full might of the Lakelands will never come to the aid of Maven Calore.”
That smarts a little. I was stupid before, signaling what I did to Mare through that newblood in the Piedmont prison. For no reason other than to prove I could. Clearly she passed on the message. Or maybe we’re simply that transparent. I bristle, firing back, “Just as we all know your Red alliance will not last. That it is another powder keg close to open flame.”
This does make Julian uncomfortable. He shifts, thrown off balance, and a slight gray tinge colors his cheeks. Not so with Anabel. She thrives, grinning, as if I’ve just served her a delicious meal. Even though I don’t know how, I feel as if I’ve misstepped.
The woman puts out her hand and I jerk back, out of her grasp. She seems amused by my fear. “There is something else we can offer.”
Julian’s blush deepens and he frowns, dropping his gaze. Breaking eye contact with me. Essentially putting down his only weapon. I could move against him right now and get the upper hand. But Anabel is too close, too lethal.
And, I have to admit, I want to know what the last piece of her bargain is.
“Go on,” I breathe, almost inaudible.
Her smile is wide, pointed. And while Maven is his mother’s son, I see some of him in his grandmother. In the sharp grin, and the scheming mind. “Salin Iral put a knife in your father’s back,” she says. I flinch at the memory. “I assume you would like to have a conversation with him?”
I respond without thinking. A mistake. “I can think of some things I would like to say, yes,” I mutter quickly. The phantom taste of blood fills my mouth.
“I’m sure you know why it was done,” she says.
Pain pricks at my edges. My father’s death is still an open, oozing wound. “Because this is war. People die.”
Her dark eyes, like molten bronze, widen. “Because Salin Iral did as he was commanded to do.”
Any sorrow I feel for my loss steadily turns to rage. It licks up my spine, hot and begging.
“Volo,” I can’t help but hiss. The name of the Samos king sours in my mouth.
But Anabel knows how to push me. “Would you like to speak with him too?” she breathes, almost seductive in her offer. At her side, Julian returns his gaze to me, his lips pressed together. The lines of his face seem to deepen.
I drag a long breath through my teeth.
“Yes, I certainly would,” I breathe. “What is your price?”
Grinning, she tells me.
They melt into the city like ghosts. Simply stepping out of the transport at a crowded corner, disappearing into the ranks of Red servants and more common Silvers. My guards don’t seem to notice or mind, falling back into our prescheduled route. Julian Jacos did his work well, and when I return to the palace, nothing seems amiss. None of my guards seem to realize they’ve lost twenty minutes to the abyss of a singer’s charm.
I make a quick escape, intending to go to the shrine tucked away in my rooms, needing the familiar and blissfully empty space to collect my thoughts.
Mother must be informed of everything that just transpired, and as soon as possible. But I can’t trust that my message won’t be intercepted, even through the deepest back channels. Anabel’s offer could get me beheaded, burned, mutilated, and murdered. This message can only be passed face-to-face.
I manage to get up to my rooms safely. With a wave of dismissal, I leave my Sentinels at the door to my chambers, as usual. Only when I’m truly alone do I realize what I’ve done, and what has just happened.
I start to shake, my hands trembling as I step through my receiving salon. My pulse races. I think of Salin Iral and Volo beneath my hands, drowning, dying. Paying the ultimate price for what they did to my father.
“Traffic on the bridge?”
I freeze, eyes wide. His voice always puts a fear in me. Especially when it comes from my bedroom.
My instincts tell me to run. Damn myself. Escape the city somehow, find a way home. An impossible thought. I force myself forward instead, through the double doors leading into my sleeping chamber. Into what could be my coffin.
Maven lazes across the sprawl of my silk blanket, one hand tucked behind his head. The other resting on his chest. His fingers drum in time, bone-white against one of his thousands of black shirts.