“I…” I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. “I didn’t get a chance to express my gratitude before.”
He looks at me quizzically.
“You know. For saving my life?”
“Ah.” He drops his gaze to his plate and finally takes a bite.
“I’m not certain what the protocol is under the circumstances,” I continue, moving pieces of vegetable around with my fork. “Thanks seems rather feeble considering, but…well…thank you.”
He chews. Swallows. Sits a moment, still staring at his plate. Then, lifting his dark gaze to mine once more, he says, “It was an honor to be of service.”
There’s something so…I’m not sure. Somethingcompellingin his tone. Like there’s more being communicated than mere words can say. I feel suddenly adrift in a sea of significance, the likes of which I cannot fathom. Perhaps if I knew him better, if I knew something more of his history, I might be able tounderstand. As it is, I’m lost. All I know for certain is that he means it. Means it more than he can express.
“It’s a good thing you had that knife on you,” I say, more to break the pressure of silence than anything. “Was it confiscated after the fact?”
Much to my surprise, he flicks his wrist, allowing a flash of steel to appear momentarily in his hand before vanishing once more. I glance around nervously, aware of all the watching eyes upon us. Valtar seems unconcerned. Leaning forward, I whisper, “How did you manage it? I thought for sure they’d strip-search you after…well, you know.”
“It would take a great deal to separate me from my knives.”
Knives.The plural is subtle, but enough to make me shiver. I sit back again, appetite once more gone, and twist the scarf in my lap. “I wish I had one,” I say after a thoughtful moment. “Though I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did. Still, I…I wish I’d had some means of…of dealing with matters on my own.”
“You have your fire.”
My lips twist derisively. “Do I though?”
“You are of dragon blood, are you not?”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. So far, I’ve not been able to light so much as a matchstick on my own.” Part of me wants to admit out loud my own fear of flame, but somehow that strikes me as too vulnerable for this moment. Instead I simply add, “Even if I could summon hellfire on command, I’m not sure I could use it in…inthatway.”
Valtar is silent for a long moment. Then: “Prince Joro was actively trying to murder you. He deserved death.”
“Perhaps.” I sigh, looking at him across the table. “But I’m not sure I deserve to be a killer.”
“No.” His jaw goes hard, and his dark eyes narrow slightly.“Sometimes it’s easier to let that burden fall on another’s shoulders.”
Shame floods my heart. I open my mouth, either to protest or to apologize, I’m not sure which, but he holds up a hand, speaking over me. “No, no, forgive me, Princess. You are right. The killer instinct comes naturally to some and not to others. Fortunately for me, I’ve never had difficulty taking a life.” He leans forward then, dropping his voice by an octave. “It is a skill that can be learned, however. When one wants to badly enough.”
My mouth goes dry. I’ve never wanted to kill. Not even when…I close my eyes, seeing again the image of green flames, of hooded and bare-chested dracori marching down the village street. I hear my mother’s screams echoing after me as I flee the burning into the dark shadows of the forest. Not even then had I wanted to kill. Nor afterward for vengeance.
But the sensation of Joro’s fingers wrapped around my throat lingers. My own fingers move to touch the spot, half-convinced I will still find his hands gripping me fast. Perhaps I could learn to crave violence. Perhaps I could even learn to deal it when necessary. Perhaps…
“Though of course,” Valtar’s voice interrupts my train of thought, pulling my attention back to him, “there is no reason why you should need to learn such an unsavory skill. After all, is that not the very purpose of this tournament? To find a champion to fight for you?”
Whatever appetite I had is gone. I stare down at the uneaten food on my plate. Should I tell him the truth? Should I confess the purpose in my heart, which I have kept very close, very quiet all this time? Should I admit that I have no intention of remaining here long enough for the tournament to complete, for the champion to be chosen?
Escape—the word burns like a star in the dark of my mind. I must escape. Before more men die, before my false identity is finally recognized. Before I’m forced, one step after another, to march myself into flame and burn alive.
I must escape. I will.
But I dare not tell this man. I dare not tell any of them. I’m on my own here in this world of shadows and stone. No one to trust or turn to. Which is better, perhaps. How long did I let myself believe Iliyani was my friend, only to be disappointed in the end? Better to know one is alone than to trust false allies.
Unable to bear the weight of Valtar’s eyes, I push back my chair and stand. He rises at once, ever the gentleman, and his gaze moves to the silk scarf knotted in my hand. Hastily I hide it behind my back. “Well,” I say, brightly, “this has been a charming interlude. I do appreciate you entertaining me with tales of your triumphs. I will look forward to witnessing future heroic feats.”
“Princess.” Valtar’s face is serious, the lines of his brow and jaw hard. “If I have offended in any way—”
“No, no.” I step away from the table with a rustle of heavy skirts. “I’m merely tired, that is all. It’s been a most lovely evening or…whatever this is.” I step toward the doorway, but he moves too fast and stretches out one hand. He stops just shy of gripping my arm. I freeze, as does he, his fingers mere inches from my skin. He suddenly seems much too near, and my guards much too far away.
“Princess,” he says.
