Cassta held the crow away. “First, take a deep breath.”
This suggestion was met by a deep scowl from Llyra.
Kanthe crossed over, drawn for many reasons. “Maybe I can help.”
Llyra huffed and stood, clearly done with the whole affair. She thrust a hand at him. Her fingers clutched a curled ribbon of oilskin, sealed with a dab of wax. “This message needs to get to Symon, to let him know we’re about to make the crossing toward Malgard. One of his crows arrived earlier, with word that the situation in Kysalimri grows more heated with each passing bell. He wants to know our progress to determine how best to proceed.”
Kanthe took the scroll. Skrycrows had been flitting back and forth as they had traveled along the Scarp. Such swift birds flew faster than any ketch, but eventually the distances would be too great, making communication and coordination difficult once they crossed the mountains. If they wanted any further support from Symon and the Razen Rose, they could not delay any longer.
Llyra brusquely waved for Kanthe to take her stead. He suspected some of the guildmaster’s frustration was not just due to an obstinate skrycrow. Last night, Llyra had come to Kanthe’s cabin, half-drunk, or at least feigning so, and kissed him roughly. She had tried to push him toward his bed, but he had maneuvered her back out before she could do more. Still, his reaction had been more reflex than rejection. Her lips had been soft, her tongue probing. The rise of her breasts pressed against him had not been entirely unwelcome.
Still …
Probably for the best.
Llyra strode across the deck. Once at the hatch, she swept her half-cloak, as if to brush them both off, and vanished below. While Llyra might have wanted to share Kanthe’s bed, he knew another whose ardor had gone ice cold. He regretted the loss of Rami’s friendship and still held out hope that it could be rekindled.
With a sigh, he turned and dropped to a knee across from Cassta. The woman’s face was stoic, but her eyes glinted with amusement, as if she had been listening in on his private thoughts. And maybe she had. It was said Rhysians were capable of reading another by studying the tiniest movements of eye, mouth, and breath. It’s what made them such skilled assassins.
Of course, Kanthe’s hot face hid little of his discomfort—both from last night and now.
Cassta smelled of honeywood and leather. Her silver-white complexion set off the rose of her lips. Her ampleness filled her bodice, especially when she leaned over to hold out the skrycrow toward him.
He stared a breath too long.
“Prince Kanthe,” she said coldly, stating his title with a hint of disdain.
He tried not to take offense. The Rhysians’ matriarchal society notoriously held little regard for hierarchal rule.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry … just a lot in my head at the moment.”
“No doubt.” Cassta’s gaze flicked to where Llyra had vanished. “She is quite handsome in her own hard way.”
Kanthe’s cheeks grew hotter. It was a small ship, making secrets difficult to keep. He lowered his face and concentrated on freeing the capped end on the crow’s message tube, which was harnessed to the bird’s back and positioned lengthwise between its wings. He struggled to accomplish this simple task. The bird fidgeted, still clearly agitated from Llyra’s rough handling.
Trust me, little bird, I feel the same way.
Discouraged, Kanthe sat back on his heels. Then he remembered Cassta’s instructions. Taking a deep breath, he reached a finger and ruffled the feathered crest along its neck. He shushed softly to the bird. The skrycrow fluttered its wings, then seemed to grow calmer.
“There you go,” he whispered.
He uncapped the tube and slid the scroll into place. Once done, he thanked the bird with another ruffle of its crest. The crow twisted its head and rubbed a cheek against a knuckle, raising a smile to Kanthe’s lips.
Cassta drew the bird to her bosom and gently smoothed its crest. “As you can see, it’s the tenderest touch that warms the heart. But after that—” She shrugged. “A firmer touch is often welcome.”
Before he could respond, she stood, crossed to the rail, and freed the crow to the winds. Kanthe watched her—with her arms held high, her back arched—and momentarily forgot how to breathe. Still, he recognized one other detail.
All this time, not a single bell in her braid had tinkled.
It served as a dire reminder that he’d best be cautious with her.
For that pale rose has thorns.
* * *
SWEATY AND OUT of sorts—and not just from the day’s swelter—Kanthe climbed down the ladder into the cooler confines of the ship’s tween-deck. He had waited for Cassta to depart first, to leave him a moment to collect himself. She had not said another word, hardly seeming to notice he was still there.
Then again, she is Rhysian and I’m a man.
