“Gods don’t belong to places,” Ronan says, and there’s no truth spell between them, but Karis hears the weight of that truth nonetheless.
A dry branch cracks in the near distance, and the conversation is over. Ronan dips his fingers into his dice bag and whistles out a clear, sweet melody.
The answer is a woman’s voice, a raspy alto with a Praian accent. “I’m still mad you picked that as the secret signal.” A tall woman appears from around a tree, with creamy skin and blond hair braided to her waist. A red-orange tunic flows past her hips, and a bow and quiver hang behind her shoulder. “You know I can’t fucking whistle.”
“Your sister can whistle.” Ronan removes his hand from his dice.
“If Melanne could fart the alphabet, would that be our signal?”
“I’ll have to ask her.” Ronan gestures for Karis to walk over. “Come over here.”
Karis stands up, knees creaking a little from walking and then crouching for so long, then realizes how easily he’s obeying. However sexy and mysterious Ronan is, he still kidnapped him. He can keep working a little for Karis’s cooperation.
When Karis doesn’t move, Ronan stalks over. The annoyed set of his jaw is deeply satisfying. Karis is still pleased about it when Ronan grabs his arm and yanks him forward.
“Who’s this kid, anyway?” the woman asks.
“Not a kid.” Ronan meets Karis’s eyes like they’re sharing an inside joke. “His name is Karis, and he’s a squire in the Radiant Order.”
“Fucking ashes.” Coira crosses her arms in a warding gesture. “What the hell are you thinking, recruiting a Varan?”
Karis nearly topples over in shock as Ronan keeps pulling. He falls against Ronan’s shoulder for balance, and they answer simultaneously:
“He’s not a recruit.”
“I’m not a recruit!”
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CHAPTER EIGHT
RONAN
Ronan glances down at Karis, then away. The cool forest air fails to quell his unusual frustration. He’s the one who thought Karis might be useful in the first place—why does the idea of recruiting him into the Locksmiths suddenly bother him so much?
He’s seen the way Karis looks at him. Persuading him would be easy. Ronan has played far more difficult roles before.
“If he’s not a recruit, what is he?” Coira laughs. “A hostage?” A quiet wind rustles through the trees above, and the two men’s silence is her answer. Her eyes widen. “Sparks and ashes, Ronan!”
“Save the questions,” Ronan says. “Start the spell.”
Coira crosses her arms over her flowing tunic, looking like an angry festival banner. “I know you’re the boss, but I don’t feel right bringing a Varan back to base. How can we trust him? It’s bad enough he knows what both of us look like!”
“We can’t trust him.” Ronan’s grip tightens around Karis’s arm. “That’swhywe have to bring him back.”
“Maybe she’s right.” Karis twists around to tug Ronan’s sleeve with his free hand. “Who knows what I could learn at your base? It would be way smarter to let me go now instead. I can promise not to search for either of you?” His smile is adorable. “Varans never lie.”
“Coira,” Ronan says sharply, ignoring the fast-paced words beneath his ear.
Karis continues, “Really, I can swear it by…”
His words trail off, and a strange, distant expression crosses his face. An instant of light reflects gold in his eyes.
Swearing an oath by Radiant Vara, god of the sun and truth and clear vision, carries rather more weight than swearing by the Trickster. It seems Karis knows better than to rashly commit to that oath.
Coira sighs and flings her arms out. “I guess I’ll let Dansa scold you about this.” She brushes her hands together quickly, and her firestone rings collide in a shower of sparks. The sparks follow the movements of her hands as she chants in Old Praian, shaping a door of flames into being before her. When she finishes, it hovers a foot above the ground, wide enough for two men to pass through side by side. There’s a glimpse of a darker room beyond the door.
Her control’s much better than when she first started out. Three years ago, her older sister would have strictly forbidden her from casting in a flammable forest.
