Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Abarrane is close on his heels with two other warriors—one the size of Horik, his arms laden with a wooden keg, another carrying an enormous metal platter stacked with roasted meat.
“What is happening here?” Zander’s focus shifts from the keeper to the puddle of water at his boots and the clumps of horseshit and straw clinging to his fine coat, to the trough of water, and then lastly to the window where I stand.
I offer a mock innocent shrug. Gesine did say to practice.
“Never mind, I think I have an idea.” He sighs heavily. “I appreciate your generosity. The Legion will ensure a safe escort for your tributaries back to your home once they’ve provided their service.” He raises his voice to address the other keepers. “All of your tributaries.”
My teeth grit. Their service. Will I ever get used to this?
Several keepers move for the gate, grasping the dismissal. But the horseshit one hasn’t. “Your Highness, I am Ambrose Villier, a dear friend of Lord Danthrin’s. I must say, I am surprised to see you here on the last days of Cirilea’s fair—”
“No one cares what surprises you.” Steel rings in the court as Abarrane draws her sword. From this view, she appears a full head shorter than Villier, but she doesn’t so much as flinch while peering up at him. “Leave now, or I’ll ensure you leave in parts, beginning with your slippery tongue, Ambrose Villier.”
The keeper rushes away.
My gaze settles on Zander.
“Your people skills are improving,” he teases her, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck, a tell for the tension building.
She slides her sword back in place. “Do not pretend you keep me at your side for those skills.”
“No, I do not. But you should go and feed. You have been in an exceptionally foul mood lately. More than usual.”
She moves for the line of tributaries that Gesine has cleared but stops abruptly, her eyes skimming my window. “And what about His Highness? Should I bring one for you, or would you prefer to choose?”
But of course, Zander will take a vein tonight. It’s been weeks, and he needs all the strength he can gather, now more than ever.
I know this, and yet the question lands like a blade, piercing my chest.
As I’m sure Abarrane intended.
Zander studies the group, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to glance my way. He knows I’m watching. He always does.
“That one.” His jaw is tense. “The one on the end.”
I swallow the growing lump as I search out the tributary he means. A brunette with rosy cheeks and full curves steps forward, curtsying deeply. When she rises, she’s smiling.
Maybe she doesn’t mind being fed on, or maybe it’s the king she doesn’t mind.
His return smile, albeit small—nothing more than a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth—twists my stomach with dread.
I move away from the window before anyone can see my misery.
10
Romeria
“Who were you?” I examine the stranger’s reflection staring back at me in the small vanity mirror. Her blue eyes are as pale as an early-morning sky, her cheekbones high and jutting, her lips plump, the top curved like a heart. She appeared the moment I removed my ring and has watched quietly as the uncomfortable pins-and-needles buzz of these caster affinities vibrates along every limb of her body.
Learn to compartmentalize? It’s taking every ounce of my determination just to tolerate it, and several breaks in between.
Slipping my ring back on, I breathe a sigh of relief as the unpleasantness dissolves into silence and the familiar face appears again. This face—mine—is a welcomed illusion in a world where I feel more alone than I did as Korsakov’s thief.
The sun set many hours ago, and Gesine hasn’t yet returned. I venture over to the window to search for her. The warriors have quieted, many settling down wherever they can find a snug space, sated by ale and meat and mortal blood. The ones on watch lurk in shadows somewhere unseen. Elisaf hasn’t returned. He must still be on that task Zander mentioned.
Where Zander is … I have no idea. My chest tightens, thinking about what he might be doing with that tributary right now.
The other window in my room shows a different angle of the stables.
I spot Gesine right away and slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle. She’s perched on a wooden barrel in front of a red-haired warrior whose pants are pushed down to his thighs, her delicate hands hovering over his bare ass.
I remember that one griping on the way here about taking an arrow. His injury hadn’t been deemed severe last night, but I guess a day in the saddle must have changed that.
A soft feminine moan pulls my attention away from Gesine and the injured warrior. There’s no mistaking that sound for what it is.