.”
The words come up like cheap, too-sweet wine, but they seem to have the desired effect. Ivrilos’s eyes widen in alarm.
“Why would you need to be…?”
He trails off as my hands drift up past my collarbones. My strophion is already loose around my waist from when Lydea unwound it, so all I have to do is unfasten the gold pins at my shoulders and the whole top of my gown will fall away, just as it did for the princess. My fingers brush the clasps.
Ivrilos not only averts his eyes; he spins violently away as if the sight of me might catch him on fire.
Before he has any clue what I’m doing, I’m off, sprinting down the hall toward the double doors. I keep expecting to feel the cool touch of his hand, to grow dizzy, to fall before I make it. But I only hear Ivrilos’s breathless and rather foul curse behind me, followed by his frantic muttering, and then my feet reach the low marble steps in front of the now-unguarded doors. I throw every sigil for opening at them that I know, and they fly open.
In se
conds, I’m inside and the doors are closed behind me, seemingly undisturbed. I release the vines down the hall, and with them, the guards. With any luck, they’ll have no idea I’ve dashed in here and will spend their time trying to find their trickster outside. Everything is suddenly quiet, aside from my rapid breathing.
I’ve done it. I’m in the royal gallery.
Which is almost pitch black. I lift my hand, and a small flame appears above my open palm—plenty of light to illuminate Ivrilos’s absolutely livid face, looming right in front of me.
I nearly jump out of my skin. At least I manage to swallow a shriek.
“You insufferable, foolish creature,” he hisses, leaning closer with every word.
I make my tone light. “First you curse, and now you’re name-calling? I thought you were too high and mighty for that.”
“This isn’t a game!” he spits, his voice low but ferocious. “This place is completely forbidden, trespassing is punishable by death, and the entry wasn’t guarded only by two mortals!” He tosses a hand at the doors. “Do you know how many invisible wards I had to dismantle before you stumbled into them like trip wires? I’m talking about death magic, put in place by shadow priests and other shades.” He takes a deep breath, even though he doesn’t really breathe, as far as I know. “But none so powerful as me, thank the goddess. And now I have to put their protections back into place, exactly as they were, before anyone notices they’re gone.”
Already turning to the doors, he begins muttering again. I don’t recognize any of the words; they sound old. I remember that while the written sigils for blood magic came from Skyllea, the spoken words of death magic originated here. Perhaps this is the parent language of the one we speak.
My voice comes out a little choked, and not only because I’m whispering—Ivrilos is scary when he’s angry. “Why did you take the barriers down, instead of just tripping me before I reached them?”
In the Ravenous Dark Page 16