Page 33 of Heart of Night
The corner of Erina’s mouth lifts as if he realized the insult Herinor delivered with his words. Not only the refusal but the fact that Adrian Katrijanov is the general of the Tavrasian troops. No one stands above him but the very king facing him across the table.
“Very well.” Katrijanov brushes the insult off, reaching for his crystal goblet of Tavrasian wine the servants poured before scurrying from the room like ants from a focused beam of light. “To the recently recovered Wolayna Milevishja.” His pale blue eyes chill the warmth of nervousness from my body as they meet mine. They are like the death he ordered delivered on my friends from the Wild Ray, like a hand of pure ice as they slide along my features as if in reassurance that I’m truly me, that he wasn’t tricked by a wicked fairy. He lifts the goblet, waiting for Erina to do the same and drink first.
Something about the gesture feels off—orchestrated in a way that I have started to develop a sixth sense for. I only wish I had my magic so I could pull the wine from the goblet and whip it into his face. The power that saved my life in the Seeing Forest hasn’t stirred since the last time I’d woken from the poison-sleep.
In reflex, my gaze slides to my own goblet filled to the middle of the Tavrasian shield crest etched into the crystal on one side. My stomach tells me I need fluids and food, but I don’t trust anyone in this room enough to believe the wine isn’t spiked with the same substance that kept me sedated half of the journey here.
Both Erina and Katrijanov take a deep drink, ignoring me as they help themselves to the meat pastries stacked on gold-rimmed plates. For a while, I watch them eat—Katrijanov across the table, and Erina from the side with secret glances that anyone not knowing my situation might have mistaken for the interest almost any young woman might hold for a bachelor king. At least, I think he doesn’t have any attachments. On instinct, my gaze drops to Erina’s left hand, to his middle finger, where a wedding band would sit in old Tavrasian fashion.
All I find is a sepia gemstone the size of a kidney bean framed in gold attached on his index finger. The same ring his father used to wear.
Right when I come to the conclusion that there is no current Tavrasian queen, my stomach growls loud enough to draw attention, and Erina catches me staring. His brow rises before he smooths his expression and picks up the pastry platter to offer me a piece. “You should eat, Wolayna. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
His words remind me so much of Myron’s that first morning after our wedding that my hunger turns into nausea, and I swallow the bile in my throat, shaking my head.
One breath, and another, and my heart rate slows enough for me to form a clear thought. “Why am I here?” I ask the one question I maybe should have asked the moment I laid eyes on the King of Tavras, should have demanded an answer to.
Katrijanov’s mouth tightens while Erina smiles at me freely. “Why, to be part of my court, of course.”
The lie is blatant and obvious, and I want to spit at him. Herinor’s forearm brushes my shoulder in warning as my emotions bubble up, threatening to boil over. Keep calm. Knowledge is your friend. Play their game.
I get the message, but I also need to know. I need to understand what is coming for me, if I’m to be thrown in the dungeons eventually and tortured to death?—
“King Erina is turning twenty-five this summer,” Katrijanov explains with so much honey in his tone he almost doesn’t sound like the general at all. “He needs to think about the future of his kingdom.”
Twenty-five. A bit young to think about a legacy when you already have a kingdom at your disposal.
I’m still trying to decipher the merits of my role in said thinking when the man with the black uniform enters the throne room once more, bowing low before stepping over the threshold.
“Your Majesty,” he starts, his gaze darting between Erina, Katrijanov, and Herinor before they land on me.
“What is it, Odja?” Erina doesn’t turn away from me, plate still in hand and a hint of annoyance showing on his features. I try not to look too closely at his perfectly shaved chin or the way his lashes curve around his eyes. He is attractive by objective standards, but nothing stirs inside of me at the sight of him. Nothing other than a deep-seated sadness.
Before I can examine the sensation, Odja crosses the room to lower his head next to the king’s ear.
Herinor’s Crow hearing isn’t the only one to pick up the words when Odja whispers, “The prisoners have arrived, Your Majesty.”
Seventeen
Ayna
Herinor ushers me out of the throne room at Erina’s command so fast I almost stumble over the hem of my skirts as we make our way from the room and up a wide set of stairs leading to what must be the residential quarters of the palace. I’ve never been up far enough to know the entire layout of the royal home. A few minutes later, Odja points at a tall, walnut door, and Herinor stops, facing down the guard beside it. The man almost shits himself at the sight of the menacing male. His pointed ears are a dead giveaway of what he is—not human.
Nobody appeared surprised though, from the servants in the throne room to the king, and now this guard. If anything, he knows exactly what Herinor is capable of, or he wouldn’t clutch the hilt of his sword in a death grip.
“He’s under orders not to attack His Majesty’s staff,” Odja reassures the guard whose chest rises in a breath of obvious relief as he stands aside to let us pass.
When Odja shows us into the room, I can’t help but blink, multiple times, at the devastating beauty of the space. Lush golden wallpapers cover the areas between dark wooden panels along the walls. The windows are framed in the same dark wood, their arches high enough to allow me to study the gardens I missed taking a closer look at when seated next to the Tavrasian king. Rows of pink wisteria rain down along pathways crisscrossing through the neatly arranged greenery, sheltering courtiers marching slowly and locked in conversations the content of which isn’t meant for other ears. Stone benches in secluded corners offer refuge to those tired of walking along the gravel paths, and multiple fountains offer reprieve from the heat streaming in through the open windows.
I’ve forgotten how far south Meer is. And how close to the ocean.
A hint of salt lingers in the air that I hadn’t noticed before, all of my capacity focused on the fear eating me up, the anger that has been building in my chest. But… Ocean air. Something comes to life inside, and my legs can almost feel the swaying deck of the Wild Ray beneath my feet like a phantom limb.
“I hope your accommodations are to your liking, Wolayna,” Odja says as he retreats from the room. “His Majesty will have someone sent to help you prepare for the banquet. Fresh clothes will be provided. For you, too.” His gaze darts to Herinor, and his already pale skin turns chalk white. “Not that you need to if you don’t feel like it…” His words trail away at the single step Herinor takes in his direction.
“Leave.” His tone is darker than the dim lights of the Flame estate’s torture chamber, and the shiver running down my spine is enough to ease the heat of late summer.
The expression on his face changes the moment Odja closes the door behind him, leaving Herinor and me to ourselves. I don’t know what to think about any of it—the strange way Erina talked to me, kind on the one hand, almost threatening on the other. Apparently, Herinor does, though, since he marches to the walnut sitting arrangement by the far wall, gesturing for me to sit.