THE BANQUET WILL BEGIN IN LESS THAN AN HOUR,” the elderly man says, leading us to a series of rooms assembled in a row down one hallway near the place Eogan left us. “Until then, we hope you find refreshment in your quarters.”
From what I can see through the open doors, they each look exactly the same in size and beautiful furnishings. Mine is third down, after the two Rasha’s been assigned. I stand and watch the guards sort the other delegates into theirs. Lady Gwen, Lord Percival, and Lord Wellimton—they promptly disappear through doors before the soldiers click their feet and step back to pose one on either side.
“Be ready as soon as the banquet’s done,” Myles mutters when he strides past me.
My nerves rise. “We can’t wait. He’s already—”
He cuts me off with a wave and strides on toward his quarters, leaving me to twelve guards, six from Faelen and six from Bron.
I inhale and eye them, trying to recall how Draewulf took over Breck—did he ever emerge through her skin early on? Through her hands? I can’t remember anything other than her shift in personality. Maybe Draewulf’s bluffing. I clench my jaw. Or maybe not.
Either way, you can’t do anything about it right now. So smile and start out on a good foot with the guards.
I force a brazen grin and nod to them. “You gentlemen look worried like I’ll strip down to my Elemental abilities and run ruinous through the Castle.”
The Bron men may have Eogan’s onyx skin and hard expression and broad chests that are thicker than three versions of Lord Myles, but they’re clearly missing his humor. There’s not even a smirk. I sniff and turn for my room, but before I can step forward, the largest guard reaches out and slides his hands through my hair and down my neck.
My palm is against his chest faster than a bolcrane claw, except without an Elemental surge the result is nothing more than a shove of annoyance. Two Bron soldiers grab me and pin my arms to my side as my Faelen guards offer no help, and the first man continues his search of my body.
I shudder and fight to ignore his rough touch down my skin and the slave memories it evokes.
“Just checking for weapons, miss.”
As soon as he finishes, I push him off and step into my quarters, then slam the door to the sound of tromping footfalls. A moment later, I hear an entourage enter Rasha’s room—the level of her squeal and the murmured fawning voices suggest it’s her bodyguards and lady-in-waiting.
Shaking off the sensation of the man’s hands, I turn to my room. Get familiar with the environment.
It’s elegant, with walls covered in white paper flecked with giant black paisleys and set off by a black rug and a smooth-edged iron bed. Nearby sits a couch, and a desk stands against a white-curtained window. I stroll over to peek out and find a full view of the airship pad we just left, with the ship now settled on giant metal ribbing while the balloon above deflates.
A knock on the door is followed by a man’s voice. “Your bag, miss.”
I open it up to one of Rasha’s bodyguards holding a case that has Faelen’s crest on the side. He tips his head. “From the princess.”
There’s no armoire in my room, so I unload the bag onto a set of five empty iron shelves stacked against one wall like the wood ones in Adora’s library. I’m halfway through tugging out my blue leathers before it occurs to me that the clothes have already been rifled through. Which means the Bron guards sifted over every inch of this bag, and they didn’t bother to hide the fact.
My knives.
Yanking out the rest of the clothes, most of which look suspiciously like Rasha’s Cashlin style, I feel around down at the bottom of the case for my weapons. Not there. I slide my fingers along the sides until I come across a small slip of material that, when pulled on, reveals a false front. Not there either.
Litched cranes.
I glare around the room and, chewing my lip, try to squelch the feeling of helplessness. What was Myles thinking? No powers, no knives, not even the blasted sheath with the straps . . .
I freeze.
And turn back to the bag. What was Myles thinking? Because knowing him, he most definitely was.
I feel over the two stiff straps attached to the case and, sure enough, at the base of each is a section that’s hard and unbending. I tug the material open along one of the seams and there, wedged in, is the tip of one of my knife handles with its blade jutting into the side lining of the bag. It takes a bit of work to slide the blades out, but when I’ve got them in hand, my breathing eases.