Page 24 of Daughter of the Drowned Empire
“Soturion Rhyan is forsworn,” Aemon snapped. “Of course, they attacked him.”
“My fault, Arkturion.” Rhyan stepped forward, bowing low. The grace in his movements was so at odds with his torn clothing. “I should have hidden better.”
Tristan looked horrified. “Arkturion, you knew a forsworn was within our borders?”
“Of course, I knew. He’s been here under my protection for a week.”
A week! A week he’d been staying on the grounds of Cresthaven? How had I not known?
“And, of course, Ka Kormac was stirring up trouble—that’s what they do,” Aemon continued. “Soturion Rhyan is here to request sanctuary at tonight’s Revelation Ceremony.” He paused, looking thoughtful and more Aemon-like again. “Go. You need to clean yourself up. Word’s out now, but you should be safe within these walls. Stay hidden until nightfall.” Aemon’s eyes fell back on me, his expression full of accusation. He reached into his pouch and produced a small gold coin with his likeness on it. “Better to shift your accommodations for now. Give this at the guesthouse door.”
“Yes, Arkturion Aemon.” Rhyan accepted the coin and bowed again. “I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned back to me, taking my hand and kissing my wrist with a slow, sensual press of his mouth. My skin tingled beneath his touch. The sensation nearly shocked me. For once, there was no feeling of disgust, no wanting to pull away, no needing to talk myself into his touch, like I did with Tristan. His hand fell from mine, but his gaze remained on me. “Absolute pleasure to see you again, your grace. Oh, and Lord Grey.” He offered a salute.
“LordTristanGrey,” Tristan snapped.
Rhyan nodded, an overly serious expression on his face. “Of the most noble and fierce vorakh-hunting Ka!” He pulled the hood of his soturion cloak over his head and within a few steps off the waterway, vanished into the trees, camouflaged by his cloak’s magic.
Tristan’s hands balled into fists, but he resheathed his stave.
Aemon removed a vadati from his belt and brought it to his lips. “Eathan.” Smoke swirled within the clear moonstone, glowing blue. “She’s home.”
Lord Eathan Ezara, my father’s first cousin, served on the Council as Master of the Horse, my father’s Second. Shit. If Aemon was communicating with Eathan about me, my absence had been noted. There would definitely be consequences later tonight.
“Good. I’ll alert the others,” Eathan’s voice spoke through the stone. The blue light faded, and the vadati returned a cloudy white. Carefully, Aemon returned the stone to his belt pocket. Only a few dozen sets of vadati had survived the Drowning, and the Council kept a strict registry of them, assigning them to only the most powerful in the twelve ruling Kavim. I self-consciously felt the pouch holding my necklace from Ramia. If the Council knew where she’d found it before giving it to me, we’d both be held responsible.
“Can you manage to avoid further trouble before your Revelation Ceremony, your grace?”
My stomach hollowed. I’d almost managed to forget it was in just a few hours.
“Lord Tristan,” said Aemon, “I hear you apprehended a criminal. Thank you for your assistance.”
Tristan nodded politely.
Aemon bowed and walked off, leaving a still-annoyed Tristan alone with me.
I pulled Tristan into a hug, my lips finding his. He broke the kiss first, sighing and wrapping his arms around me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly worried I’d screwed everything up. What had been wrong with me today? I had been reckless. First with the necklace, then crying when Tristan had bound the girl with vorakh, and then with Rhyan—Myself to Moriel. I knew damn well what was at stake and what role I had to play. “Tristan, I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s all right, Lyr. You’re under a lot of pressure.”
I bit my lip, watching his eyes. “You haven’t changed your mind about….”
He kissed me again. “Never.” His face softened, the anger leaving him.
The moment between us weighed unbelievably heavily. Today was maybe our last day together of not being engaged. I didn’t know how soon he’d propose, but I was pretty sure his grandmother would be ready for contracts and negotiations come morning. Unless…unless I revealed a vorakh. Then he might be coming to bind me himself. I eyed the scabbard at his hip, imagining him unsheathing the stave, pointing it at me.
I walked alone back to Cresthaven, making a rude gesture at Markan in the spot I knew he was hiding in the bushes. Doing my best to shield myself from the sentries’ curious stares, I crossed the Great Hall and raced up the stairs. Morgana was still in Meera’s room, reclining on her bed, a glass of wine in her hand, a half empty decanter on the nightstand. A roll of moonleaves hung from her mouth. She pulled it from her lips, emitting slow puffs of smoke, and reached for the open window to tap off the excess ash.
Meera was furiously painting a mural on her wall, which for the past two years had been a messy rainbow of color. She held her paintbrush in one hand and her stave in the other. It was her way of forcing the images out of her mind. Many of the scenes had been painted on top of each other, leaving her wall full of multi-colored textures.
Morgana lifted her glass to acknowledge me without looking. She’dheardme but remained focused on Meera’s painting. It took her a minute, but as she glanced in my direction, her mouth opened. She put out her moonleaves on a shard of moonstone on Meera’s nightstand.
“What in Auriel’s Bane! They were? Wait…what? Fuck. Bastard arrested another.” She sifted through my thoughts, attempting to learn the details of my adventure. High from the moonleaves, it took her a few moments. No medicine eased the pain of her mind reading. Her only hope was dulling her senses, a remedy that left her mostly wasted and drunk when she was conscious. At last she shook her head, black eyebrows narrowed with understanding. A lot had happened since I’d seen her. She set her wineglass on the nightstand.
Meera’s stave froze from accenting the finishing touches she was painting on a girl’s hair—a girl with bright red hair. She glanced at me over her shoulder. “What happened? Who arrested who? And please speak out loud.” She sounded exasperated. “I’m too tired for one-way conversations.”
I couldn’t answer. I was too focused on the girl in the painting. “Is that…?”
