A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,31

His sword clattered to the ground, and a beat later, the woman’s blade fell. She managed to keep ahold of its hilt, but from the acrid resentment wafting from her skin, she had just as little choice in the matter.

Khimaer born with the ability to command others by the power of their voices were called speakers. In centuries past, khimaer born with such a gift always became members of the Queen’s Elderi Council, for even nobles couldn’t ignore their words.

“Speaker,” Aketo said. Still dizzy with the pressure of the man’s magick, it took him a moment to form words. “You will have to keep up those commands if you expect me to let you approach her.”

“It is you who came here,” the woman said.

“And it is you two who still haven’t introduced yourselves or given me one reason not to believe one of you threw her off that wall.” He hadn’t seen much of anything from the ground, but without Eva to give an account, he needed to be sure these two were not their enemies.

The woman’s gasp and the horrified looks the two exchanged—and most especially, the feelings that preceded both—reassured Aketo enough that he didn’t point his sword at them again.

“My name is Lady Lirra and this is Osir. I am the Lady of this House. It was my mistake that caused the young woman to fall. If you can guarantee she will be safely healed, we will return to our home. If not, please let me bring her inside.”

“Are you the King’s family?” Aketo asked.

Their expressions, open with concern and worry just a moment ago, closed off instantly.

Aketo shrugged, faking nonchalance. “I just thought you should know. That’s his daughter you nearly killed.”

“Please,” Osir said, with the same echo in his voice from earlier, though less severe. “We can explain everything inside. She will be safe with us.”

Aketo felt the sureness of his sincerity. Neither seemed to be a liar and he believed Lirra’s assurances that this had been an accident, but that barely soothed him. Whether by design or not, they’d perfectly trapped Eva.

No one at their camp would be able to heal so much damage. Before the door banged open, he’d been considering which one of Orai’s few small buildings to knock on first in search of a proper healer. The rough combat healing one of the soldiers knew would not be sufficient for this. There was no one at their camp who could save her, which was partly Aketo’s fault. He’d been the one to let the Hunter go in Ternain, giving Baccha a day’s head start before Eva ever knew her dear friend had fled.

He’d apologized for it more than once, but Eva wouldn’t hear it. It is not your fault he can’t be trusted.

But in moments like this, Aketo wondered whether he’d done the right thing, keeping Baccha’s secrets.

He drew in a breath. His mouth was dry as sand; his head pounded. All their discordant emotions made it difficult to think. “You will swear on your family’s behalf?”

“I swear on my behalf,” Lirra said, cool-eyed as a snake. Her semblance of calm could not hide what Aketo sensed: fear and loathing and regret. No human tattoos laced her skin. He wondered what magick lurked within her. “The Princess will be safe in our home.”

He glanced back at Falun, who stood over Eva with an arrow nocked and pointed at Osir. The fey’s anguish crawled over Aketo’s skin like fire ants. Falun’s panic twined with Aketo’s, but instead of blocking it out, he drew on the feeling.

He rolled his shoulders back, smoothing and sharpening their fear until rage shone bright on his face. He retrieved his fallen sword and sheathed it. “We will come, but make no mistake. If any of you intend her harm, if this is a ruse or a trap, or if your healer should fail, we will show no mercy.”

Falun practically bared his teeth at Aketo when he instructed him to take Eva’s legs.

“Should we be moving her?” the fey asked, his voice on the edge of the growl. His gaze tracked Lady Lirra, and by the coldness in his gaze, he was plotting her death.

“We have no choice,” Aketo said, crouching behind Eva.

This was his first true look at her: at the blood splattering her bronze skin, crimson droplets like flecks of paint in her hair; and the wings, shattered and bloodied. The outer feathers were dark as sable, but paled to dark gold where the wings met