Page 28 of A Court of Masks and Roses
“Where are we heading?” asks Raza, pulling up the hood of her cloak.
“The infirmary,” snaps Trace, holding the door open for her. The fury rolling off him is as palpable as a hurricane, and the pace he sets appears more suitable for professional soldiers than an injured princess. “Where did you think?”
Raza’s answer dissolves into the distance of the outdoors. Slipping out after them, I feel the cool night air whispering against my cheek. Fortunately for me, Trace and Raza are keeping to the path along the North Wood, allowing me to melt easily into the trees while we head west from the residence toward the palace. With the calm familiarity of the woods embracing me like an old friend, I stalk closer to Raza. I wish I were wearing pants and a tunic, but if I must find myself in a dress, the liquid night is a fortunate choice.
The princess’s voice drips with disgust. “How does being Firehorn’s dog suit you, Trace?” My gut tightens. Raza’s tone is too familiar, her word choice too sharp, even for her. I wait for Trace’s signature formality, but he says nothing. Not at first.
Then, a soft growl. “Your display at the dinner table is befitting a spoiled child. Firehorn is what’s keeping us from war. Do you know what the world would look like with Bahir in charge?”
My arms crawl. Not a foreign princess toying with a handsome guardsman, but rather a conversation between two people who know each other. Perhaps well.
“The welfare of Everett—” Trace starts again.
“Don’t talk to me about the welfare of Everett,” snaps Raza.
“You are the heir to the throne. We can’t not talk about it.”
“I don’t want the bloody throne,” says Raza. “I want you.”
I hear more than see Trace grab Raza’s shoulders and haul her into the trees. My breath catches. I flatten against the oak beside me and, after a moment’s thought, haul myself into the branches. Sprawling like a cat on a tree limb, I focus on the words being exchanged mere paces from me.
“What under the stars are you doing in Dansil, Raza?” Trace demands.
Raza takes a breath. When she speaks, the haughtiness in her voice is gone. “Begging you to come away with me. I thought that if you saw me, if I asked in person... that for me, you’d come.”
Trace’s hand cups the princess’s chin and my heart stops. “I can’t,” he whispers.
“You can.” She buries her face in his shoulder, wrapping her slender arms tightly around his middle. After a moment, Trace’s own large arms envelop Raza. He rests his cheek atop her head as Raza’s desperate, pleading whisper rushes into the wind. “Please. For me. Chooseme.Please.”
“Shhh.” Trace smooths his palm over Raza’s head in a way that says he’s done it so many, many times before.
16
KALI
My fingers dig into the bark, my chest squeezing, crushing my ribs, as I watch the betrayal laid open before me and listen to the distant movements of patrols.No, no, this is good, a dark part of my mind whispers. The knowledge that the captain of Firehorn’s personal guard is bedding the daughter of his enemy is a powerful weapon. One that might one day keep Leaf safe. My jaw tightens.
On the ground below, Trace’s body suddenly stiffens, his head rising like a hawk’s. “Quiet,” he orders, pushing the princess behind him. His hand goes to his sword.
My heart stops.
But Trace steps away from where I’m hiding.
I focus my gaze on the ground beyond and listen, trying to discern which of the many unfamiliar sounds has unsettled the guard. Only the footsteps of the patrol I heard earlier disturb the silence.
Or maybe not a patrol. Trace’s lethal stance gives credenceto my thought. That, and the arrow that embeds itself in a tree inches from Raza’s head.
Stars.
Raza opens her mouth to scream as four men pounce on her and Trace. My throwing knives are in my hand in an instant. Trace cuts down one of the attackers as my knife lodges itself in the throat of another. In the moonlight, the blood gurgling down his shirt looks like oil. The third and fourth men have long daggers and circle Trace like enraged coyotes.
“Run,” Trace orders Raza as he lunges at the remaining assailants.
The Everett princess scrambles back, tripping over the bloodied corpse of my victim. She screams and the attackers’ heads snap toward her.
My fingers close around my second blade, but I don’t have a clear line for a throw. Cursing, I slide to the ground—my dress floating to my ears in the process—and sprint the dozen paces to the melee. I grab Raza around the waist. “Move,” I hiss to the princess.
“Trace,” she breathes.
