Kastali Dun

Claire crinkled her nose before stripping away a set of linens. The feather mattress fell back into place with a poof, sending up clouds of dust. She tossed the bedding onto the floor then moved away to straighten the furniture in the room. Fresh flowers from her cart replaced dried bouquets, which she threw into a cloth bag for disposal.

She and Desaree were assigned to the third-floor apartments on the west wing. These were some of the best in the keep, with stunning views of the Dragonfire Sea. She glanced out the open window to watch several ships.

“Phew,” Desaree uttered with disgust. “Some of these nobles need to bathe more.”

She turned to Desaree and smiled. “Then perhaps they might go sparingly on the perfume.”

Desaree laughed and tossed away a smelly chemise. She was a godsend, if Dragonwall’s gods were indeed real. The two had become the best of friends, spending most of their waking moments together. Much of it was done cleaning, but to her surprise, she enjoyed the work. It was exhausting, yes, but she was drawn to the busyness of it. The tasks were mindless enough to keep her occupied while allowing plenty of time to think. Although, thinking was increasingly difficult as her headaches worsened.

Twice she was confined to bed-rest when the migraines became unbearable. Whenever that happened, Tess was there, fawning over her the way her mother would. “Just keep them eyes closed, dearie,” she would say, sponging a damp cloth over her forehead and feeding her broth.

Reyr visited too, but he never stayed long. It was difficult to converse when her head pounded and words brought stars to her eyes. “I worry about you, Claire,” he often said. “Are you sure you will be all right?”

“You frown too much, Reyr. You’re going to get wrinkles,” she joked in return, trying to lighten his mood. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Despite her reassurances, he always left with a grim expression.

Sometimes, when her misery overwhelmed her, Cyrus showed himself. You must learn to block the voices out, he’d advised. If you choose which to hear and which to ignore, you will feel better.

The problem was, she didn’t know how to do that. Worse still, any amount of intermittent coaching only increased the pain.

It was during her darkest days that her conscience whispered to her, telling her to run away, to leave Dragonwall forever, coaxing her to find her way back home, back to a world where dragons were only found in storybooks and not skies. Cyrus hated the idea. It was cowardly. The kingdom needed her. He never bothered explaining why.

Despite her struggles, there were good days too. Some days the voices came less frequently, giving her mind a small break. She saw these time-outs as islands of mercy amidst a treacherous sea, a sea she was forced to traverse daily.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she stood to survey her work. Desaree was finishing up. She watched her place fresh candles into their holders before declaring the room finished. The two of them moved to the next, and the day flew by like all the others.

That night, much to her relief, Saffra came to see her. Three weeks had passed since their first visit in the dungeons. She had just gotten into bed when Saffra’s knock came.

“Tess told me about your headaches,” Saffra said, entering the room. She frowned. “What is the reason for the chair?” She eyed the security device with suspicion while she replaced it under the doorknob. They both plopped down on the bed.

After she detailed her paranoia and the use of the chair, Saffra said, “You are right to be careful. I have witnessed firsthand what Kane is capable of. To think he manipulated my visions…it makes me sick.”

Taking advantage of their limited time together, she divulged everything she’d told King Talon, describing her rescue of Cyrus and their time together before he died. Saffra was crying by the end. “He was like a brother to me,” she whispered. “He trained me to interpret my visions, to control them. We spent countless hours together. He was the only person to see into my mind.”

“He—he looked into your mind?” This caught her off guard.

“Well of course,” Saffra said as if the knowledge shouldn’t have come as a surprise. “He was a Mind Bender, the only one of his kind. He knew my mind almost as well as I know it myself. It was necessary so that he could help me interpret my visions.”

“Saffra, is there—” Her breath caught. “Is there a possibility he saw me there?”

Saffra’s brow scrunched together.

“Think about it. If he saw your mind, he saw me.”

“Claire, ever since I was a young girl, your face frequented my dreams and visions. You have always been a part of me.”

That was all the confirmation she needed. “Everything makes sense now.” She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. It was almost too simple. Yet she wouldn’t have seen it without the last piece of the puzzle.

Saffra frowned. Perhaps she didn’t understand yet, so Claire explained her theory. “I always wondered why Cyrus trusted me enough to give me the Stones. It was all because of you.”

“He trusted you because he had no choice, Claire. It was a life or death situation.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t buy it. There were some things he said to me, strange things. I thought it was the poison…” It was too coincidental, knowing that Cyrus had seen her in Saffra’s head long before she rescued him, long before he dropped into her cornfield.

“What strange things? What do you mean?”

“Cyrus insisted I was the new protector of the Stones. That I was an integral part in the story to come.”

“What story?”

Claire shrugged. “The story of the Stones, I suppose.” She thought about their time together, dissecting everything Cyrus had told her, making sure she didn’t miss anything. Cyrus’s journey had been coming to an end while hers was just beginning. He’d been so eager for her to take the Stones. Too eager. Not only that, he’d known about his death with too much clarity. She’d even gotten so mad at him for that—for insisting upon his death when the future was not yet determined.

But the future was determined. He’d seen it in Saffra’s visions. And since he was the one who helped her interpret them, he knew more than Saffra did about what she’d seen. Whatever he did see convinced him that he wasn’t meant to be a part of the final picture.

“He knew all along,” she whispered, more to herself than to Saffra. “He knew all along and he didn’t tell me. Why didn’t he tell me?”

Some things are better learned through discovery. You needed to find the answers for yourself. He sounded sad.

What other information might he be withholding? What other things had he left for her to discover? She frowned.

Saffra was incredulous, but she admitted that there could be no other explanation. They moved on to other things, like Kane’s Nasks. “To think,” Saffra said, “all those times I sat in the lower council meetings, and Kane’s puppets were there all along.” A deep frown pulled at her lips.

“Cyrus said the same thing. He felt pretty guilty about it.”

Saffra sighed. “All the ways they must have tried to manipulate King Talon. I would’ve never guessed.” Her eyes grew wide. “But wait…” she gasped, then frowned.

“What is it?”

“Well…of course! It makes sense now.”

“What?”

“The poison! In my wine there was poison. I never got the chance…now I know.”

“You mean to say—”

“I’m almost certain that Kane’s Nasks must have been responsible for trying to poison me. Right before you arrived in the capital, I got a new bottle of wine. I was eager to try it until I smelled the poison. Kane must have wanted me dead and told them to do it.” Saffra lifted a hand to her forehead, massaging her temples. Worry lines appeared on her face.

“Well, looks like I’m not the only one he wants dead,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood.

Saffra nodded. “I suppose not. We had better be careful.”

They speculated a bit more until Saffra finally recalled her purpose in coming. “Oh, silly me!” She grabbed Claire’s arm. “All this talking when you foster a headache. That is why I came—to give you this.”

Saffra procured a large velvet drawstring pouch from a hidden pocket within her gown. The contents smelled of flowers and peppermint. “Our ancestors called it Aegan. It translates to bliss-flower. To create the medicinal solution, a very special process exists, a combination of Aegan flower petals, pure oils like peppermint, and quite a bit of complicated magic. The contents of the brew must be dried over the course of a year, starting on the summer solstice and ending there as well. Only then can it be used. This is all that remains of last year’s batch.”

She inhaled again, this time more deeply. It smelled wonderful!

“Besides myself, there is one other Mage in Kastali Dun capable of making it, and mine is the best, the most potent.” Saffra’s grin widened. “I also add a few tricks of my own.” There was a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Most do not know it, but I often provide Aegan to the king when he has trouble sleeping—which is often. Although…I do not believe he utilizes it enough,” she grumbled before smiling again.

“But…what does it do?” she asked, already beginning to infer the substance’s purpose.

“Ah, it is a remedy, but far more powerful than any tonic. It will dampen your headaches, take away pain, relax your body, open your mind…”

“All those things?” Claire tightened her fingers around the pouch protectively.

Saffra laughed. “Well, not all at once. Somehow Aegan knows what ails you most. When you consume it, it selects its target.”

She grabbed a candle and held it close to the bag’s contents to have a better look. The petals were dried and looked like loose-leaf tea. Was she supposed to eat it straight?

“No, no! Gods above!” Saffra laughed. “Take a pinch, only a pinch,” she warned, “and grind it between your fingers. Then sprinkle it into your drink.” She rose and took Claire’s cup from the table, still full of water, and reached into the pouch doing just as she advised. Then she handed the cup over. The Aegan dust was glowing blue and small bits of blue bubbles rose to the surface creating snakes of smoke.

“Why blue?” She’d seen blue like this before.

“Blue is the color of magic, my dear Claire.”

“I wish I could do magic,” she whispered. She looked back into the cup. “But it’s all gone now. All the pieces have disappeared.”

“Of course they did.” Saffra eyed her. “The magic I embossed within the substance allows it to dissolve in any liquid. One of my finer touches I might add.”

“Wow,” she breathed.

“Just a small pouch of Aegan like that costs a fortune, ten gold dragons, sometimes more,” Saffra added. “I make plenty of money in my position, but I also enjoy selling my wares when I can. Whatever profits I make, I donate to the orphanages.”

“That’s…wow. That’s really nice,” she muttered, wholly impressed as she swirled around the contents she was about to drink. She took a big gulp of the Aegan water, then another, and then she finished the whole cup. “It tastes like peppermint.” Her voice was dreamy. “Like Christmas.”

Saffra snickered. “It is wonderful, is it not?”

Thanking her profusely, she ushered Saffra from her room. Before she departed, Saffra cautioned that Aegan should not be used in excess, and only when needed, for it could be addictive. Claire understood well enough that this must be Dragonwall’s form of a narcotic. She had no intention of abusing it.

For the first time in weeks, her headache disappeared entirely. The next day, she attacked her duties with new fervor. Desaree noticed immediately. “I am overjoyed by this change in you! What has prompted your renewed vigor? The Verekblot, perhaps?”

“The…the Verek-what?” She stopped her sweeping to look at Desaree.

“The Verekblot!” Desaree said, hesitating. “Oh, you did not know,” she whispered, biting at the skin on her lower lip. “I am so sorry. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“Angry with you for what?” She set her broom down and plopped down on a chair.

“Well, you have been rather indisposed as of late. I forgot to tell you. Verekblot is taking place tonight.”

She smiled. “Firstly, Desaree, I cannot be angry with you. That’s impossible. You’re the best thing that has happened to me in this place. Secondly, I don’t even know what Verekblot is.”

“Oh, of course you don’t!” Desaree cried as if realizing for the first time that Claire was an outsider. “Verekblot is a feast to honor the god of blessings. It is a commoner’s celebration.” She waved her hand to dismiss the triviality of that statement. “We hope to earn favor with Verek so that the fortunes of those less fortunate might one day improve.”

“Oh…”

She pestered Desaree for the rest of the day until she knew all there was to know about the god of blessing. It turned out that Verek was responsible for judging a person’s actions. If that person did well, they would be rewarded; if they acted poorly, they would be punished. Verek brought about changes in the lives of others, whether good or bad. While the nobles recognized and worshiped Verek, Verekblot wasn’t generally celebrated amongst their ranks. Those of higher birth were already plenty fortunate, what did they care for others beneath them?

“Few besides commoners care for commoners,” Desaree added.

The feast was set to begin later than their usual evening meal. This would allow the servants time to dress up. “We always wear our finest garments for Verekblot,” Desaree said. “You can borrow one of my gowns. The one Tess gave you is deplorable.” Desaree crinkled her nose in disgust then whispered, “Do not tell Tess I said that.”

The cooks were busier than usual. They were preparing special dishes not meant for the nobles. “I thought we would have leftovers like we always do,” she mentioned, dishing gravy from a pot.

“No, indeed!” Desaree’s eyes were wide with delight. “That’s another thing I forgot to tell you. We get a feast of our own during Verekblot.”

“You mean all this is…is ours?” She eyed succulent dishes sitting off to the side of the cookery. Carved turkey and ham dripping in juices, tureens of mashed potatoes sprinkled with fresh rosemary, honey glazed carrots with thyme in delicate slices, and giant loaves of brown oat bread with bowls of fresh honey, all sat steaming over little fires.

“Of course, it is! All ours!”

“But…how? Who paid for all this?” It was a fortune’s worth of food.

“Why, the king of course!”

Her jaw dropped. “The king?”

Desaree smiled. “The king always pulls from his private coffers for Verekblot, just as he does for the other commoner celebrations. He does it so that we servants might dine in splendor. Is he not generous? Wait until you see how he has decorated our dining room.”

She sputtered, refusing to believe it. The king—decorating? “Don’t you mean he sent servants to decorate for him?”

Desaree smiled, shaking her head. “No. I saw him in the servants’ dining room not but three hours past, with Lord Reyr and a few other Shields. Oh, wait until you see it! But that is for later. Come!” Desaree grabbed her hand, pulling her away from the cookery. She still didn’t believe it, but she left without protesting. Their duties were finished for the evening, and Desaree was eager to prepare. She too was brimming with anticipation.

After Desaree finished with herself, she stopped by Claire’s room to help her get ready. Claire couldn’t stop looking at her. Desaree’s thick chocolaty hair was done in a fancy braid down her back with little white flowers woven into the strands. It was positively divine. Her gown was pretty too, a pleasant lavender color with a corset that accentuated all her curves. It was such a difference to how she usually looked.

“You’re beautiful, Desaree,” she sighed. Desaree smiled brightly before handing her a gown.

This one was varying shades of crimson and gold, with little pink flowers embroidered across the corset. It was simple like Desaree’s, nothing like the gowns noble women wore, but so much better than the unshapely kirtles.

Better still, the gown was adjustable. Ties were hidden everywhere to remove the sleeves, separate the skirts, and hold the petticoats beneath. “You pull the ties here and here,” Desaree explained, “if you want it tighter. And these ties will adjust the length—and these, the arms.” It was quite genius, allowing women of different sizes to fit within the same dress.

After dressing, Desaree offered to do her hair, pinning it back with gold pins until most of it was trussed atop her head. Little wisps hung about her face. “Look how stunning you are!” Desaree cried, picking up a small polished mirror.

She was nearly unrecognizable. There were her green eyes staring back. But her face was leaner than before, accentuating her cheekbones. It was her hair that truly stole the show. “I don’t think I’ve felt this pretty in a long time,” she sighed, happy with Desaree’s job. “Have you always been good with hair?”

Desaree blushed. “My mother taught me because we had hoped…Well, never mind. We are already late.”

They raced through the corridors, hand in hand, giggling from exertion while their slippers pattered on the stone and their skirts swished about their ankles. A shadowed figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Desaree reacted first, pulling her to an abrupt stop. Her skin began to crawl. Coming towards them with long, unhurried strides was the King of Dragonwall. Claire glanced around. There was no one else in the corridor.

Heat spread to her cheeks. Her fists clenched together until nails bit into her skin. What did he want? This was the servants’ wing, where kings did not go, a place where she could feel safe from him.

Desaree, being all properness, fell to one knee muttering, “Your Grace,” with downturned eyes.

She did nothing of the sort. She stood frozen, unable to move from both the shock and the fearful clawing sensation on her insides.

Take control of yourself before your emotions take control of you!

It was rare for Cyrus to scold her with such a tone, but his biting remark was needed. Smoothing the scowl from her face, she put on a blank expression and gave a subtle but graceful curtsey, thanks to Desaree’s training. “Your Grace,” she said, greeting him with an overly sweet voice. Meanwhile, Desaree had not yet risen because she had not been invited to. That was the correct way servants were supposed to greet their king. But Talon was not her king.

“Good evening, Claire, Desaree,” he said, nodding at each of them.

She blinked. He knew Desaree’s name.

He eyed them, taking in their appearances, looking mostly at her gown as he waited for her to speak. She studied him too. He stood at ease, one hand placed upon the hilt of his Sverak, the other at his side. He held something in his fist, but she couldn’t tell what.

She ground her teeth together, trying to hide her emotions, but her uncontrollable tongue never missed an opportunity. “To what do we owe the singular pleasure of your appearance, Your Grace? Surely you must be lost. This is the servants’ wing, but we will happily point you in the correct direction.”

“I know exactly where I am,” he drawled. Much to her delight, her words successfully earned a glare. “I thought you would be resting.”

“Resting? Whatever for?”

“For your headaches,” he snapped. “And why is it that no one told me of these episodes before?”

“Oh dear,” she professed, feigning surprise over his concern. She’d never used the word dear in her life. Not like this. But she was playing a game, the game of revenge, the game of hatred. In this game, politeness was her shield. “I suppose I ought to take better care of myself. I can hardly bear the thought of worrying you, Your Grace. But you see, tonight is the Verekblot. I am a servant, so it is well within my rights to celebrate, and I intend to.” Then she paused for emphasis. “I do, however, thank you for your concern.”

His expression darkened. “Fine. If you insist on go—”

“Have you something for me?” she asked all too nicely, purposefully interrupting him as she looked down at the pouch clenched in his fist. “And Desaree!” she whispered, “for goodness sake, stand up!”

The king wasn’t used to being interrupted. He ignored her aside to Desaree as she stood, instead taking a moment to recover. He cleared his throat. “I—yes. I brought this for your headaches. It is difficult to come by.” He held it out to her, but she made no move to take it.

How dare he show concern for her!

“How very kind of you, Your Grace. What is it?” She eyed it suspiciously, already guessing the contents. He dropped his arm.

“It is a medicine called Aegan. Lady Saffra makes it better than anyone.”

“Oh! Aegan! Thank you, Your Grace. But I already have plenty.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Did Reyr give it to you?” he asked at last.

“No, no. Lady Saffra herself.” She regretted her words immediately, hoping the king would not be suspicious of their acquaintance.

“Lady—Lady Saffra?” His muscles tightened perceptively. He clenched his arms against his body. “How is it that you know her, pray tell?”

“Oh, I do not.” She waved a hand nonchalantly. “She merely heard of my ailments and kindly stopped by the other night to tend to me.”

“Gods above! Does everyone know of your suffering before I? I had to hear about it from Reyr, just a short while ago. And it seems even he was late in divulging the information.”

She feigned a gasp. “How unfortunate.”

“Indeed. Well, clearly you have no need of me.” He pocketed the pouch, affronted. What didn’t make sense was his sudden interest in her health. It was both unexpected and unnecessary, not to mention weird. “And next time, Claire, tell me if you suffer. I do not appreciate being left out.”

Instead of rolling her eyes, she clenched her fist. “Of course, Your Grace. I will surely inform you. Now, I do not wish to take any more of your time. It is too precious. We are late as it is, so we must be going.”

“Of course, do enjoy yourselves.” He stepped aside, letting them pass. Grabbing Desaree’s hand, she rushed away. Neither of them said a word until they were good and far from the corridor. Then they burst into a fit of laughter.

“Bless the Gods, Claire. You are too brave! Never in my life…” Desaree gasped, trying to breathe. “The way you spoke to him. Gods! He is riled indeed and will not soon forget!” They burst into more fits of giggles.

They arrived at the dining room just in time. Others were filing in ahead of them, everyone dressed better than she would have guessed. When it was their turn to enter, she sucked in a breath of astonishment. The room was transformed, gloriously transformed. “It’s unrecognizable,” she gasped.

The tables were there, but everything else was different. All along the whitewashed ceiling, garlands were draped and hung, dangling down over the tables, attaching to the walls. It reminded her of the Gable Forest. Fresh flowers were woven through the leaves, and little glowing lights twinkled within the depths of the thick strands. Petals of different colors covered the tables and floor. It smelled divine.

“Glows,” Desaree whispered, pointing at the little lights. “It takes magic to create them, lots of magic. I bet the king did them himself,” she supposed. Claire did not want to think about the king, or that he could do anything nice for anyone besides himself. She pushed the thoughts from her mind, intent on having a good time.

Dinner was exuberant. The great platters she’d seen earlier were brought forth and passed around. It was delicious beyond imagining. She went back for thirds before reaching a near catatonic state.

“Save some room for dessert!” Desaree warned.

“Dessert? I might need you to loosen my corset,” she breathed, feeling a little faint. She reached for the hidden strings on her skirt to free her waistband.

“I will not loosen anything! You will get sick if I allow you to eat yourself silly. Besides, you can dance it off shortly to make room! They will serve the sweets after we get started.”

Dancing! She’d forgotten about the dancing. How did people in Dragonwall dance?

As if on cue, several musicians entered the room. They were dressed well, better than the servants who wore their finest attire. “The king’s own minstrels,” Desaree all but squealed, clapping her hands together. She and Sarah jumped to their feet along with everyone else. The musicians set up on the far side of the dining room, pulling out their instruments. She noticed they weren’t so different than what she might expect. Old fashioned to be sure, but they sounded lovely as a tune was struck.

The buzzing voices magnified along with the commotion as tables and benches were pushed aside. People began lining up to face each other in two long lines.

“Desaree,” she gasped, grabbing her hand. “I don’t know how to dance!” Well, she knew how to dance, but not how to dance the way they might in Dragonwall, which she suspected wouldn’t be the same.

“Oh, you will catch on fine!” Desaree laughed, leading her to a spot. “Here, be my partner for the first round. Follow my lead.”

Seeing that they were assembled, the musicians fell quiet for a moment. A drum was struck, beating out a tune before the other instruments joined in. At the same moment, the room turned to an excited frenzy as everyone began the dance. She couldn’t help but laugh hysterically, doing her best to copy Desaree’s moves. Others laughed too, smiling with exhilaration.

The dance was similar to a line dance, with lots of skipping and hopping. They often switched places until she grew dizzy. Many in the crowded room shouted and whooped in unison when this happened, excited to place themselves in front of new partners. It was loud and rambunctious. When the song ended, she had to double over to breathe.

Desaree and Sarah were clinging to each other in fits of laughter, their faces glowing with happiness. Everyone clapped loudly, shouting out requests for the next dance songs of choice. She cleared off to the side of the room, hoping to regain her breath.

Just as she did, Thomas, the baker, came over and requested a dance. “It would be a true honor, miss Claire. The ladies say I’m a fine partner!”

How could she refuse the little old man? She eagerly grabbed his hand as he led her to the floor again. The next song was much like the last, with lots of drum beating and hornpipes. She remembered the sound of the hornpipes from the time she visited the Flying Pig. There was a bagpipe too. She loved bagpipes.

As promised, Thomas was a good partner. For being so old, he never missed a step. His lightness of foot was unexpected, but that only made the dance more fun.

After a few more, each with different partners, her face hurt from smiling. She expected the dances to be more like those in ballrooms, waltzes and such. But they were far from it, making the affair a rowdy one. She mentioned this to Desaree.

“Oh, that kind of dancing is for stuffy nobles! We here like to have fun.” She couldn’t help but agree. It may not have been as proper, or as formal, but it was far more enjoyable.

She, Desaree, and Sarah made their way to the side of the room for dessert. She was just reaching for a sweet square of frosted cake when the room went silent. She froze, glancing over her shoulder. The dancing had come to an unexpected halt. Everyone turned toward the doorway. There stood Reyr, elaborately dressed, with a long golden cloak the same color as his scales. It fell in elegant ripples to the floor. Whispers echoed down the dance line as he entered.

The servants weren’t used to seeing a lord at Verekblot.

“May I join you?” he asked. His gaze circled the room until it fell upon her.

Honored by his company, the already drunken crowd merely cheered at his arrival. The music resumed. Reyr made his way over. At the same time, Desaree and Sarah disappeared from her side.

“I hope you are not bothered by my intrusion,” he said, taking up a vantage point beside her. “I could hardly foster the idea of you having so much fun without me.” There was a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“It isn’t a bother,” she assured him, a sudden thought coming to mind. “Did the king send you here to keep an eye on me?”

“Now, now, what makes you think that?” Reyr was his typical self, hiding any irritation her words might cause. She also noticed he failed to answer the question.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the strange visit I received on my way here, thanks to your telling him about my headaches.” She crossed her arms and frowned at him.

“Ah yes. Funny you should mention that. You certainly had an effect on him. He came to me a short while ago with his feathers all ruffled, perturbed by how you acted, still angry with me for not telling him sooner.” He reached behind her for a little dainty cake and popped it into his mouth. “Mmmm. Delicious,” he added as he swallowed. “Anyway, it is not as if I had anything to do with how you spoke to him. What in the name of Asjaa did you say?”

She shrugged. “Nothing impolite.” It took a lot of effort to hide her evil grin. “Besides, I’m sure his upset feelings were merely meant to make you feel bad for not telling him sooner.”

“I see.” Reyr frowned.

“And since when does the king care about my ailments anyway?”

“My thoughts exactly.” He regarded a couple that swept past them as he spoke. “Your surprise is as great as mine on that front. As soon as I told him about your headaches, he insisted on paying you a visit immediately.”

“Ugh. Thanks for that. I certainly enjoyed seeing him.”

“I do sincerely apologize for the sudden surprise of it. It was never my intention for that to happen.”

She shrugged. “I just can’t understand why he would care in the first place. Why bother after everything?” She shook her head.

“Perhaps he feels guilty for—you know.”

“Ha!” She laughed. “Him? Guilt? He was literally about to kill me in the torture chambers before you stopped him.”

“He was not.”

“Um.” She grabbed a fistful of fabric on the arm of his tunic and marched him out of the dining room. The music was too loud for a conversation like this. He didn’t protest. “Maybe I’m mistaken, Reyr. But you saw the dagger he held to my throat when you found us.”

“I saw it Claire. But know this, he never intended to kill you, only to scare you. He told me so himself.”

“To—to scare me?” She blinked back at him. “You’re joking, right? That’s worse! What kind of a monster resorts to that?”

Reyr sighed. “I do not like the idea any more than you. Nor would I condone that kind of behavior.”

“Yeah? Well then maybe you should be king and not him.”

“Claire!” his face changed. Instant fury. It was the angriest she’d ever seen him. “Your words are treasonous. You forget that I am his Shield. That he is my brother and I love him.” He took several heavy breaths before continuing. “Besides, I could never do half as well as he has. You have no idea what you are saying, none at all, no idea the feats King Talon has accomplished during his reign, no idea of the struggles he has faced.” He shook his head in disbelief, affronted on the deepest level.

He was hurt, she realized. Hurt by her words. Regardless of how much she hated Talon, upsetting him was the last thing she wanted. “I—I’m sorry, Reyr. That was thoughtless of me to say.”

“Thoughtless indeed. That tongue of yours will get you in serious trouble someday. See here, I understand your contempt for King Talon. He treated you ill, behaving in ways no king should. But never would I so much as utter such an insulting idea. Guard your thoughts more wisely next time.”

She nodded, blinking back tears of shame and anger. Reyr’s scolding hurt. She deserved it, but that didn’t make her feel any less crummy.

He sighed and leaned his shoulder up against the wall of the corridor, watching her until she felt awkward. “I’m sorry, Reyr,” she repeated. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“We are his brothers, Claire, his guards, his family. We support him in all things, no matter how good or bad. We swore an oath. We have given him our lives. Any insult to our king is an insult to us. Do you understand?”

“I—yes. I understand. I’m sorry,” she mumbled again.

“Good. Now that I have thoroughly ruined your night, which mind you, was not my intention, I do hope it is not too late to ask you for a dance.”

Her heart thudded several times, not because of any feelings for him she might have, he was just a friend after all, but because she hoped this meant she was forgiven. “You aren’t too mad to dance with me?”

“No. Not when your gown suits you so well. Not when your hair looks so grand.”

She opened and closed her mouth. Was he…flirting? She was momentarily stunned. Perhaps she read too much into his compliments. “You are too kind, Reyr.”

He bowed his head. “I hope that by dancing with you, I might salvage what is left of this night I have ruined.”

She eagerly nodded, happy to leave their argument in the past. He took her hand, placing it about the crook of his arm, and guided her back into the dining room just as the next boisterous tune began to play.

Reyr danced far better than she did. It was almost embarrassing to have a partner who outdid her so well, but his quick-footedness did keep her on her toes—literally. They danced every song together until the end of the evening. By then, she hoped their argument was forgotten.

Exhausted, she said goodnight to all her new friends, and Reyr escorted her back to her room. “I do hope you can forgive me for being so harsh with you earlier. I took no joy in it.”

She wished he wouldn’t bring it up. “I forgive you. Just as you said, dancing was an adequate way to salvage my evening. It is all but forgotten. Though, I have learned a valuable lesson, and I will try to be better about my rotten tongue.”

The side of his mouth twitched into a small smile. “I do enjoy your witty cynicisms, Claire, your smart remarks, and your honesty. But yes, where the king is concerned, that rotten tongue of yours may get you into trouble. Guard it wisely.”

They stopped before her door. She turned to him. “You never answered my question earlier. Did the king send you?”

“If I say that he did, does it diminish our night together?”

She shrugged. “I would have rather you come simply to spend time with me.” As she said it, she hoped her words did not give him the wrong impression about her feelings, especially after his surprising compliments.

“Well then, I am pleased to tell you that the king did suggest I go to Verekblot, if only to make sure you were well enough to dance. But the choice was mine. I was happy to take the opportunity.” The look he gave her, soft and gentle as it was, left her worried. Was he developing feelings for her? No, surely not. Still she had better end the night quickly.

“Very well. Good night, Reyr. Thank you for your company.”

“Good night, Claire.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles a little longer than he should have, leaving her to wonder further about his regard. Then he disappeared down the corridor humming the last tune they had danced to. She was left to watch his retreat down the corridor until he disappeared into the darkness.