The problem is that his words don’t match anything else about him. Not the look on his face. The tone of his voice. The glint in his eyes. Nothing. The man I knew is still in there, peering through the haze. At me. Someone on the right side. And someone who might be able to save him.
Also stupid. Because you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. Yet I find myself wanting to try.
“Consider the fire snuffed.” A bold lie as I hold his gaze and drop my britches where I stand.
Naked, I move to the tub and slowly ease into the hot bath, groaning at how good it feels.
Aware of the prince’s roving stare, I drag water over my shoulders and reach for a piece of soap and one last effort. “You know, Thamaos is using you,” I tell him, sliding the soap up my arm. “He’s likely why you don’t remember who you are.”
The prince leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “You know nothing about me. Or Thamaos. Don’t pretend you do.”
I rub my hands together, forming a lather. “I know that you were someone before he fucked with your memory. You probably had family and friends and a life. He took that from you, and you don’t even care. That’s how deeply he’s infected you.”
“I’m here because I want to be. Because Tiressia deserves to be united under one rule. No more war. No more division. No more existing as three separate continents and an archipelago when we were once one land. It can be that way again. Open seas. No fear. No fighting.”
I rest my arms on the sides of the tub and study him. “You really think you’re doing the right thing. That murdering an entire valley full of people was necessary.”
He works his jaw. “War has casualties. Until it ends. Which it will if I have anything to say about it.”
“And yet, you are the cause of war. The cause of division. The cause of protected seas and fear and fighting. All because, why? Thamaos whispers his desires to you when you pray to him? Is that how it happens? He slips that poison right into your brain, telling you what he needs you to hear so that he can once again live? Is he why you must survive off souls? What the fuck sort of deal did he force you to make?”
“I made no deal. My purpose is to unite Tiressia, and with Thamaos’s help, that’s what I intend to do.”
Something in those words catches my attention like a shirt snagging on a nail, but I can’t reason out why.
“If you think that he will have use for you after you resurrect him,” I say, “you clearly did not live in an age of gods and don’t have any notion what you’re up against.” I grab the sponge and begin washing again. “He’ll probably kill you when he’s done with you. And all of this will have been for naught.”
I have no idea if anything I said will get through to him, but the seed has been planted. I’ll have to work on making it grow, if Thamaos’s poison doesn’t kill it before I get the chance.
With a playful wink, I wring my sponge out and extend it toward him. “You’re sure you don’t want to help? It could be fun.”
No reply, but the way he gazes into my eyes is intense enough that I eventually slip under the water to break the stare, holding my breath and counting to ten. If he’s still standing there when I come up for air, perhaps I’ll finally persuade him to stay. To join me.
To remember.
Luckily for us both, when I break the surface, he’s gone.
29
ALEXUS
Raina and I sleep until we hear the clang of swords echoing from the beach the next morning.
I get up and go to the catwalk door, peeking through the sheers, only to find Rhonin and Hel sparring in the sand, the white-crested waves lapping at their feet.
They move like two lovers dancing, so aware of one another. So comfortable. This synergy has happened over the course of weeks now, their friendship and alliance. But sometimes I wonder when it will become something more.
Regardless, as a man who once taught the sword, I’m impressed by their skill. Watching Rhonin with all his Eastland army knowledge is one thing. But Helena is a warrior to her marrow, something I’ve known since I saw her bravery in the ravine. She’s Rhonin’s match in every way, pivoting, thrusting, and blocking as though she’s wielded a sword her entire life.
More surprisingly, though, is the sight of Nephele and Joran—also sparring. And not as gracefully.
They’re both skilled—I taught Nephele the blade myself. But where Rhonin and Helena move like lovers, Nephele and Joran move like enemies. Their faces are red in the early morning sun, their bodies stiff and sweaty and on edge. The only time either of them relaxes is when Joran bests Nephele and laughs in her face. When she attacks, he manages a block, but not before she sweeps his legs and straddles him with the length of her sword pressed to his throat.
“Your sister is going to kill Joran,” I say lazily as Raina crawls out of bed and moves toward me.
She slips her hands around my middle and up to my chest. Rising on her toes, she rests her chin on my shoulder and presses her naked body against my back lovingly.
“Let her,” she signs.
