Interesting. She pictured sorcery-fueled steampunk contraptions. In another lifetime, she might have liked to see such a sight. But in this lifetime . . . “Just because I don’t want to go to the Skye doesn’t mean we couldn’t date each other. If you accompany me to Rothkalina, I could introduce you to nice dragons.”
“If I even consider it, then I’ll know you’re enchanting me,” he said. “Your sister would plot to murder me the second I stepped into that kingdom. You forget I’ve witnessed the manifestation of her powers.”
When Sabine had forced Thronos’s father to see his worst nightmare. Whatever she’d shown him had made the male claw at his eyes.
“Your sister doesn’t seem to bear ill effects from her . . . deaths.”
“Not surprisingly, they left her deadened, blasé about tragedy.”
When Lanthe had accused her of not caring about anything, Sabine had replied, “That’s not true. I care about nothing very much.”
Lanthe added, “At least, she was blasé before Rydstrom came along. But she weaves illusions over her face, so you rarely know what she’s feeling anyway.”
“How many times has she died?”
“Over a dozen. Not all by Vrekeners.” When he raised his brows, she admitted, “Sorceri plotted against her. Humans executed her for being a witch. And so on.” She paused a moment, then said, “What about your own sibling? Will your brother not plot to murder me?” Might as well dip a toe.
“Aristo? I grant that he hates Sorceri. It’s the cause of much strife between us.”
“So he’s like your father, then?”
“Yes. But if Aristo harmed you, his brother’s sole fated female, it would be like harming me. It would be like killing my future offspring.” He held her gaze. “We hold mates sacred.”
Thronos will never believe me. Lanthe remembered Sabine lamenting that she couldn’t get Vertas warrior Rydstrom to trust her—just because she’d been a Pravus player who’d lied to him and tricked him into a dungeon imprisonment. Sabine had sighed, “How was I supposed to know to act like my word was good?” I hear you, sister.
“Would Uncle Aristo accept those future offspring of yours?” Lanthe asked. “You made it clear that Sorceri blood would be a detriment to any child we had.”
“I was angry when I said that. I would not love a halfling any less.”
“But others might look down on them.”
Thronos’s face turned cold and intent. “I will not tolerate the slightest disrespect to our children.”
Our children. “Aren’t you worried about the insanity tainting my line?”
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Again, I was angry when I mentioned that.”
“It was true. My mother wasn’t well. With me, you risk having crazed offspring.”
“I met her once.”
“What? When?”
He told her of a brief encounter, when he’d seen Mother worshipping her gold. She’d called him hawkling.
“Wait, Elisabet had known I was seeing you?”
He nodded. “Your mother was harmless, Melanthe. Yet my father murdered the parents of my mate.” Thronos’s eyes grew matte gray. “I looked up at him that night in the abbey and saw a stranger. I grieved his death, but gods I blamed him. I lost you because of him.” He glanced up sharply, as if he hadn’t meant to say that much.
“Why didn’t you tell me about my mother?”
Clearing his throat, he said, “I wanted to. Never seemed like a good time.”
She could scarcely believe her mother had known that secret. Why hadn’t Elisabet feared an attack? Lanthe would have to get Sabine’s take on that.
“Do halfling Sorceri have powers?” Thronos asked.
“Usually, but Vrekeners have stolen so many powers that they’re not being reincarnated. Children are born without souls.”