“You know why I waited, father.” Lincoln positively oozes cool. “If I told you two days ago, you’d have done something rash. Now, we can consider the news about Striga in the context of what’s really important.” He laces his fingers through mine, and then sets both our hands on the tabletop with a thunk.
Whoa. Up until now, Lincoln and I have kept a friendly distance from each other in his father’s presence. With that particular move, Lincoln couldn’t have marked his territory more clearly than if he’d peed on a shrubbery.
The Prince’s voice sounds with a low and dangerous edge. “I thought you wanted to talk about me and Myla?” Under my palm, his skin is slick with sweat. Poor guy. He puts up a good face but this must be killing him inside. I give his hand a little squeeze.
The King growls out one word. “Perhaps.”
I hate to admit it, but I get how the King goes from happy to miserable to enraged to loving in sixty seconds or less. I know someone like that; I look at her in the mirror every morning.
The Prince and King launch into a mini-staring contest that lasts two excruciatingly long minutes. Octavia spends the time looking placid and Queenly. My face droops into an anxious frown as I rub my thumb in little circles on Lincoln’s hand. After a lot of shifting in seats, huffing of breath, and staring, staring, staring, the King finally looks away. I’m no ace at playing these games of state, but I consider that a ‘big win’ in the Lincoln column. Connor turns to me, his manner turning gentle.
“The Scala Heir must excuse my temper.” The King clears his throat. “Now that your powers are active, do you wish asylum with the thrax?”
Asylum with the thrax? It’s a tempting idea at that, what with all the yummy Lincoln access. I glance around the table. Sadly, I don’t know if these folks can protect themselves, let alone the Scala Heir. No, I have to go where Verus sends me. I shoot the King an appreciative smile. “I came here to see Lincoln. Mom and I have other plans for what happens next.”
Octavia nods to Connor. “You remember Senator Lewis from the era of quasi rule?”
“Absolutely. Very capable. The only one who predicted Armageddon’s rise, as I recall.”
Octavia points to me. “This is her daughter.”
My back straightens. So freaking cool to hear people talk about the awesomeness that is Senator Lewis. My mouth rounds into a proud smile.
“Interesting.” Connor folds his hands onto the tabletop. “Very interesting.”
The Queen eyes me and smiles. “Do you know how Connor and I met, Myla?”
The King lets out a lively chortle. “Not this story, Octavia.” Clearly, he’s back to a good mood. I feel like I need a scorecard to keep track.
Lincoln turns to me. “It was at the ball to celebrate the spring equinox.”
“That’s the official story,” says Octavia. “It was actually at the winter tournament. I used to fight in those, you know.”
I grin. “Yes, Bera told me.”
I picture the golden breastplate Bera gave me to wear at the last Winter tournament. She’d said the Queen had one like it when she competed. I picture Octavia at that age, all spritely, wired with muscle, and absolutely lethal. Man, I would have loved to see that.
The Queen mimes shooting an arrow. “My skill lay with the bow. The tournament beast that year was a Manus demon. I shot it full of arrows—and was within seconds of winning—when I ran out of time. Connor waltzed onto the field of battle, ran the monster through with his sword, and won the tournament.”
The King laughs his head off. “It was quite a bit more than that, Octavia.” He shoots me a conspiratorial smile. “This was two hundred years ago and she still carries a grudge.”
My eyes bulge. “Two hundred years?”
Lincoln nods. “Thrax live a long time.”
I chew my lower lip, considering. The Scala lives a long time, too. I look at Lincoln’s square jaw, scooped-out cheeks, and full mouth. He’s so freaking awesome I can’t stand it. If we can get through this nasty Scala-Acca-Armageddon stuff, we could have a very long and amazing time together. Lincoln seems to read what I’m thinking (with my skill for hiding emotion, it doesn’t take a genius) and he rubs his foot against mine under the table. Pretending to scratch my nose, I hide my grin under my palm.
Connor curls his hands into mock-claws. “Never was there a worse tournament beast, and never a greater warrior to fight it than Octavia.” His mouth winds into a cunning grin. “Afterwards, I went to visit my lady in her family’s tent. I wanted to commend her valor on the battlefield, but I failed to announce myself formally.”
Octavia smirks. “He walked in while I was alone and half-dressed. Appeared behind me out of nowhere.”
Whoa. I know what I would do—what any warrior would do—in a situation like that. I wince. “What did he get? Elbow to the gut?”
Octavia arches her eyebrow. “Knee to the groin.”
I grit my teeth. “Yowch.”
Lincoln’s shoulders rock with laughter. “You never told me that, father.”