Page 73 of Thorn Season
Keil shook his head. “There is no draft.”
“So, every Ansoran fighting in the Western War... has chosen to fight?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
I bit my lip, considering. Even in Daradon, we’d heard of the Ansoran soldier—the Wielder war hero—who’d single-handedly defended a narrow pass on one of those islands, saving a Wholeborn town from massacre.
To learn that it wasn’t from obligation, butchoice...
“I spent nearly two years there,” Keil said, faraway with memory. “I saw Wielders fight for Wholeborns, and Wholeborns fight for Wielders. There are no distinctions when the bodies bleed the same.”
No distinctions.It was a foreign concept to me.
I looked to the sympathizers again, their eyes flaring with righteous anger—burning brightly for now. But too easily snuffed.
“You won’t find such kinship here. The Wholeborns of Daradon don’t even fight for each other. They would never fight for people like—” I stopped, shocked at how easily the words had nearly slipped out:people like us. “People like you,” I finished, keeping my face blank.
Keil was silent for several seconds. I turned to find him studying me with that same knitted-brow expression I’d seen in the tunnels. Like he wanted to take me apart and hold the pieces to the light.
“Stop that,” I snapped.
His frown deepened. “Stop what?”
I pushed off the wall and strode from Backplace, the knife thumping against my thigh. The ale-soaked citizens gave me a wider berth than usual, so Keil must have been close on my heels, shooting daggers at those who swayed too near.
“I should add that to my list of talents,” he called as the crowds thinned. “The ability to irritate you without saying a word.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. My irritation is reserved for people who actually matter.”
“And what about that wonderful sneer on your lips?” His voice became heavy, teasing. “Is that reserved just for me?”
I scoffed, ignoring the traitorous swoop of my stomach. “Do youhave nothing better to do than goad a reaction out of me?”
“I’m doing you a service. I know you relish every opportunity to impale me on your words.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.”
“Oh, you’re not so hard to decipher.”
I whirled, eyes wide. “Is that so?”
Keil prowled closer. “Lady Alissa Paine.” He drew out my name as if to savor the taste. “Intelligent, beautiful, sharp-tongued. It’s no wonder the king wants your hand... A shame, then, that you don’t want his.”
I blinked, then forced a bark of laughter. “That’s what you think you know about me?”
“I told you: I speak from observation.” Keil leaned forward, his honeyed breath tickling my face. “When you mention the king, you clench your jaw. And I see the tiniest flutter righthere.” He brushed a fingertip along my temple. Goose bumps rushed up my arms, and I batted him away.
“You’re rather fixated on my prospects,” I said, glad that the cool night air stole the hotness from my cheeks. “Do you spend a lot of time imagining me in a crown?”
His grin was maddening. “Do you want me to?”
I scowled, and his deep laughter sent another spike of heat along my bones.
“And what about you?” I asked. “You think I can’t read you just as easily?”
He canted his head and said, for the second time tonight, “Go ahead.”
Very well, then. I angled back and looked at him—reallylooked—past the loose stance, the twinkling eyes, the easy confidence. Had hebeen like this even as a soldier, fighting for people who couldn’t fight for themselves?
