“Thank you, sir. I will see you in the morning, then.” Farlin hesitated a moment, pale eyes darting to the closed doors, but finally he bowed and departed, leaving Syrus alone.
Syrus didn’t head inside, though. Not yet. His anger at his mother, coupled with the stress of the day, had his temper dangerously close to boiling over. He needed to calm down ifthere was any hope of getting through this night without a murder.
Meditation was not his strongest suit, but he tried, anyway, leaning against the cold stone wall and taking slow, measured breaths until his anger settled back to the low simmer that had become his new normal since meeting his betrothed. Only then did he step away from the wall, squaring his shoulders before walking into the rooms that had been his all his life.
Even with Farlin’s advanced warning, it was jarring to see someone else in his bedroom. He’d never brought past lovers here, preferring their rooms or an inn or, on rare occasions, a quick fumble in a side street. Only Farlin had the freedom to enter at will and only because he must in order to perform his job.
Eiri had no such freedom, or hadn’t until granted it by the queen. He’d almost expected to walk into a changed room, to find the soothing greens and golds replaced by whatever passed for decor among the Canjiri. Starfish and seaweed, perhaps? Crude statues made of old ship boards and seashells?
Everything looked the same, though. His bed was neatly made, the wardrobe closed tight. Even his armor appeared undisturbed, though he would give it a very thorough examination before wearing it again. The only difference was the man sitting in his favorite chair near the window, his bare feet resting on the edge, knees pulled up this chest, and his eyes locked on Syrus.
It appeared Farlin had left the moment he’d seen the Canjiri in his room, because the fire was still unlit and the magelights were dim without an extra boost of power from his valet. The evening was warm enough that a fire wasn’t necessary, but he would have preferred the magelights stronger to banish any shadows. The fewer places for Eiri and his man to hide, the better. Moonlight filtered through the windows, lending a soft glowto the raider’s sun-lightened hair. On anyone else, the light would have been flattering. On Eiri, the play of light and shadow lent him a dangerous, almost menacing air.
They stared at each other in a silence neither was willing to break. The tension grew and Syrus’ hard-won calm faltered. Before he could do anything foolish, he looked away and went to his wardrobe, purposely putting his back to Eiri. His skin crawled and his instincts railed against turning his back on an enemy, particularly this one, but for once he had to be reasonable and cut this off before it grew into a conflict they would both lose.
Besides, his formal clothing was not made with fighting in mind. The fitted shirt restricted his movements, the waistcoat unsuited to protect him. His weapons had all been confiscated before the ceremony, as had Eiri’s, which should have been his first clue that his mother was plotting something. That didn’t make either of them less competent, but it did mean any fight between them would be a brawl at best, leaving them both bruised, bloody, and all but begging for the queen’s retribution.
Removing the waistcoat without Farlin’s assistance proved more difficult than expected, particularly when he had to keep so much of his attention on the silent man behind him, but Syrus eventually managed. He tossed it in the bottom of his wardrobe alongside his shirt, exchanging them for a long-sleeved linen sleep shirt. Usually he didn’t bother with clothes for bed, but that wasn’t an option tonight.
His boots went beside the wardrobe, his breeches joining the growing pile in the wardrobe, traded in for soft pants of the same linen. The whole time, he felt Eiri’s eyes on him, but neither of them said a single word.
The routine of readying for bed usually worked to calm Syrus’ mind, but then, he’d never done so while under the sharp gaze of a man who wanted him dead. By the time he was done,his jaw ached from how tight he’d clenched it to hold back any unwise words. The very last thing he wanted was to face his mother again and confess that some Canjiri upstart had gotten the better of him.
“If you’re going to use the washroom, do so now,” he said, breaking the silence and turning to face Eiri. The man hadn’t moved, knees still up to his chest, eyes on Syrus. Those eyes narrowed and his hopes of getting through the night without a fight dwindled.
“I don’t take orders from you.”
Syrus had expected an insult, at least. Perhaps now that the ceremony was done and they were officially wedded, Eiri would calm down. It would certainly make his job a lot easier.
“It was a suggestion, not an order. The spells that provide hot water to the bedrooms deactivate for several hours after midnight, so unless you prefer to bathe in cold water, you’re running out of time.”
“Why would the spells deactivate?” Eiri raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“The kitchen and laundry require a lot of water to function properly, so they draw on the supply during the night. By deactivating the spells to the rooms, it discourages residents and guests from tapping into the reserves while they’re needed elsewhere.”
There. Polite and to the point. He could see Eiri considering his words, wondering if there was an insult in there, but finally, he just nodded and unfolded himself from the chair. He never took his eyes off Syrus as he made his way to the washroom, only breaking eye contact when he closed the door behind him. In the silence that followed, Syrus heard the distinct sound of the lock engaging.
His shoulders slumped, the closed door between them relieving some of his tension. That was the most he and Eiri hadspoken without devolving into murder attempts, so he had to count it as progress. It was clear Eiri had expected a fight and didn’t quite know how to handle Syrus being polite to him. Much as it galled him, that may be the best way to deal with the raider. He only had a few weeks to get his new husband under control, and if he had to accomplish that by pretending to be nice, he’d do what needed to be done.
Chapter 7
Eiri
“I thinkSyrus is going to kill me.”
Kien glanced up when Eiri slipped into his room. Whatever he saw on Eiri’s face, it was enough to make him put down his pen and close the lid of the desk on whatever he’d been writing.
“We’ve known for years that the entire Vardor family wants you dead,” he pointed out. He motioned to the only other chair in the small room and Eiri collapsed into it with a heavy sigh.
“And the feeling is mutual.”
“Then why do you feel your death is more imminent than it was a week ago? Has he said something?” Kien sat up straighter, eyes going cold. “Did he threaten you?”
“No, nothing like that,” Eiri assured him. “He’s being nice to me.”
That took the wind out of Kien’s sails and he settled back into his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Syrus is being nice to you? Explain.”
Hearing it out loud, it sounded ridiculous now. Eiri’s instincts told him that something wasn’t right, though, and Kien was the politician, not him.
