“You say that as if there are threats around every turn,” King Eldarion accuses. “Even in my own house.”
“Well, I’ve been trained to never mistake a serpent for a toad,” Draven replies. The linked bridge between us remains open, like a corridor built within my mind.
Are you seriously implying the elven king is a toad at his own table?I ask, pressing the thought his way.
He’s more likely a snake,Draven replies.
Whatever happened to not winning a pissing contest?I press.EvenI’mbetter at diplomacy.
Love, your expressions have annotations the whole room can read,Draven responds, and I’ve heard that before, though not so poetically. I resist rolling my eyes and Draven’s meticulous voice turns logical.I can’t assume that he’s not in some way working with King Altair. Better to prod and see what comes out. The elves are typically neutral in our conflicts, but Altair can be persuasive, and you heard the way Eldarion spoke to me earlier. We need to know where we stand before we can make the next move.
“And here you claim the seraph king sees boogeymen in the shadows,” King Eldarion manages tightly, holding his wineglass out for a servant to fill.
My eyes snag on the golden manacles at her wrists. They’re not connected by a chain, but the bruises make their intent clear. Then I notice her round ears.
I barely hear whatever Draven and the king say next, playing at words as if deciding where to slit the next knife. The woman walks around the king and stops at me, filling my goblet with more rich elven wine, my throat dry as I take in the bruises trailing up her sleeves, little brown and purple islands against a peach sea.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her when she’s done.
She freezes as if I’ve turned her to stone. Draven’s eyes trail from her wrists to her young face, before meeting mine. The woman nods, swallowing in terror, before she turns and fills Draven’s glass instead of replying. She likely isn’t allowed to speak to anyone seated here.
All around this room, I catch glimpses of the golden manacles. Dotted among the immortals are enslaved humans. I’m sick; a collar is a collar even if it’s studded in diamonds.
Remus.I pray that he was made into a changeling, that he’s not wearing the same gold chains. Would I even recognize his face if I saw him again? What did they do with the children? And my mother, taken from an immortal prison, for the gods know what. She’s in these lands, assuming she survived at all.
I desperately wish Fable and Malik had news to share with me now.
I wish I had decided to say fuck it, scour this place myself, even if it raised questions with the elven king. My appetite disappears, and I find myself drinking the wine too quickly. Here I am in a pretty dress, with the attentions of a mighty prince. But in another Selection … this could have been me, forced into servitude. The World seems to have chosen me at random. I’m spoiled in comparison, given great power I didn’t evenwantat first. The two of us are headed toward thrones, but it might not come soon enough to help these people.
You’re not eating, Draven points out.
Neither are you,I push back, deflecting. My hands shake, and I clasp them together under the table.
Well, I had my fill before dinner,Draven says, eyes dancing.
They invite me to play, but I can’t summon the energy to distract myself.
Draven gently puts his silverware down, laying his napkin across his plate. “That was delicious. King Eldarion, did this beast come from one of your famous hunting trips?” he asks, charm suddenly hitched on like a shield, as if he’s shapeshifted in front of our eyes.
Eldarion blinks, thrown in surprise, and my brows furrow.What’re you doing?
Playing to his vanity.Draven squeezes my knee beneath the table.
“Yes, I killed this one myself, it nearly gored several in my party.” Eldarion’s grin is smug. “He weighed over a ton. A dangerous but beautiful beast.”
“That’s very impressive,” Draven admits, and if I didn’t know how good of an actor he was, I’d have believed him, too. He leans closer, nearly conspiratorially. “I can see that you’ve imported quite a few mortals who’ve avoided Selection into your realm. I’ve heard you’re personally keeping Destarion’s rates quite low.” Draven steeples his fingers, elbows on the chair’s arms, his eyes a deep, ocean blue. I know I didn’t share the thought but Draven’s clever enough he must’ve figured it out.
The king takes this change in topic as some olive branch. He cuts into his meat and says, “You’d be amazed how many capable hands wind up in Destarion. The mortals’ cowardice benefits me greatly.”
“And are they all house staff? Entertainment?”
“Some are barely worth the food to feed them. They typically go to the mines, or undesirable jobs for as long as their mortalcoils will hold. But we make use of the capable … every merchant needs hands, every lady a handmaid, though some mortals surprisingly have immense talent.” The king shrugs, raising the glass of wine to his lips. “As you know, elves look for the most artistic and beautiful in Selection, but occasionally we find them hiding away.”
I hang on his every word, hating him more and more.
“We have a few every season. Years ago we had one … she was rather beautiful, a lava-blessed who became rather valuable. As you know, sometimes we find diamonds in the coal.”
My mother’s bright red hair flashes in my mind.
