A smirk twisted his mouth. “You could have scattered them easily enough yourself. Though not with a blade.”
She paused, looking down at him. Was he serving her or the Myriad One inside her? Where was his allegiance? She believed, deep down, that his understanding of her was flawed. If he believed she was a hetaera deliberately, and it was part of the reason he wanted her as a partner, what would he think when he learned that she wanted more than anything to be rid of the creature haunting her? Would he cast her aside? Did she want him to?
“What a grave expression,” he said shrewdly.
“I suppose it is,” she replied. “I was not expecting to see you in Rostick.”
“Are you grieved to see me in Rostick?” he asked teasingly.
Rather than answer the question, she said, “You took a great risk coming here. If the Hautlanders knew . . .”
He nodded. “Exactly. If they knew who either of us were. Hmmm. The ransom they would charge would cripple my kingdom. And I think even your father would ransom you.” He reached up and rubbed her chin with his thumb. “But if he did not, I would.”
“You enjoy taking such risks,” she said. “I should think you would be more cautious.”
“Life is risk,” he answered. “I thrill at the opportunity. Yes, that fencing master could have killed me. He took the same risk as I did, and he lost the use of his sword arm. Maybe permanently.”
“Why did you not spare him the wound?” Maia asked, smoothing ripples in the salve she had applied to the scar.
“You never spare a Paeizian the honor of sporting a vicious wound!” he said with a bark of laughter. “First of all, I was held hostage in Paeiz, so I have some natural resentment. But fencing masters are also arrogant and proud. If you best one, they will come at you again and again, trying to win back their lost honor. Give one a decent scar, and it becomes a badge of honor. Truly, it is maddening business, their sense of revenge. I have always been very capable with a sword. It comes naturally to me. When I was twelve, I defeated my first master. I was considered too young to be a target for a blood feud, but that changed when I was fourteen. They consider you man enough to die at that age.”
She looked down at her handiwork and then wiped her blue fingers off on a rag. “Let me bind this.” She fetched a linen wrap and he sat up and shrugged off the rest of the shirt. She tried not to look at him, for each time she saw the kystrel, it made her stomach wrench and her mind darken. She wound the wrap around his chest and tied it off with small knots.
“Thank you,” he said as he lifted himself off the bed and walked over to a chest in the far corner, hidebound and tacked. He withdrew a small key from his pants pocket and fit it into the lock.
“You locked your chest?” she asked curiously.
“For good reason. I do not want anyone stealing my clothes,” he said, opening the chest and rummaging until he found a padded shirt and a fine embroidered doublet. “Or yours.” He pulled on the padded shirt and fastened the doublet over it, then tossed the ruined shirt in the corner and swept back his dark hair, shaking loose some water droplets. Once he was dressed, he reached into the chest and withdrew a deep voluminous gown made of cloth of gold. The fabric almost glowed in his hands.
“I see by your eyes that you like it,” he said slyly. He unfolded the gown and let it drape out so she could appreciate the full effect. There was a subtle pattern of lilies, the Dahomeyjan royal flower, in the design. The fabric was immensely expensive and luxurious and Maia’s heart hungered for it. She had worn gowns like that once, but not in many years. The sleeves, which were pinned to the upper arm, were long and full and trimmed with a wine-colored fabric and inset with pearls.
“Beautiful,” Maia said, blinking. “It is not really suitable for traveling.”
“Of course not,” he said. “But I would like to see you wear it for the voyage at least. It is the gown of a queen.”
She bit her lip. “I . . . while I appreciate the gesture—”
“You cannot refuse me, Maia. Your gown is soaked! You need something to wear while it dries. You must wear this. You are my queen.” His voice fell to a whisper, almost haunted. “You are a great queen.”
Maia stared down at the fabric, her cheeks growing hot. She wanted to wear it. She wanted to feel it against her skin. She sighed. “Will you give me some privacy to change?”
He looked a little disappointed. “If you prefer it that way. Let me check with the captain. I will not be gone long.”