But she spoke first. “Gods.” Her voice was shaky. “I think I want to be sick.”
Hell. He hadn’t thought of how bad that was for her, his head too full of images of what would happen if the soldiers recognized exactly who those tantalizing breasts belonged to. All while his gut was roaring that they belonged only to him.
It had been too fucking close.
But they were in.
Chapter Seventeen
Nim leanedher head against Tristan’s chest just for a moment, wishing she could somehow absorb some of his confidence, and then slowly lifted her head to look around.
The courtyard was lit by a multitude of lamps, their bright light glittering in the spray from a massive three-tiered marble fountain that dominated the area. The fountain was topped by a trio of rearing winged horses, their forelegs raised as if they might leap from the sparkling water and into the air at any moment.
On either side of the courtyard were long covered walkways, accessed by rows of pointed gothic arches. Thronging through the walkways and all around the fountain was a mass of guests, steadily making their way over toward a pair of heavy wooden doors set with iron bands that stood open to the great hall. And between the guests, the ever-present blue uniforms of the palace guards.
Rising from the hall was a deep rhythmic beat of bass drums accompanied by a tremulous vielle in an eerie tune that lingered almost on the edge of discordant. A melancholy female voice sang a soulful lament, contrasting compellingly with the heavy beat, and Nim felt as if she was suddenly back under the pier, bewitched by the music of the pleasure pavilion above while the dark waters churned below her.
A wave of goose bumps spread over her skin as she remembered the feeling of being hurt and alone. Hunted.
She was still hunted, still in danger, still searching for Val. But this time, she was not alone. Tristan was with her, his warm strength anchoring her. And, more than that, she had changed. She had begun to take control of her life.
She could do this.
Carefully sticking to the shadowy walkways, they made their way toward the great hall.
As they walked, she watched the crowds, a new apprehension simmering in her gut. “Where are all the women?”
Tristan shook his head briefly, his body radiating concern. There were a few older women, like the one that Nim had befriended at the gate, but otherwise there were hardly any young women. Those few that were there were in small clusters, surrounded by husbands, fathers, and brothers.
“Keep your cloak closed.”
She nodded quickly, in complete agreement.
There was a crush at the doorway, too many hot bodies, too much sickly-sweet scent poured onto sweaty skin. Nim had to take deep, slow breaths, supremely grateful that it was Tristan’s hard, clean-smelling chest that she was pushed up against.
And then they were through, into the great hall. Massive crystal chandeliers cast golden light over the ostentatious display of wealth and power and the seething, surging crowds while the music beat steadily on.
Huge tables lined both sides of the hall, covered with an array of every food imaginable, from aspic made from calf’s heads, and peacocks roasted and presented in their feathers, to mincemeat pies and marzipan cakes.
Ale and wine flowed freely, and serving men moved amongst the masses, handing out crystal glasses of champagne.
The walls were covered with plush velvet drapes interspersed with detailed tapestries, while the back of the room was reserved for an ornate dais holding two heavy gold thrones in front of an opulent backdrop of Sasanian silk brocade.
The slightly smaller throne on the left stood empty. On the right sat a tall Apollyon, not quite as heavily muscled as Tor, more refined somehow, but still strong and stocky, with chestnut colored hair and a thin nose. He sprawled lazily across the throne as if it were a wooden chair in his local tavern.
He was dressed in a long burgundy tunic embellished in shimmering gold and silver, its short sleeves displaying his bulky arms, tanned beneath their mass of serpentine black and red tattoos. Unlike Tor’s, whose markings told a story of honor and duty, even from a distance Nim could see that these were harshly barbed and malicious-looking. A heavy golden chain of office circled his chest, glittering with rubies and onyx.
The king.
Tristan stayed resolutely turned to the back of the room, and Nim could take her time in studying Ballanor over his shoulder. There was a wide space cleared in front of the throne, and now and then someone brave enough, stupid enough, or desperate enough approached him obsequiously, despite his sardonic sneer and tapping foot.
They were all dismissed with an annoyed flick of jeweled fingers and quickly scurried away again.
The room was hot and stuffy, overcrowded, and pungent with the smells of food, perfume, and too-warm humanity. Nim found herself repeatedly jostled as people pushed past to reach the food-laden tables and then pushed back again with platters covered in delicacies.
But no Val. She ran her eyes over the tapestries and velvet drapes lining the walls, frantically searching, but all of them lay flat.
They’d taken such a massive risk. For nothing. She looked up at Tristan’s locked jaw, the scales flashing at his throat, and whispered, “He’s not here.”
