“And what of half bloods?” I ask. “Do you also…?”
Thorne nods.
I swallow. Is this something my future children could be impacted by?
“So Mrath knows where Arion’s…mark is?” I ask.
Thorne shakes his head. “Perhaps, but she knows that he was always the weaker sibling. Despite the old king giving Arion morepower, he was still weaker than Mrath. As long as she lives, she exploits that power.”
I am speechless, and for some reason, Thorne lingers. As if he wants to reveal more.
Did you know about this?I ask Cursed One.
No.
Thorne shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I’ve said too much. I?—”
I seize the opportunity. “Will I come to know where his mark is?”
Thorne actually laughs. “No. It can be concealed even while nude. I do not think that the king will ever show any kind of weakness toward you. He is not your mate—he is simply a man used to getting what he wants.”
Instantly, I deflate once more. All of the pain and vigor drains from my limbs as he walks to the door and shuts off the lights with a wave of his hand.
“Sleep well, future consort. Tomorrow will be another full day.”
Chapter 20
VANN
Iknock.
“Go away,” a woman calls from within. The voice is dry as dirt.
“I can’t.” I hope I sound pitiful enough to catch her interest.
A long moment passes while I wait. And then, a latch scrapes, and a green eye peers through the crack. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”
“If I were selling, I’d be in a brighter street,” I say. “I’m looking for Neryth.”
Silence. The door hesitates. “That name’s out of fashion.”
“So is mercy in this fucking city that ignores begging children and turns away refugees,” I answer. “But I still need both.”
She tries to shut me out. I plant my palm against the wood—not hard, just enough to promise I won’t be scared away. “Mrath gave me your name.”
The door doesn’t move. “I don’t know who that is.”
Shit. Desperate, I continue. “Six nights until the hunt, the ball they want to use to introduce the new consort.”
“I need to be there,” I say, pitching my voice low
The crack widens a fraction. I catch a sliver of stormglass eyes, a hand ink-stained silver at the fingertips. “Who are you?”
“Someone who won’t cause you harm,” I breathe, choosing my words carefully.
A breath. Then the door opens on a room that smells of vinegar and soot. Worktables, ruined frames, and strings of tiny mirrors jittering lamplight like fish scales. She’s older than the rumor. Her skin is paper-thin, and her brown hair shot through with pure white. I wonder if she can see me, though I suppose we are more enemies than distant kin. She looks at me the way a whetstone looks at a blade.
“Inside,” she says at last. “Quickly.”
