by K. Gorman
The pause drew out between them as they both thought about it.
“We should ask the princeling tomorrow. Trade court gossip.” Doneil flashed a wicked grin. “From what I hear, he might be happy to talk.”
“Right,” she said, reflecting back to the prince’s cautious, tight-lipped silence. “So far, he’s proven such a chatterhead.”
“Get him alone. He’ll talk. Ack—” He lifted his hands in a placating manner when she skewered him with another glare. “I meant that in a completely innocent manner, this time.”
She stared at him through narrowed eyes, the firelight playing off his skin. He likely had meant it in an innocent manner. His expression lacked the teasing it had held before, and she could see what he may have been going for—separate the prince from the people he needed to be careful around and loosen the mask he wore. The same as Bellfort had done at the fête.
Fresh grief sawed through her diaphragm. Her breath caught in her throat for a few moments, and she flattened her lips into a thin, tight line, struggling with the emotion.
Eventually, she wrestled it back enough to breathe.
She lifted the neck of the wine bottle and pressed its lips to hers. The bitter undercurrent of triskan flowed over her tongue like mulberry leaves.
“We’ll ask him,” she said after a few minutes. “But not immediately. Time it right.”
“No kidding.” He sighed, and his expression took on a more somber tone as he directed it back over the ledge. “Have you given a thought to the Raidt?”
“Many.” Of course she had. Her family was there—ten hells, her parents were guarding the king and queen! No telling what disarray and alertness the castle would be in. “Why?”
“Do you want to go back? Help with the attack?”
“The Raidt is one of the most well-defended places in this green world,” she said, repeating the conclusion she’d come to some hours ago, when the Vigil had first started and she’d been left alone to her thoughts. It was part of the reason she’d chosen to sit on the rampart instead of down amid the rest of the castle. “If they can’t handle whatever demons come to them, I very much doubt my presence would make much of a difference.”
There had to be three hundred Eleventh and Twelfth Circles guarding the Raidt, most with more experience, and spells, than she.
Doneil snorted. “You sell yourself short, little blade. Word on the street has you as a prodigy of your line—a literal ball of death. Hardly a brush-off. Temdin, I wouldn’t want to fight you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she said. “I’m Twelfth Circle. I’d kick your ass so hard, you’d end up in Saras.”
“More like I’d end up sliced into exact pieces and left for the wolves in a neat package if you got serious.”
He was, actually, quite right. Like most dedicated rnari—ones who, as she had, had gone beyond the Eighth Circle—skill with a blade came as easily as breathing.
So long as that blade isn’t a sword.
She shook the thought off, clearing her throat. “I’m hardly an anomaly. We’re all literal balls of death, as you so poetically put it.”
“Yes. And you aren’t the only one with a lineage—but, in your case, your lineage actually bred true.”
She grimaced—could he not use the term ‘bred’ in reference to her parents?
“Where are you going with this?”
“I’m just saying—they won’t have forgotten about you. They’ll want you back.”
She almost laughed. “I doubt it. I broke their prince and betrayed my guardian trust. They won’t want me next to him.”
A brief image of thick trees came to mind. The scent of maple wood and cedar. Dogwood flowers. Torchlight over stone walls. Prince Tarris standing next to her, the jade-green eyes of his royal heritage bright and vibrant, lips curved in amusement.
Her jaw tensed. She clutched the neck of the wine bottle more tightly.
Doneil was shaking his head.
“No, you are the exact person they’d want next to him. And they’ll definitely want you back in the Raidt—not out and about, aiding potential enemies.” He grunted. “I doubt anyone in the Council chamber actually questions your loyalty. It’s just politics that threw you so far away.”
The muscles in her jaw only tightened. For a second, she could barely breathe as a mixture of hot shame and fear raced through her—Gods alive, she had to be the only above-Eighth Circle rnari who was on her own, not honing her skills among the Raidt. Her teeth clenched together so hard, she could feel it in her bones.
This time, it wasn’t Tarris she pictured, but the Council. Old men sitting around their stone tables, their eyes on her, picking her apart like a prized rooster amid a den of crows—and the mask of her father’s face as he stood behind the king, watching her like the rest of them.
Doneil was right. They would want her back. She was too valuable an asset to let go among the humans.
“I know this was unintentional on your part, but it’s probably a good thing that you’re escorting the prince. Ulchris is a two-day trip, one way. This’ll likely stretch into at least a week’s expedition.”
She frowned, not following. “So?”
“So that’s a week that a recall summons can’t reach you. Not unless they send a rider after us, which they won’t.”
Ten hells, she hadn’t even thought of that. Fury rose up within her like a bubbling, hot blackness. In the next instant, she was on her feet and snarling.
“Fuck.”
Doneil’s eyebrows shot into his forehead. “Whoa, Catrin. It’s a good thing. That means you won’t be receiving summons for at least a week.”
“No, that means the summons will arrive and I won’t be here to receive it,” she hissed, rounding on him. “How could you possibly think that is a good thing? In the Raidt’s eyes, it will be my fault that I didn’t receive it in time. Another mark on my record.”
“Your current master is the one sending you. They can hardly fault you for obeying.”
“You know how they think,” she snarled. “Treng is human. They won’t give two tits that Treng issued me the order. I’m just supposed to magically know things. Elrya.”
Doneil eyed the tattoos on her arm. “Last I checked, you didn’t have a communication marker. And I checked yesterday.”
“Do you think that will matter? You know what they’re like.”
Gods, and what would she be doing when not receiving the summons? Playing guard to a member of the family most-hated by the Raidt.
She’d never put this incident behind her.
She hissed again. “I’m always going to be the black sheep, aren’t I?”
Doneil was looking at her with a mix of pity and irritation. After a moment, he stood. “Well, I think it’s a good thing, and I don’t think they can fault you for not receiving a summons you didn’t know about while obeying a direct order from your superior. Just do your job. If anything, it’ll be good practice for guarding people you don’t really want to guard. At least this one isn’t an asshole.”
She stiffened.
He raised his hands before she could retort. “Ease, rnari. I’m going now. You can keep the wine. Sounds like you’ll need it.”
The last mark, with his tone, slapped her like a cutting whip. Her teeth clenched together again, and her entire body shook with rage as he turned his back, aching with the need to attack him.
She held herself back. Barely.
The door to the rooftop squeaked when he went through, then banged shut. She watched the corner where he’d disappeared for a few seconds, the sounds of his footsteps faint on the stone stairs inside the rampart’s wall. The dim brown shadows of the stone and roof tiles seemed to shiver and deepen under her gaze.
She let out a breath. Then, she turned her attention upward, toward the sky.
With the light and the smoke, only the brightest stars were visible, but their cold distance washed through the turmoil of her emotions. Ice solidified in her heart an
d spread. She forced her shoulders to relax with a sigh, the memory of her lost spells sparking fresh grief in her chest—gods, had something happened to Kodanh? Was that why she couldn’t call on him?
She closed her eyes, feeling the cold spread. Slowly, the rest of her relaxed. The world righted around her. Reconnected. The night breeze touched her lips, tinged with smoke. The spicy scent of cinnamon came to her, along with the smoothness of cedar bark. For a second, the smoke painted her face with warmth.
Slowly, she grew aware of someone watching her. She opened her eyes.
Prince Nales stood at the side of the courtyard, partway hidden by the branches of a nearby tree, his gaze as unerring as an arrow’s flight. He didn’t stop when she caught him. Instead, their eyes met and locked.
A ripple of emotion passed over his face, but he quickly shut it down.
After a moment, he placed a small bowl of berries among the offerings on the vigil table, turned his back, and strode away.
Irritation built in her shoulders like a buzzing hive. She watched him go.
Great. Neither of us wants to do this.
Doneil was right—this was going to be good practice.
She grimaced, fingering the lip of the wine bottle with her thumb.
Tomorrow would come too soon.
Chapter 8
“Two Raidt elves protecting a Cizek prince,” Doneil drawled. “No one would believe this.”
Her eyebrow twitched. This wasn’t his first attempt at small talk. So far, they’d ridden in relative silence—neither she nor the prince had spoken a word. Her flat gaze strayed to the back of Prince Nales’ head, wondering what he was thinking—though that was pretty obvious. He’d stated his opinions quite clearly in the courtyard yesterday.
He barely gave indication that he heard the comment, instead staring ahead at the road, or into the trees.
Some of last night’s irritation bubbled up through her bones.
She let out a sigh and pressed it back down. “Hell has boiled over.”
And she was uniquely qualified to guard a royal, she reminded herself. It was, after all, what she’d trained her entire life for.
Prince Nales just happened to be the wrong royal.
Bright tits. How did my life turn so upside down?
That, at least, she knew the answer to. Her hands tightened on the reins as the memory of drink-touched eyes came to her, never far from her mind. His hand grasping her elbow to bring her up short, a quick snap of bone in the dark. The Council meeting after.
Elrya.
She shook the memory off and refocused her attention on the road. It was damp, muddy in places, making the horses’ hooves suck when they lifted, but a fresh breeze tilted through the leaves and branches, and the smell of smoke, both from the castle and from the neighboring towns, lingered only faintly. Instead, the aroma of fresh grass and spring soil filled the air. Tall stands of maple mixed in with ash and poplar along the route, wetting their feet in the spring that ran close to the side of the road, their branches green-tipped with new buds. A dogwood tree stood out among the rest, its broad, blatant flowers calling to her, and an itch of magic graced her skin—along with an inward cringe.
Dogwoods were the symbol of her family’s line. And maples belonged to Raidt royalty.
She must have been staring at the dogwood too long, because Doneil noticed. And, as usual, he was far too good at drawing inference.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, switching to elven.
She let out a sigh. “That’s never a good sign.”
She turned her gaze to the dappled branches above in exasperation before settling it back on the road again, the switch to elven already giving her a clue as to what he wanted to talk about.
Ahead, the prince had stiffened—subtly, in a way a casual onlooker wouldn’t notice, but she did. Though he still stared at the road, he no longer glanced toward the trees, and she could almost feel his attention on them.
She wondered if he knew elven. He had admitted to reading a little mercari, after all, and she couldn’t imagine a person in his position not coming across it in their studies.
“Shush. I think you can get out of your bloodline contract.”
A snort escaped her. “One does not simply get out of bloodline contracts. That’s kind of the point of them.”
“It’s been done before. And you’re not bladesworn yet.”
She let out a sigh, drifting her gaze up to the tree canopy once again, annoyed this time. She had a feeling she’d be hearing his idea whether she liked it or not.
“Fai li Gioni was bloodlined and bladesworn before she left on her campaign,” he said.
“Yes, and so was Jinir the Betrayer. Look what that got him.”
“Of the two, you resemble Fai more.”
“Why? Did I acquire great mountain-taming strength while I was sleeping? Knowledge of special fey springs with which to heal mortal wounds on secret kings?” Disgust laced her tone, and a familiar wrenching made itself known in her chest. It was useless to contemplate anything different, especially when the wound was so fresh. She was already skating on thin ice from last night. Very tense, thin ice. She didn’t even bother to hide the sneer she aimed at him. “Come now, you know the Council politics as well as I. Nothing short of becoming apostate will remove me from that position—and that is something I will not do.”
His sigh was equally exasperated. “Do you really want to go back and guard that prince?”
She gritted her teeth. “The Council seems to think it’s a good idea.”
“The Council is full of fools. The royals control them outright.”
This time, she did glance around. With speeches like that, said in the open, in a forest no less—it was no wonder Doneil had decided to leave the rnari.
“You’re not bladesworn,” he reminded her.
No, she had not made that oath—not yet. No one could call her an oathbreaker and be truthful about it. But she was bloodlined, and that in itself was a promise. Her family line had been guarding Raidt royalty ever since they’d come down from Mount Sinya and split with the light—she could trace her lineage back directly to both Isplin and Verdamor, who had turned swords and taken assassins in the tumultuous early days of the Raidt. Her father was bladesworn of the king, and his father before that. Her mother had guarded both Ceciline and Hyuir in the queen’s nursery.
She’d been training all her life to match them—and she was good. A risen star among the rnari blades.
Until she’d broken Prince Tarris’ hand.
“As I was saying,” Doneil continued, drawing a flicker of annoyance from her. “Acts of heroism seem to smooth over sins. You should do a few of those. Then pretend you forgot about the whole unwritten ‘protect royalty’ expectation in your family bloodline. You know, really play up the rnari ‘protect the weak’ edict.”
“If I did that, Prince Tarris would be at the top of the weak list,” she muttered.
Stunned silence met her words. She froze, horror slowly washing over her.
The blood drained from her face, and the breath whooshed out of her. She turned wide eyes on Doneil, her jaw slackening. “I did not just say that.”
“Catrin,” He was grinning, yellow-gold eyes sparking with mischief. She could feel the glee coming off him—like light dancing from a fire. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
The blood rushed back into her skin. She dropped her head and swore.
“No one can know I said that. No one.” She narrowed her eyes up to Doneil, lancing him with a look. “If I hear so much as a whisper, I’ll fucking end you.”
“Is this the thanks I get for all that healing I’ve given you, Twelfth Circle?” His tone began mocking, but quickly shifted into a laughing defense when she growled at him. “Okay, okay, your treasonous words are safe. I didn’t hear one whit. You are the perfect paragon of an obedient rnari warrior.”
It took all of her control not to hit him.
It was hard. H
e was in easy reach.
Perfect paragon. Hah. From what she’d heard in the rnari ranks, she had been one. Selfless, devoted to duty and regime, bold and proactive, never disobeying—never even questioning.
Not until Prince Tarris had cornered her alone against a wall. Not until he had pushed where he shouldn’t have.
Her body tensed as the memory slipped back into her mind. Just a light touch on her elbow, the twist in her abdomen when she realized his intentions, her propensity to not think twice and just trust her instincts, the faces of the Council after, tearing her apart—
“In all seriousness, though—” Doneil’s voice cut through the memory like a saw knife, the smoothed syllables of his elven an odd familiarity on such a human road. “—there might be a way out of your unwritten bloodline contract.”
“If you’re talking about heroism, then doesn’t doing a heroic deed for selfish reasons negate the heroic value?”
He chuckled. “If that were the case, I doubt half of them would have gotten done. Pure of heart and intention—how many beings do you think have that as their sole motivation? I’d wager sheer, stubborn pettiness is a greater motivator.”
“Unless loss of life is involved,” she said, then turned her tone lighter, as if considering, sarcasm lacing her vowels. “In that case, it could work. I am quite petty.”
“It’s true, you are. However, in all seriousness, there may be an actual way out. You know, one that doesn’t involve nigh-impossible acts—”
“Oh, come on,” she said, switching to Janessi with a glance to the prince ahead of them—they were being rude, and she’d let this go on long enough. “Enough of this.”
A farm was coming up ahead on the road, the homestead visible through the trees, three people at its side, all looking their way. A trail of gray-white smoke floated out of the chimney. As she watched, the tallest of the three broke away from the others and started up the road, their pace hurried.
Lone. Female. Farmer. Low threat level.
“No, no, hear me out.” Doneil spoke the first in Janessi, glanced to the prince, and switched back to elven. “It’s the undersworn loophole.”