“I’m not sure that we’re going to have any choice about it,” she said.
“We have a choice, and I say no.” His hands came down on her shoulders and he gripped her hard. “In fact,” he said between his teeth, “I really want to forbid this. I want you to notice that I haven’t.”
She softened and rubbed his forearms. “I notice it, Dragos, and I’m very glad of it.”
He studied her grimly, clearing thinking hard. “Speculation is not knowledge,” he said. “Just like Johnny is confused about what happened to him, people cannot be sure about what happened in the valley. They don’t know if you fed me healing potion, or if you threw a healing spell. Most of them were too far away. The only ones who were close by to see anything in detail are the sentinels.”
“And Carling,” she said. “And Quentin, and Alex, and Eva—and don’t forget Hugh.”
His dangerous gaze narrowed. “Eva.”
“She won’t say a word,” Pia said hurriedly. “I believe that. She and Hugh came to work for me this morning. I only brought them up because they add to the total number of people who know something.”
“Still, except for the gryphons, nobody knows anything for sure,” Dragos said. “And we should keep it that way. No, don’t interrupt me—listen: I hear what you’re saying. But in spite of everything that has happened, Pia, we’ve only seen a week go by, and you’re suggesting we do something that we cannot take back once it is done. We haven’t had time to consider all the consequences—especially for how it might affect the baby’s life once the news gets out.”
She sucked in a breath, her gaze turning stricken. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
His fingers tightened. “People are going to speculate about you for the rest of your life. That’s part of who you are now. Let them speculate about this too. It does no harm for them to think that you might be able to throw unusually effective healing spells.”
“Yes.” She sighed. He pulled her into his arms, and she rested her aching head on his chest. “Everything you said makes sense.”
“Well, thank gods for that.” He kissed her forehead. “I took Taliesin’s Machine over the ocean last night and threw it in the water.”
“What?” Her head snapped up so fast, she clipped him on the chin. “I thought you said you didn’t see it!”
“Ouch!” He glowered at her and rubbed his chin. “You asked if I saw any prayer beads, and I hadn’t. The Machine had taken the form of a perfect diamond. It was fucking gorgeous, Pia, and it was almost the size of my fist. So I put it in my pocket and cloaked it, and then we had a shitload of things to do, and when I knew that you were home, safe in bed, I threw it away.”
She chewed her lip, her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t suppose there was anything else to be done,” she said at last.
“There wasn’t. It can’t be destroyed, and it was far too dangerous for us to hold on to. Eventually it will work its way back into the world. I just wanted you to know what I’d done.”
She considered him for a long moment. Then she laid her head back on his chest. “You’re going to make such a splendid husband.”
His arms closed around her again, possessively. “I am, which is a good thing, because I’m the only husband you’re ever going to get.”
She closed her eyes, soaking up the sensation while she inhaled his masculine scent. “I can live with that.”
The fighting in the arena that day was savage, and most of the contestants—except for Quentin again—got bloodied one way or another. Mostly Pia pretended to watch. She put on a good show, although more often than not her gaze rested on the Elven demesne’s box that remained empty. At the end of the day, there were fourteen contestants left, including all five of the original sentinels. Again, Pia could tell that Dragos was pleased.
“They all want it,” he said. “They’re going to win through again.”
She devoutly hoped that was a good thing, as she looked down on the top of Aryal’s head.
The next day the rounds started early, and nobody could predict how long they would take. Pia joined Dragos at the window for the first half hour.
After she had put in a public appearance, she fled to one of the other rooms where she signed cards and wrapped presents for Beluviel and Linwe, and she wrote a letter of condolence to Ferion, the new High Lord.
Eva remained out by the window, and Dragos and Kris didn’t even bother to pretend to work. They took turns calling out the name of the winner to Pia at the end of each fight.
Graydon.
Bayne.
Constantine.
Aryal.
Quentin.
At that, Pia had to sit down because her damn legs had turned shaky. She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Quentin, who she knew disliked Dragos intensely. Aryal, who disliked her intensely.
And the gods knew, along with everybody else, how much they hated each other.