“I used to think so, too.”
I’d always thought myself more jaded than her, but now, I remembered her story. The daughter of a Lord who turned against her own father and joined a band of mercenaries. Her upbringing may have been different from mine, but it was equally brutal.
I took a deep breath, set down my goblet, and said, “I’m an ass.”
“North is an ass. Harthon is occasionally an ass. You had reached your limit, and I pushed you over the edge,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Her empathy only made me feel worse. “There is enough pain in this world. I didn’t need to add to it.”
She shook her head with a light laugh. “Words stopped hurting me long ago. It takes a dagger to make me bleed, now.”
Some of the tightness in my muscles vanished. “I thought I made you hate me.”
“No. You’re the only other person around here who isn’t just a cock with a head attached to it. I need you too much to hate you.”
It didn’t make me laugh—I wasn’t sure it was a joke—but it did free my tongue further.
“What was it like, when you were with Harthon? Notwithwith him,” I rushed to correct, wincing. “But with his group, before he became Princeps?”
My fumble didn’t affect her. She exhaled, long and slow. “Brutal. Bloody.”
“Why did you stay with them?”
She shrugged. “For the same reason you came back to us from Koerlyn. Because no matter how brutal and bloody it is, it’s the only thing I’ve found that wishes to create some good.”
My gaze flitted to Harthon, to his deadly hands. “Do you ever doubt that potential for good?”
“In this world, there is no path to good. It hasn’t been carved yet.” She followed my eyes. “We must carve it ourselves, and carving a path requires force. It’s never soft or pretty, but I cannot think of a better path-maker.”
As I silently processed her words, she added, “Though a path-maker is no good without someone to show him the way. He’s half of what he can be.” Her hand landed on my arm, drawing my attention away from the man she spoke of. “And you, Etarla, are the one to show him that way.”
The seed beside my heart awakened, heat swallowing my lungs as it pulsed like the start of a fire—a small flame that grew into a blaze as Harthon finished his conversation and strode toward me with deliberate steps.
When he reached me, he extended a hand. It was the one that had slain Jonathan. In a low voice, he asked, “Would you dance?”
I studied the calluses on his palm and fingers, the faded white lines of small wounds from long ago that marked his skin. All that heat in my chest expanded, flaring low and up to my shoulders, burning my throat with one word.
I scanned him from his forearm to shoulder, to the strong cords of his neck, to that angular jaw dark with hair. There was a shadow of hesitation on his face, I thought. Maybe because he’d been holding his hand out for several seconds, his requestlingering between us. Or maybe because he knew what he’d done a little over an hour ago would not be forgotten.
“Yes.”
Chapter 12
Harthon’s hand was heavy against the crook of my elbow, even though his touch was light as he guided me down the platform’s steps.
I hadn’t hadsomuch wine as to require his assistance, but it was comforting to know he wouldn’t allow me to trip and faceplant in front of hundreds of people—all of whom were openly watching us as they created a wide berth at the base of the platform.
At Ellan’s party, we’d danced amongst the guests, most of them too intoxicated to give us more than a passing glance. But now, a mock stage was being created for us on the floor as the crowd parted, forming an attentive semi-circle.
And Harthon was leading us directly into the center of it.
As my hands grew clammy, I was very much regretting the one-word answer I’d just given him. I’d been thinking of him and me, not of what a dance actually required. I stole a glance at the platform, where Ana sat wearing a delighted smile.
I wouldn’t get any assistance from her.
My frantic eyes found a servant bustling across the floor, bowls piled high in her hands. Maybe I could pretend to be sick from all the food, or flat-out faint, or—
Harthon drew his thumb along my arm, the small sensation stealing me from my panic. The gesture reminded me of hispresence and strength, which for some reason, reminded me of my own.
