House of Dragons (Royal Houses #1) - K.A. Linde Page 0,96
verses varied wildly. Most spoke about love and lust and death. They were evocative and endearing. The poets’ voices filled with emotion, dripping with enthusiasm. A few were downright erotic. Her cheeks tinted pink at the mere suggestion of what their words implied.
But the best and the most dangerous was the final poet—a young human woman dressed entirely in black and holding a candle before her face.
Red.
The color of blood.
The color of life.
The color of death.
Masks.
To shield the guilty.
To wield the darkness.
To field the hate.
A worm writhing in the dirt
does not know how it can be hurt.
But it can feel the impending doom
as the boot so ever looms.
A spark is the light of the first
who knows what it is to thirst
for a world that will burst into flame
and not burn it down as a game.
Now is the time to rise up
against the boot that would smother our heat.
Now is the time to fill your cup.
To tell the game masters, we will not be beat.
Red.
The blood of our people.
The life of our children.
The death of our existence.
Masks.
The guilty.
The darkness.
The hate.
A hush fell over the crowd as she finished. Then, a soft round of applause followed her exit.
Carmine stepped back onto the stage, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Neslie. That concludes our evening performances. Feel free to mingle. We have music and refreshments.”
Fordham looked to Kerrigan. “That was pointed.”
Kerrigan frowned. “Indeed.”
She had known that the Red Masks were at the Dragon Blessed ceremony, that they were in her vision, but she hadn’t seen them since. But if poets were writing about them and reading about them, then they must be gathering forces again. She shuddered at the thought.
“We should go,” Fordham said, reading her mood.
“Yes, I think so.”
Darkness had truly fallen in the village, but no one would be the wiser. Street performers had come out to dance and sing and play music. Taverns were open, and customers sprawled out onto the steps. A dance had started in the intersection to Painters Row. Merriment was had all around.
“I never knew anything like this existed,” Fordham admitted as they passed row after row of dancers.
“Is the House of Shadows so different? No dancing? No music?”
His eyes grew distant. “There is music and dancing, but it’s not like this. We have been closed off in our world for a thousand years. No one leaves, and only humans dare to cross our borders—and most do it by accident. We have made our own city our own realm.”
“That sounds isolating,” she admitted. Though she did not ask the question she wanted to know—how exactly had he gotten out?
“It likely helps that the majority of us do not know any different,” he admitted. “They have not seen the streets full like this. They do not know the joy of running for miles in any direction. They have not been permitted life.”
“That’s terrible. The stories… they make the House of Shadows seem like… like monsters. But this sounds like a horror that should not be bestowed on anyone. To be so isolated would be true torture.”
Fordham didn’t have to say anything for her to know that he agreed. Especially now, after tonight.
They returned to the mountain. Kerrigan realized she was still a little tipsy from the drinks. Waking up at dawn to run for miles didn’t sound tempting in the least. But she just enjoyed the lightness in her head as they headed back to their rooms. When they came to the place where their paths diverged, she stopped in anticipation. Not quite ready to say good-bye.
But Fordham gently took her hand. “I’ll walk you.”
Her heart thudded in her chest. He released her hand and they walked together, side by side, tension brimming between them. She had felt desire and obsession but nothing like this. Nothing where her entire insides squirmed and shivered at the mere touch. Suddenly, her mouth was dry. She had no words for how she felt in that moment.
When they reached her door, she expected him to release her and go. But he hovered there before her, and for a moment, she was too frightened of what she would find when she looked up. For all her bluster about not being afraid, about controlling her fear, deep down, she had never been more afraid. She could master herself in life-or-death situations because she had to. But this?
“Kerrigan,” he said.
Her body shivered at the use of her name. All this time, he’d never really called her by her name. And now, to hear