A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,39

that reminded him of his granna’s loom and the legends she wove into blankets for the Enclosure’s children.

Each weaving was a precious work of art. He and Dthazi found flowers that grew on the side of the mountain, and his mother did the work of dyeing and spinning the wool.

He couldn’t believe it had been six months since he last saw them all. His mother and granna, his aunts, his brother, Dthazi. For their sake, he prayed Eva would wake soon and that she hadn’t changed her mind about going to Sher n’Cai.

Kelis waited outside the room, picking her nails with a bloodletting knife. The bloodkin guard’s elongated canines flashed when she spoke. “I would feign surprise, but I suppose there’s no point in faking with you.”

He shook his head. “No, not really.” Indeed she wasn’t shocked at all, but pleased, and prickly with annoyance.

“I’ve never known a noble so inclined to help when asked,” she said. Her skin was flushed and she looked more vital and radiant than usual; likely she’d fed from one of the guards. He’d offered to let her feed from his wrist early on in the trip, but she’d never taken him up on the offer, explaining that she preferred to drink from women. He understood; though bloodkin didn’t consider feeding sexual, it was very intimate.

“It must be my lowborn half, then.”

“Doubtful,” she muttered. “Rodrick is not so kindhearted.”

Aketo wondered if he should take that as an insult.

He forgot sometimes that his father was well-known among the bloodkin, for being one of their few ambassadors and staying in the Queen’s good graces. When Aketo visited with him in Ternain, he’d lived in a modest akelae at the edge of the bloodkin sector. It seemed every room of his father’s home was crowded with twenty people all looking forward to meeting his son, the Prince. Aketo was sure he’d offended every last one of them by declining dozens of proffered goblets of blood and wine.

“Make certain you aren’t too kind to her,” Kelis said when he moved to the door. “She’ll not return the sentiment.”

He nearly parroted his mother’s words, No one deserves kindness, and that is enough reason to give it. Instead he grimaced, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

It was a narrow bedroom, with an unmade daybed heaped with cushions and rumpled linens. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small table with a washbasin on top. An untouched tray of grilled flatbread and a bowl of goat stew sat beside it.

Isadore knelt on a shearling pillow beneath the window with its shutters thrown wide. He could only see her back as she peered through it. She wore little more than a linen shift that showed off her too-sharp shoulder blades, and the frothy mass of her golden hair was piled atop her head haphazardly.

He took in the way the cotton hung from her body, and the shackles loose around her wrists. She’d been getting thinner and thinner without them noticing.

“If you’ve come because you’re worried, save it,” Isadore said without turning. “If you’ve come to do anything but bring me to my sister, go.”

He didn’t step any closer. She was particular about personal space and the distance would have been necessary either way. He was a man and she was a woman with her arms bound. He would be cagey under such circumstances, and women lived with even greater fears.

He’d grown up with too many soldiers and knew too well what men liked to do when a woman was made vulnerable.

“I can’t take you to Eva.”

She turned to him, eyes narrowed to slits. Isa had the kind of fine-boned face that even when giving her most baleful glare, she was still beautiful. “Then go.”

“If that’s what you want, I will. But no one else will even entertain the notion, no matter how long you go without eating.” He paused to wait for her answer. When she said nothing, he continued. “How can I when I’m not sure if you will hurt her?”

“I don’t even know what happened to her. No one will tell me a thing, besides that she is hurt.”

“Are you so concerned?” Last week she had made an offhand comment about choosing a dress for her coronation. He’d let it pass by without comment, not sure she’d even registered that to speak of that ceremony was to imagine a world where Eva was dead.

Once he naïvely believed Eva’s mercy would change Isadore. In all their conversations