Maerel hissed a breath. “That guard is a problem.”
“How so?” I asked. My tone was gravelly, and my hand itched to reach for my sword and uphold the threat I made back at the festival.Maerel gestured with her chin, and I went to the split doors and peered through a crack in the upper section.
Cyan leaned into the bar, propped up on one arm, boxing in a young woman. Her hair fell in loose waves, and when he tucked the strands behind her ear, the softness of her face revealed her youth. Barely more than a girl.Still, older than he usually went for. Bitterness stung at the back of my throat. He spoke boisterously over his shoulder, and the soldiers at the table exchanged uneasy glances.
The woman turned her head aside, and Cyan grabbed her roughly by the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. I gritted my teeth. He reached down with his other hand as if he were working at her skirts with a cruel twisting grin, bunching them. The girl squinted.
“Go upstairs,” I instructed Maerel.
“Lark—”
“Now,” I commanded. The firmness in my tone gave no room for discussion, and this time her footsteps sounded her assent as she obeyed my order.Hand at the hilt of my sword, I lowered my hood and shouldered the door, pushing it open just enough to draw Cyan’s attention. His hand stilled beneath the woman’sskirts, and his eyes narrowed on me. I raised my chin, knowing even as I did that it was a risk. I could justify the need to separate Cyan and deal with him privately while the other soldiers were distracted. Though they surely had my description, none of them had worked alongside me, so they would not so easily take note of me in a crowd if I did not stand out. Eliminating Cyan greatly lowered the threat of my capture and bought me time to wait for the huntsman’s return. Questioning him, too, could draw valuable insight. But the fire in my blood, the clench of my fist, told me this would be an act of rawness too, not one my training would prepare me for. In a primal sense, he was a threat to the fragile life I was forming here in Elrune and a threat to Evera, my mate. That, along with the violence he was forcing on the woman he’d cornered, was enough to move me to action, even without thoughtful reasoning.
Withdrawing his hand, Cyan turned his eyes back to the girl and forced his fingers into her mouth. She choked back her fear, and his grin of satisfaction deepened. Though it took every ounce of restraint I had, I held back in the doorway. I knew what he was doing, and I would not allow myself to be drawn out into the open where he could so easily attack me.
I retreated to the table in the kitchen and braced my hands on the wood. Knuckles white, I snarled, waiting. I needed Cyan to come to me. If he were wise, he would raise the attention of the soldiers so that they could detain me as a group. But Cyan was greedy and believed too highly of himself. It was a gamble to try to draw Cyan out alone, one born of recklessness. My own frustration only further fueled my anger, further heated my blood.
When the split doors behind me creaked on their hinges, I turned to him. “A duel,” I said, forcing my voice to stay firm. “In the woods behind the inn.” Rash, thoughtless. I drew a long breath, regaining myself. I needed to remain level-headed, toregain my composure, and to work with the situation I’d put myself in. I could not let Cyan see how he riled me or how desperate I was for a fight.
Cyan sneered. “Fine, Bastard. A duel.”
30
NEIRIN
The night seemed darker,somehow, as though hours had passed and not mere minutes since I first encountered Cyan in the inn. The hens, too, had quieted, their incessant clucking hushed after one of the guard’s heavy boots made contact with one of them as he followed me out to the secluded section of woods beside Maerel’s garden.
Moonlight cast shadows through the trees and across Cyan’s brow; his eyes were dark beneath their ridges. He stepped sideways, and as he did, I mirrored him. A circling, a dance. A foretaste of what was to come, the reflection of years of mock fights played out in the castle’s training yards. But Cyan and I were no longer boys trying to prove ourselves to the commander, no longer young men clashing blunt training swords to hone our skills, to prove strength or position. Now, we stood not as childhood rivals but as opponents with honed blades and sharp eyes.
“You’re posing as a peasant,” Cyan sneered.
With our gazes locked, I studied him. And when he stepped again, I did so as well. If he was intoxicated, he was masking it well. Though I had no doubt I could take the man, the fight would be dangerous. Despite the fool I believed him to be, Cyanwas still a castle guard.And, not only that, but the son of a commander. Trained from the age he could hold a sword. If it were not for his arrogance and tendencies to lead with emotion, he could very well be as skilled a fighter as his father.
“No retort?” Cyan snorted.
Standing my ground, I drew my sword. “Save your condescension, Cyan. There’s no one here to listen to you. No one who cares.”
The burly man curled his lip, and his hand went to the hilt of his weapon. “The King will have my head if I slay you, Bastard. And you know it.”
The edge of my lips turned up. Harlan wanted me captured alive. There was a part of him, then, that doubted the recounting of the events the night of Kaius’s death. Despite my dagger in the King’s chest and my hands stained with his blood, there was a hesitance from Harlan. That alone could be enough to secure my safe passage back to the capital.
The realization dawned on me. Would it be so simple, then, to return to the castle and speak to my brother? To defend my innocence and work alongside him to unravel the truth?
It was possible too that Cyan was lying. It would not be against his nature to do so, to feign a ruse in hopes I might surrender and return with him of my own accord. Or perhaps he aimed to put the weight of honor on me so I might hold my blows if I believed he would.
And what of Rion? The timing of his arrival when he came upon me over Kaius’s body the night of the festival was convenient—too much so to dismiss. If he were not the assassin, he was at least a pawn in the game, whether he was aware of it or not. It gave only further reason to distrust his son.
Though I longed for information, for answers, I could not put any faith in Cyan’s word. Nor would I allow him the satisfaction of believing he held influence over me.
When I didn’t reply, irritation creased Cyan’s brows. Flexing his fist, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and drew it with a hum that rang through the woods.
“I will not hold back,” I told him, because honor drove me to say as much.
Cyan raised his chin, challenging me with his gaze. The black of his hair and uniform lent him to the shadows of the wood, the moonlight on his face a contrast. His complexion was fairer even than his father’s, though their rigid features were the same.
His resistance to making the first move was a strategic move. He’d learned my technique in the years we spent training alongside each other. The consideration showed more intellect and more forethought than I gave the man credit for, and it spoke to his sobriety.
To leer or to rile him would be too easy, too distasteful. Retorts stung in the back of my throat, but I held them back. If I played this carefully, there was a chance I could gain honest information from him, if only by the slip of his tongue. But not if I drew out his temper, not if I pushed him too far. I needed him to boast or to make a statement that stood outside the constructs of what I knew to be true.
