“Listen to what Caris has to say.” She didn’t outright order him to agree to whatever offer awaited him, but it was heavily implied that he should.
Soren followed Delani to a small building that had been designated for visitors to the island. Men in Ashionen uniforms guarded the entrance. He ignored their stares and followed Delani inside. The gas lamps were all turned to their brightest settings, the light shining warmly all around them. Two people Soren remembered from Glencoe stood in the entryway, both of them dressed in the trousers and shirts of E’ridian aeronauts. The blond had been missing part of his arm last year but seemed to have received a mechanical prosthetic in the time since. The dark-haired man with the intricate metal hair ornaments woven through his long braid gave Soren a friendly enough nod.
“Thank you for agreeing to come,” he said in the trade tongue. “I’m Honovi,jarlto Clan Storm. We’ve met before.”
“I remember,” Soren said warily.
Honovi gestured at the blond man standing beside him. “My husband, Blaine, also of Clan Storm.”
“Once of the Westergard bloodline,” Blaine said in the same language, just as deft at the pidgin structure as Honovi.
The name didn’t mean anything to Soren, and he just stared at them. Delani sighed, hand still on the doorknob and holding it open. “Speak with them and find me after you’ve thought about what they’ve said.”
Delani nodded goodbye at the E’ridians before leaving Soren to face them alone. Blaine shifted on his feet, angling his body toward the hallway. “Caris flew all this way to speak with you. I hope you’ll take the time to hear her out.”
“Your queen?” Soren said.
“And your sister.”
The pointed statement had Soren rolling his eyes. “I’m a warden. We have no family.”
But Delani had given him an order, and as much as Soren wanted to turn around and leave, he trailed after the E’ridians farther into the home. More of the soldiers stood guard outside a receiving room, though the only people who waited for them inside were three Ashionens who weren’t dressed like any nobles Soren had met before. The two women and one man all wore practical clothing, and each person had a gas mask clipped to their belt.
Soren’s attention settled on the younger woman, her gray eyes the same shade as the ones that stared back at him when he looked in the mirror. Her hair was a darker brown than his, falling to her shoulders in thick waves. She was pretty, not striking, and if she was meant to be queen, she lacked the magnetism Vanya had as emperor, that confidence that came with being a ruler and knowing one’s place.
It seemed she was still learning it.
Blaine gestured at the three seated on the sofa and armchair. “May I introduce Mr. Nathaniel Clementine, Lady Lore Auclair, and Her Royal Majesty Queen Caris Rourke.”
Wardens didn’t bow to any government, and so Soren merely stared at the young woman who claimed to be queen and much more than that where he was concerned. She wore no crown or tiara, no jewelry or other indication of her rank. When Caris stood to greet him, he found her to be shorter than he was, slightly built, but she had faint cuts on her hands from doing work royals typically left for others. She said something in Ashionen, which Soren didn’t understand.
“I don’t speak your language,” he replied in the trade tongue.
Caris blinked at him, and her next words were in the language shared at the edges of every country’s borders. “Do you only speak the trade tongue?”
“I know Solarian. My border was in that country.”
“You’ve never been to Ashion?”
“No.”
Caris nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving his face. “I’d like to speak to Soren alone.”
Lady Lore Auclair said something quick in Ashionen. Soren didn’t understand the words, but he understood her tone. Caris shook her head and remained firm in her request. After a moment, the others filed out of the room, closing the door behind them. She retook her seat and gestured at the chair across from her. “Please sit. There are things I want to speak with you about that don’t deserve an audience.”
Soren thought about leaving, but Delani had wanted him to hear Caris out, so he sat, resting his elbows on his thighs, hands hanging between his knees. The weight of his poison short sword shifted along his back but remained secured. He was dressed for the poison fields, a place he hadn’t been to in months, and he would rather be camped outside on the back roads than sitting here.
“Blaine said you were born Alasandair Rourke,” Caris said.
“Whatever name you think I had, it was stricken when I came here as a tithe. My name is Soren.”
“I know a thing or two about claiming an old name.”
“We differ there,” Soren said sharply. “I don’t want whatever it is you think is mine.”
Caris straightened her shoulders, folding her hands together over her knees. She looked tired, a bit strained, but that didn’t stop her from speaking her mind. “You must know of the war in Ashion, perpetuated by Daijal and Queen Eimarille Rourke. Our sister is determined to murder me to claim the starfire throne. She will try to murder you as well.”
“And you are determined to tie me to a bloodline and a fight that isn’t mine. I’m a warden. We remain neutral.”
