Instead, I decided to study the space until I had my bearings. I wandered slowly, taking in the trinkets that sat on shelves. The weaponry on the walls, some of which I recognized from history lessons about the Great War, some of which were completely foreign to me. The placards mounted beside them offered information in a language I couldn’t decipher.
The bookshelves were the same way. Leather-bound texts in languages I’d never learned. The common tongue was shared by every kingdom in Menryth, so I’d never needed anything else. Whoever this collection belonged to had a different opinion. Or an obscure hobby.
Some small noise made me look up.
I found Amanti watching me from the other side of the space. Her expression was wary but patient.
She was giving me time, I realized. Ironically, it was the one thing I knew we didn’t have much of. Not after what I’d done to Duron. Or whatever the Midnight Court had planned for me. I still wasn’t willing to take Amanti’s word for it that this court wasn’t a threat. I’d done that with Callan, and look where it’d gotten me.
“We should talk,” I said at last.
“All right.”
Her arm was still in a sling, her ruined wings tucked at her back. Every time the mantle of her dark hair shifted, I saw the ragged edges again, and worry scraped my ribs raw.
I paced in front of the fire, thoughts racing through all the things that needed to be said between us.
“You’re going to wear a trench in this floor,” she said at last.
“Good.” I kept pacing. “Maybe that damned guard will break his ankle in it, and I can see myself out.”
“It’ll take a lot more than a rut in the floor to stop Thorne,” she said mildly.
“Exactly what will it take?” I tossed out, only half-joking.
“That’s a good question,” she mused. “For starters, you’d have to get past three Midnight fae, all elite warriors with gifts from the gods.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “So, it was a communal kidnapping.”
A low voice drifted from the doorway. “We prefer rescue.”
I whirled. The guard from earlier leaned a shoulder against the frame, a hulking silhouette with a neatly kept beard and eyes the color of slate before rain. A section of hair had grown longer than the rest and hung in three small braids at his shoulder. He’d swapped the cloak for a dark wool shirt, sleeves rolled to forearms corded with quiet strength. I had the distinct impression that the sword at his hip wasn’t a threat so much as an extension of his body.
“One of myrescuers, I presume,” I said, the word laced with sarcasm.
He offered a mock-bow. “Thorne Varros, at your service, Your Highness.”
“Where are my swords?” I demanded.
“They were removed for your safety. And ours. Though apparently the blades weren’t the primary threat.” His gaze flicked to my hands as if he’d seen the embers spark from my skin earlier. “At any rate, you’ll get them back when you’re recovered.”
“Recovered?”
“The drugs we gave you,” he said and had the decency to look slightly embarrassed by it, “are pretty strong. They’ll take another day or so to fully leave your system. Until then, you’ll be a bit off balance.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not off balance.”
“Of course not,” he said gravely.
I frowned, remembering how the food had helped steadyme, how it took the edge off my shakiness and blurred vision. Maybe it had been more than just hunger.
Before I could ask what, exactly, they’d given me, another figure appeared behind Thorne. Another male, older, broader in the shoulders, quieter in presence, though no less imposing. And familiar. Recognition hit me like a punch in the gut.
“Daegel,” he said as if to remind me.
As if I’d forgotten.
“I know who you are.” The words came out thin as a blade. “Rydian’s third.”
