Page 47 of In the Ravenous Dark
“I suppose you could call that a draw,” Marklos growls from where he stands between the two cousins, as if he’s been shielding them, “though Rovan’s technique is sorely lacking. All brute force and absolutely no finesse. She’d be a danger to others on a battlefield.”
“You’re no fun, Captain,” says Lydea dismissively. “Who cares how she fights, if she puts on a good show?”
“Who cares? Who caresabout their comrades?” Marklos shakes his head in disgust and begins sketching sigils to start clearing the mess. “Her father didn’t, but I’m hoping Rovan can be taught differently.”
Taught, like a dog. Trained to sit, stay. How to eat, how to talk. Made to be their pet bloodline and marry Kineas.
The thought reminds me that I have to focus, not indulge in distractions. I can’t get caught up in their plans for me, or even with Lydea. And maybe I can glean information about more than just sigils today.
“Have you heard from your sister?” I ask the princess, as we both begin straightening our clothes and attempting to brush the dirt from our skin.
“No, but that’s rather the point,” she says, smiling sharply. The mask is convincing. “To cut off all communication with the living so as to better commune with the dead.”
“Poor Delphia,” Japha murmurs.
Indeed. Delphia, the youngest and kindest one. The one who looks most like her mother with her cloud of white hair and bright silver eyes. Is this newest injustice an echo of the one against Cylla?
“I don’t see why such extremes are necessary,” I say. “We bloodmages have no problem communing with the dead.”
“Yes,” Lydea says. “But to form a connection withallthe dead, you have to be… well, dead, or very much like it.”
“I wonder what the nature of our guardian bond is,” I muse, as if merely curious.
Surprisingly, it isn’t Lydea but the younger of the cousins, Namae, who speaks up, having drifted closer. “I think it has to do with royal blood,” she says as haughtily as only a twelve-year-old royal brat might.
Japha rolls their eyes, but I force myself to ask patiently, “What do you mean?”
“Myguardian says he was a royal living in the palace like me—that heisstill royal, in the underworld, so of course that’s why he chose someone like me. Aias died young. He likes me.” She sounds very proud of this fact.
“You need some lessons in logic, because that says nothing about the connection,” Lydea says. “There are commoners who are wards, like ouresteemedtutor—”
“And like me,” I put in, sounding waspish, but my mind is preoccupied. The girl’s guardian is royal. Ivrilos certainlylooksroyal, with that circlet he’s so fond of wearing, and he intimated that he’s surrounded by well-bred people—though few of them women—in something like a palace in the underworld, and they likely serve someone like a king. Areallguardians the shades of dead royalty?
Lydea carries on, “And everyone, even commoners, can be elevated to heroic immortality in the afterlife, so no doubt there are common guardians as well.”
I scoff, hoping I’m not overdoing it. “The afterlife is probably just as unfair as life, meaning only dead royals are awarded the highest honors. That’s even how it goes in the stories: The kings and princes who wage the bloodiest wars or slay the biggest mythical beasts or steal away the prettiest maidens get to be immortalized as heroes.” Quick and nonchalant, I add, “What about you, Lydea? Do you think your guardian is a royal?”
“Graecus?” She shrugs. “He’s very stuffy, so he may have been. Who knows? I try to avoid conversation with him as much as possible.”
“I’m nearly positive Damios was,” Japha says, “though he won’t tell me precisely.”
“Graecus.” Lydea glances off to the side, at the person the rest of us can’t see. “Were you a royal, like Namae’s guardian here?” She waits, and then turns back to the living. “He says he doesn’tremember.” Her mask is back in place. She’s trying to look bored by the topic, but something in her eyes tells me she doesn’t believe her guardian and finds it odd he would lie. She sighs theatrically. “Always so dull, the dead.”
At least Lydea and Namae have let slip their guardian’s names. I already know Japha’s. I don’t want to ask any more questions about royal lines so no one marks my interest, but I can’t help asking the captain, “Marklos, what is the name of your guardian?”
“Why?” He’s at the other end of the courtyard, still tucking roots back into the earth with sigils. “We’re going to have to get a shadow priest in here for the stone,” he grumbles half to himself.
“It’s not for my own interest. My guardian wants to know.”
Ivrilos suddenly appears at my shoulder. “Rovan, I know perfectly well who Klytios is.”
I ignore him, saying to the captain, “But I don’t want to do him any favors and I despise talking to you, so never mind.” I turn back to the others, leaving Marklos sputtering. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need to get out of these wet clothes.”
Rather, Ineedto get into the royal gallery.
As I cross the destroyed patio, duck under the colonnade, and head down the hall leading back to my quarters, leaving everyone else blinking at my abrupt departure, Ivrilos keeps pace with me. “Youtrickedme. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I say without looking at him.
