I mold myself into a vision of poised composure and say, “Go ahead.”
Her cheeks flush. “The patient’s, ahh … As you know, the gift of Dragonsight runs thick in my family line. So once the blood was cleansed from her skin, I could see the layered stain of many runes. Many, many runes.”
I frown, looking at Elluin. “Recent?”
“It’s hard to tell.” Agni makes her way around the pallet, peeling back the sheets. “But she has one wound that doesn’t appear to have been mended by runes. It glows a shade of silver I’ve never seen before. Right … here,” she says, placing her hand directly over Elluin’s heart.
My blood chills.
“A killing wound,” she continues. “Not one folk survive, since healing a stab to the heart takes more time than the patient usually has.”
All the heat drains from my face.
Creators …
I swallow the thickening lump in my throat, rubbing my hands down my cheeks, threading my fingers through my hair. “Don’t tell the King. Not until we know why … or how.”
Agni’s face blanches, stare flicking to the door at my back, to me again. She drops into a swift curtsy, clears her throat, then turns her attention back on Raeve.
Frowning, I look toward the door, moving out into the hallway just in time to see a shirtless Pyrok disappear around the corner at the far end.
I sigh.
Charging forward, I spill into the sitting room and cut my gaze across the cluster of colk leather seaters curled around a low stone table that’s seen more games of Skripi than there are stars in the southern sky.
Pyrok’s sprawled across a large seater, his long, disheveled hair the same blazing hue as the flame dancing between his fingers. “Don’t tell the King, huh?” he says, condemning me from beneath raised brows.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, stalking toward the opposite seater and dumping myself on it. “He’s so fucking happy to have her back he’s not asking nearly enough questions. Besides, you don’t slaughter your enemies with a blunt blade. You sharpen it until it’s so honed you’re certain it’ll do the job.”
Pyrok flicks the flame from one hand to the other like a ball, its illumination casting his face in fierce, angular shadows. “What do you know?”
That Elluin was stabbed to death—contrary to the story we were all spoon-fed like younglings desperate for a scrap of sustenance.
“Let me rephrase,” Pyrok says with a roll of his emerald eyes. “Is whatever you do know going to lead us to war with our fledgling army?”
I shrug.
He curses, squashing the flame in his fist, fingers still steaming as he runs them through his hair. “For someone who’s never officially been to war, you’re incredibly hungry for it.”
“What have we been preparing for all these phases if not to swipe the filth from the board and undo all of Pah’s hard, bloody work?” Tucking one leg beneath myself, I pivot, unlacing my leather vest from where it’s threaded down my front and sides. I loosen it, pull it over my head, then lift my loose brown tunic, exposing the ancient fire-lash marks I know make a damn good mess of the pretty skin on my back. “You know I didn’t keep these because I like the look of them,” I say, tossing him a backward glance, though he keeps his eyes on my scars—stare bouncing from one deep, mangled slash to the next. “I kept them so that every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of why Tyroth and Cadok need to rot.”
Nothing quite like winning your own Tookah Trial, then being scored to shreds by your own blood for soiling the family name.
Yes, I’m war hungry. I’ve earned that right. Seventy-eight times, to be exact.
Pyrok clears his throat, dropping his gaze as I spin, wiggling my tunic back into place—not bothering with my vest.
“I didn’t get to rip off Pah’s head,” I mutter, reaching for the mug of brandy and tipping myself a glass. “I’ll rip off theirs.”
“Well, let me know if you want me to fry their cocks.”
“Maybe. See how I feel at the time.” I jerk my chin at the stack of Skripi cards and the eight-sided dice tucked in a tall clay mug beside it. “Deal us.”
“I hate when you’re bossy,” he groans, sitting up and reaching for the deck, swiping away some of the thickening tension.
“If I don’t boss you around, nobody will. As it is, you’re about as useful as a pretty mead-stained floor rug.”
“Pretty, you say? Fuck me,” he boasts, chest puffed, elbows on his spread knees as he leans forward and shuffles. “I’m flattered.”
“Course you are.”
He winks, dealing the hard parchment shards. I snatch each one that slides onto the table before me, features smooth as silk despite my delectable hand.
This game loves me.
“I don’t want to play for gold. I’ve got enough gold.” I fan my deal, reordering them from best to worst—left to right. “I want to play for favors.”
Pyrok snort-laughs. “Take it you’ve got the Moonplume?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I purr, batting my lashes at him.
He cuts me a dry look, then lays the rest of the deck around the board that never leaves the table. That’s absorbed more spilled Molten Mead than Pyrok—and that’s saying something.
“My roll,” I say, reaching for the cup containing the dice. “Since your face annoys me.”
“You said I was pretty.”
“Yeah.” I toss the dice across the table, rolling a six, picking the eighteenth shard from the far left corner. Choosing to add the spangle to my deck, I set my sowmoth face down on the empty spot. “Pretty annoying.”
Pyrok chuckles, shaking his head. He throws the dice, picking up a shard he ponders, the smile smoothing from his face. “Grihm seen your scars?”
“Course not. Why?”
He slides the shard into his fan, placing another in its spot on the grid. “Just wondering. Don’t tell the King what?”
“Not telling, and if you try to pry the information from poor, vulnerable Agni with your charm stick, I’ll murder you in your sleep.”
“The fucked-up thing is, I actually believe you,” he mutters, and I cut him a sharp smile—gone the next second.
I roll the dice again, picking up the hushling, face stony as I say, “Elluin used to keep a diary, you know. I once caught her tucking it into a hole in the wall. In the suite she’s sleeping in right now, actually.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Pyrok asks, pouring himself a glass while I deliberate what to trade out.
“Never felt important before.” I shrug, placing the huggin face down on the empty space on the grid. “Does now.”
“Okay, well … where is it?” He scoops the dice into the cup and rolls a seven, though he’s swift to discount the card he picks and leaves it face down on the grid.
“Think she took it back with her to Arithia,” I mumble, rolling a two, this time picking up the Moltenmaw.
Luck, it seems, is licking my ass.
“Over a hundred phases ago,” he says with a thick tone of sarcasm I certainly don’t appreciate. “It’s probably dust.”
“It’s cold there.” I watch him over my fan of shards, holding his stare as I set the flotti face down on the empty spot. “Perfect atmosphere for preservation.”
He looks at me like I’m daft, which we both know is far from true. “Think you can visit Tyroth and not cut off his head, forcing your only decent brother into a war that starts off on the back foot?” He slams a shard on the table, and I frown at the thieving woetoe leering at me from the painted side.
Cute. He thinks he’s got tricks.
“I’m not that irresponsible.” I ease my hand forward so he can blindly steal whatever shard he wants, smirking when he plucks the fog slug from the far right. “And you’re incredibly shit at this game.”
He scowls down at the shard, growling as he threads it into his fanned hand. “I hate playing with you. I’ve watched you play over your shoulder before. You usually stack your good shards from the right to the left.”
“Exactly why I stacked them left to right,” I tell him, draining my glass before thumping it on the table. “Skripi.”
“Already?”