“I suppose you think you’re funny,” the emissary cuts in.
Lysander blinks across the table at him. “Do you see me laughing?”
This delegate is older than the others. In his early forties, maybe, his hair salted gray. It’s probably why Paris Keeling has sent him—he thinks this one can’t be cowed.
“Joke all you want, Oliver,” says the emissary, turning a garish sigil ring over on his pinkie. A family heirloom, most likely, and offensively tacky. “You know what Paris requires of you. The hunter’s moon is two weeks out. Your attendance at the revel is nonnegotiable.”
Lysander sniffs. “Every year, Paris sends someone north to tell me the same thing. ‘The revel is mandatory, Oliver.’ ‘Attendance is compulsory, Oliver.’ ‘This is nonnegotiable, Oliver.’ I haven’t gone yet. I won’t be going this year, either, so it looks like he’s wasted both our time. Feel free to see yourself out.”
The emissary’s expression tightens. “You and I aren’t done here.”
“We are,” says Lysander. “As much as I’d love to hear what else you’ve come all this way to tell me, you’re boring Cy, and I can’t have that.”
Cyrus takes his cue, straightening in his chair. “It’s inexcusable.”
“Inexcusable,” Lysander echoes. “One might even say impolite. You didn’t bring gifts. The last envoy brought little chocolates. Cy is partial to the strawberry cordials.”
“My favorite,” drawls Cyrus.
Languid as a tiger, the emissary rises to his feet. “You think just because you’ve made a name for yourself up north, that you’re above reproach—that you can carry on however you like.”
“I am,” agrees Lysander. “And I can.”
“Insolent as always.” The emissary’s ring winks preposterously in the light. “That arrogance of yours is going to destroy you.”
Insolent. Arrogant. It’s nothing Lysander hasn’t heard before. He smiles with teeth.
“Another message from Paris, I assume.”
“No.” The emissary reaches for his coat. “That one’s from me. And it’s not a message, it’s a warning. You’d be smart to heed it. Paris has eyes and ears everywhere. He’s been keeping very close tabs on you.”
The first hint of wariness licks up Lysander’s spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” says the emissary, “that you’ve been given a remarkably long leash, but you’re still his creature. One day soon, you’ll be brought to heel.”
Lysander’s hands curl into fists. “I’d like to see him try.”
“Ah, there it is.” The emissary smiles. “A crack in the armor. Very good. Is it safe to assume I finally have your attention? Because you may think you’re untouchable, but I can assure you, you’re anything but. Paris knows exactly where to push to make you break. And youwillbreak, Oliver. You’ll break beautifully. I can promise you that.”
When he leaves, the door falls shut with a slam. It rattles the room, knocking a faded painting of a hunting lynx askew. Lysander tips his head to the side to meet the creature’s yellow eyes.
Leaning back in his chair, Cyrus kicks his boots up onto the table. “I think that went well.”
Lysander doesn’t lift his eyes from the painting. He contemplates it in silence, tapping two fingers against the table in a silent rhythm. “Where would you push if you wanted me to break?”
Cyrus thinks it over. “I’d push you off a cliff.”
“You know what I mean.” He tips back against the wooden sheaf of his chair, braiding his knuckles until the bones crack. “That was a loaded threat. Paris knows something.”
“Who cares?” Cyrus crooks his elbows behind his head. “Paris Keeling is always sending his lackeys up north to threaten you. And can you blame him? He wants you to stop being a rebellious little shit and fall in line.”
Lysander considers his lieutenant sideways. “You think he’s right.”
Some of the playful light goes out of Cyrus’s eyes. He’s edging into dangerous territory, and he knows it. “I think,” he says carefully, “it won’t kill you to make an appearance at the revel.”
“That’s exactly what he wants.”
“It’s one party, Lysander. How bad can it be? You’re beating yourself bloody, fighting Paris over every little thing. And for what? To prove yourself?”
