“You rode well, King Basten.” Captain Tatarin tips her silver goblet to me. The painted hearts on her cheeks are smeared, but she’s one of the rare sober ones gathered in the box—her goblet holds only water. “Not every man would go up against a monoceros with a goddess on his back.”
I wrap an arm around Sabine’s back. “Myst nearly threw me when we hit that forest set. The one with the actors. Guess we forgot to tell her the spears weren’t real.”
Tatarin and Ferra, beside her, laugh.
Vale catches the last bit of the conversation and joins in. “You might be interested to learn that in the true Race of Sun and Moon, both kings were slaughtered long before they ever reached Calisyrune. One by warring pirates, and the other succumbed to an infection.”
Vale blinks pleasantly, as if he’s just told a highly entertaining anecdote.
Ferra’s eyes widen to show the whites, but she quickly clears her throat. “Right…if you’ll excuse me.” She goes off in search of Folke.
Captain Tatarin waits a beat before pasting on a smile. She raises her glass again. “Here’s to the old scribes who turned tragedy into stories.”
Sabine and I exchange a quick, wary look before weakly raising our glasses.
The Valor Bell chimes in the distance from Valor Circle. I count the chimes. Ten, eleven, twelve.Midnight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Artain snake his arm around Woudix’s neck and tip his head up to whisper in the God of Death’s ear. He doesn’t speak in the Common Tongue—it’s some language I don’t know. Samaur comes over to join them, rubbing his hands together.
Trouble practicallysparksin his golden eyes.
The three of them set down their goblets and quietly leave the box.
I squeeze Sabine’s hip, hard, like a signal. “Excuse me—the latrine calls, if you’ll allow me leave.”
An indulgent smile curls her mouth, but the shrewdness in her eyes tells me that she knows perfectly well I’d never ask her permission to go piss.
“Granted.” She mockingly bows, a genie granting a wish, and everyone laughs again. She lifts an eyebrow. “I’ll meet you later in our chambers.”
I signal to Rian. “Come with me—hold my cloak while I piss.”
As we leave, Captain Tatarin starts retelling a bawdy story about two of her soldiers she caught in the woods in a compromised position, and thankfully, no one watches us too closely.
“So where are we actually going?” Rian whispers as soon as we’re in the arena’s breezeway, out of earshot from the others.
I drop my pretense of good humor and mutter darkly, “We’re following the Blades. Artain, Woudix, Samaur. I don’t trust those bastards.”
Rian’s mouth curls in a grim smile. “Kendan didn’t think it necessary to have spies on hand tonight, but I knew better. I quietly tapped a few old connections. They stocked some weapons caches in all the usual places—like we talked about.”
A pulse of relief goes through me.Just like old times.“Good. Here—trade cloaks with me.”
We reach the latrines and squeeze into one of the stone chambers. I quickly swap cloaks with him, unbutton my royal shirt, turn it inside out, then tie a cloth around my face.
As we exit the arena into a cobblestone square, if one so much as glances at us, we’ll look just like two more commoners in the festive crowd.
I close my eyes and smell the air for a trace of iron—the underlying scent of any fae.
“This way.” I tap Rian’s shoulder and head toward Varn Row, the market district, which is all but a ghost town at this time of night.
Rian’s footfalls fall in step with mine. To any passersby, we might look like twins. Brothers, at least. We know one anotherso well that we barely need words as we navigate the streets with just a look or a small gesture.
“Basten,” he says eventually, breaking the quiet. His voice hitches. “I just want to say. Gods, not to be overly emotional or anything, but you and Sabine accepting me, sins and all. Bringing me into the fold. It means, well?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter.
He laughs softly, then gives me a grateful nod.
“There. They turned left at the corner.” I head for a dirt road up ahead.
