“Briars Equinox is in five days. We should probably lay low until it’s over, then catch a caravan heading north.”
Bell cranes around, head on a swivel, and Rakos has to grab his elbow before the crowd separates them. “Why do we need to lay low for the festival?”
“There will be more soldiers around, and people from out of town.” Rakos narrows his eyes. “You want to go to the festival.”
“Please?” Bell’s eyes are enormous, so wide and pitiful Rakos nearly loses his footing.
He lets go of Bell’s elbow. “You don’t need my permission.”
“Of course, I don’t.” Bell takes Rakos’s elbow this time. “I want your cooperation, though. I’ve never been to a Draskoran festival before…”
Rakos sighs. “All right, you win. I’ll escort you to the festival.”
“You’re thebest,” Bell says.
This is a bad idea.
But Rakos has enough trouble refusing bad ideas when they don’t plead like that.
***
“Where should we meet if we get separated?” Bell asks five days later. Eyes shining, he practically vibrates with excitement. He spent most of the previous two days napping, and the rest has done him good. Rakos likes the glow to his skin, the quickness to his smile.
Both of them spent the past two hours chasing Bastard around the room to tire her out, so they could safely leave her in the inn while they attended Orthin’s Briars Equinox.
A warren of tents and canopies covers the entire square and surrounding blocks, overlapping and alternating, exposing barely a hint of starry sky. Magic and lanterns light everything as bright as daylight, and braziers keep the festival summer warm. There’s hardly a coat or long sleeve to be seen as Orthin’s people sway bare-armed and intoxicated from booth to booth.
“We’re not getting separated.”
“Of course not,” Bell says brightly. “I don’t plan on it, at least.”
Rakos is starting to understand why Bell’s family keeps such a tight leash on him. Unattended, Bell is liable to wander off distracted at any moment.That’swhy Rakos keeps looking over at Bell every few moments.
Not because Bell is dressed for the heat of the festival in a new short-sleeved shirt. Patched, second-hand, too large on him. The deep green makes his skin glow pale gold. Especially when the too-large collar shifts, exposing the lines of his shoulder.
Rakos is in a sleeveless tunic, faded black and probably third hand. Even with Ludvik’s coin purse and the surprising amount of gold Bell earned from selling whatever trinkets he had, they’re being thrifty.
The tunic is comfortable, but every time Rakos’s arm brushes Bell’s shoulder, or Bell grabs him to point something out, his bare skin ignites in too-pleasurable flame.
Like now, when Bell hooks an arm around his. “There’s magic in that barrel.” His breath skates over Rakos’s skin. “And that woman with the cups and pebble.”
Under a black awning, a team of merchants splash dubious brown liquid into wooden cups in exchange for gold. Rakos would normally be down for a mystery bender, but perhaps not when he’s on the run for false treason accusations. He would never be down to be swindled at cups—except through the crowd, he spots a wedge of black-uniformed soldiers.
Best to stay occupied and out of the way. Cups aren’t a bad choice.
Rakos nudges Bell between the shoulder blades. “Want to watch me cheat a cheat? Tell me which part is magic.”
“It’s an enchantment,” Bell whispers as they approach the shabby gold tent. The placement next to the mystery liquor tent is inspired; three drunks are lined up to get swindled. A silver-haired woman sits behind a table, shuffling a small disc beneath three wooden cups. “There’s a spell on each of the cups. What are you going to do?”
“What prize do you want?” Rakos gestures to the items hanging from the awning rafters. Ribbons and woven flowers and hideous straw dolls.
Maybe it’s the light, or maybe Bell really flushes. “Let me think.”
The woman is a quick cheat, and the three civilians ahead of them quickly leave without prizes. “Come up, come up,” she calls with a wide grin. “Dare you try your eyes against Petunia’s hands? I’ve got the third-quickest hands in Fellrin, which makes them the quickest hands in Draskora.”
Petunia is somewhere in her sixties, her plump, tan face creased with laugh lines. Silver and white streak through what was once pure black hair, twisted in a bun atop her head. She looks eerily like Rakos’s maternal grandmother, who moved from Fellrin as a girl.
“Very intimidating, but I’ll give it a try.” Rakos rests his fingertips against the tabletop. “How much is it?”
