Page 15 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)

KALI

I gasp, dropping the basket to the table. Bahir’s eyes lock on mine, the specks of yellow and green in them flashing for a heartbeat with identical shock and agony—and then fury—before narrowing to a placid concern that mirrors the others’.

Servants rush toward me with water and cool towels that pose a grave threat to my makeup.

“What’s happened?” the king asks, the concern in his voice genuine.

“Will you take some water, Lady Lianna,” Bahir says, his goatee shifting with his worried frown as he leans closer to offer me his own goblet.

I raise my hands defensively. “A migraine hit me with an arrow’s force. I am so sorry.”

“Your handmaiden warned the staff that you suffer headaches,” Firehorn says smoothly. “Is the excitement of the evening too much for you today?”

“Not at all,” I manage to say, though my head is still buzzing with phantom jolts.

“I’m sure a bit of food in my stomach will set me to rights in no time.

” I sway in my seat, staying upright only thanks to Trace’s steady hand suddenly cupping my elbow.

I hadn’t seen him move to my side. As my mind recoils in a toxic mix of humiliation and confusion, I catch the furious flash of Raza’s eyes and Bishop Bahir’s emotionless glare. My stomach churns.

Before I can draw a breath, Trace shifts his weight subtly to put himself between me and the other guests. “Shall I escort you to your rooms?” the guardsman asks, already braced to pull my chair out for me.

As much as I want to decline, my body’s threat to fail me in the middle of this viper’s nest calling itself dinner is too great to ignore. I accept the offered arm.

Once in the corridor, however, I snatch my hand away from Trace’s forearm to conceal my trembling fingers.

Trace frowns at me from above, but only for a moment. His eyes are busy surveying the corridor’s shadows, the face of each person passing by us. I’ve seen him do as much while on duty for the king, but it’s different now that he is protecting me. Stars, he is good.

Unlike Kal, who is a sham.

We walk in silence. Trace’s familiar presence beside me is steadying, even if I’m the only one aware of the familiarity. In my memory, Bahir’s mirroring shock plays itself over and over. I swallow.

“What happened, my lady?” Trace asks quietly.

I rub the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know. The bishop’s ring brushed my skin and...” I make a vague motion with my hand. “I felt a jolt that seared through my whole body.”

Trace’s gaze shifts, his dark eyes weighing me. “Have you experienced such a jolt before?”

“Never.” I shake the hand that touched Bahir’s skin. The pain is gone but the flesh still tingles as if asleep. “Do you know what it might be?”

A muscle twitches on the side of Trace’s jaw, his fingers brushing the pommel of his sword. “No.”

He’s lying. I stop, forcing the guardsman to stop with me. My hand clamps on to his forearm. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Trace looks down at my hold, which is too strong for a lady’s touch.

I yank my hand back. His eyes narrow. Slowly, as if touching an injured animal, he takes the hand I just pulled away and brushes his finger over my exposed wrist.

“What—” I cut off my question, seeing the shadow of a bruise that has crept out from beneath my cuff. Bloody stars, I should have taken better care. An unforgivable slip, no matter how occupied my mind. There seem to be a lot of unforgivable slips when Trace is around.

“Who did that to you?” Trace’s voice is dangerously low.

You, yesterday. Or was it Luca this morning? I’m not keeping track. “I tripped over my embroidery.” I pull away, hugging my arms across my chest. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you know what happened in there?”

Trace straightens, his face a mask. “Most likely a coincidence, my lady. Your headache struck while you spoke with His Grace, but the two are unrelated. I recommend you get some rest.” He pauses, his voice dropping. “And if that embroidery trips you again, come tell me.”

What happened at dinner? – FH

The touch of Bahir’s ring sent a jolt of pain through me. Has it happened to anyone else? – K

Don’t be ridiculous. Next dinner in seven days. Be useful. – FH

“Kal! There you are.” Wil’s head, followed by the rest of his body, rises from the top of the royal stables’ hayloft ladder.

He sneezes, grins, and looks around. Dust peppers the beam of early evening sunlight coming from the little window, illuminating similar flecks on the prince’s shoes.

“Though I’m not quite sure why you are here. ”

Because I needed an hour’s refuge from the keep’s crowd, an hour that Wil is now expertly spoiling.

I was up late last night writing my report on the events of dinner, and my eyes feel like they’re filled with sand.

Stifling a groan, I wrap up the remnants of the bread and cheese I took from the mess hall and rise from the bale of hay that served as my chair and dinner table a few moments ago.

“It’s quiet and I like the company,” I say.

In the main barn below us, horses whicker and knock their feed buckets against wooden stalls.

The occasional hostler—one of whom is no doubt responsible for directing the prince to my whereabouts— shuffles tack that forever needs mending.

I tilt my head, the energy coming from the boy setting my caution on edge. “What can I do for you, Highness?”

“It’s just Wil.” He cracks his knuckles. “Wanted to see how you were. And how you are liking your new assignment.”

I cross my arms. “I’ve yet to fulfill it, but I imagine I’m more pleased with the idea than Trace is.”

“ That part wasn’t my idea. Plus, have you ever seen Trace pleased with anything?” Wil knocks the toe of his boot against the floor and grins like a cat with cream. “Anyway, he’s off duty for the evening, and you and I have plans.”

I tense. “We do?”

Wil jerks his head and starts back down the ladder. “Come along or not, guardsman,” he calls back up to me. “Entirely your choice.”

I curse and scramble after my prince.

“What are we doing here, Wil?” I turn about the alley, wrinkling my nose at the stench of piss and rotting garbage.

There is little here. A few back doors, trash, mud-splattered walls.

My eyes flash between shadows, my fingers aching to stroke the hilt of my sword.

There is no way in the realm of light or darkness that Firehorn would approve of this outing, but I’m certain Wil would have come here whether I was along or not.

In fact, I’m certain he’s been here before.

Wil pulls the hood of his cloak to further cover his face. “I’m seeing what someone might possibly want here. It’s where the City Guard found Novan’s body.”

“Novan?” I tense, recalling my conversation with Firehorn. “The guardsman trainee who was mugged?”

“Murdered. Not mugged.” Wil runs a gloved hand over a brick wall. “He was my friend. ”

I grab the prince’s wrist. “Let me get this straight, you just brought the two of us to a murder scene? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

Wil jerks his hand free and stares me in the eye, his chest puffing up like a rooster’s. “Scared, Kal?”

“Of course I’m scared. You know what your father will do to me if you get hurt?”

“I won’t get hurt.” Wil shakes his head. “I thought you were different, Kal. I thought you were like Novan. But maybe I was wrong. You can go back to the palace, all right? If someone finds out you were here, I’ll say I ordered you.”

“Wil.”

“Forget it. Go home.” Turning on his heels, the prince walks out the mouth of the alley. Groaning, I follow a few steps behind as he skirts the building and ducks into a pub.

“Weapons, lad?” the man at the door asks Wil, motioning to the rack of tagged swords behind him.

“You get them back when you leave.” Wil raises his arms in emphasis of his sword-free waistline.

I unstrap my blade and hand it over, my throwing knives safely hidden under my shirtsleeves.

“All right, go on in,” the door guard tells us both.

I nod my thanks and stick my hands in my pockets as I step forward. The familiar rumble of merriment rolls over me like a blanket. Kal’s spent a good deal of time in pubs—though, being in the countryside surrounding the estate, most were a step below this one.

Unlike the alley behind it, the Wandering Dog is as upscale as pubs come.

The floor is swept clean, the serving girls are courteous, and the pair of strong-arms—one at the door and another standing watch near the back of the room—try to seem inconspicuous instead of flexing muscles in preemptive warning.

The evening is in full humor, with many blue and scarlet uniforms in sight.

I even see a trio of green-clad Everett guards sitting at the bar.

Wil freezes. I follow the prince’s gaze to the south end of the room where, just visible in the shifting mass of patrons, Luca and Trace share a side table with mugs of ale.

It seems the possibility of finding his own off-duty guardsmen at a pub that caters to off-duty guardsmen failed to enter His Highness’s mind.

My first instinct—to use this fortune as an excuse to go the hells home—dies after a moment of thought.

If the prince fails to get his fill tonight, we’ll just be doing this again tomorrow.

Luca rises, ignoring Trace’s emphatic headshake, and starts toward the dagger-throwing targets that are attracting a small crowd in the pub’s corner.

Gripping Wil’s elbow, I steer him to a table at the opposite end of the room from Trace. “The hood covers your face, so stop fidgeting. What did you want here?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know yet.”

Brilliant. I signal the serving girl to fetch us drinks and drape my arm over the back of my chair as I survey the place.

Conversations rise and fall in a familiar harmony, the topics as common to me as the rhythm of the words.

It is instinct to listen to the chatter of the patrons closest, to read the lips of those farther off.

“...so perfect. But so still. Not one breath,” sobs a man trying to drink away the Drought.

“See how the brunette winked?” says another, who will go home tonight with a lighter purse.

“Would you buy a flower to support the Children, young masters?” Two young women stop at our table and hold out a basket of wilting carnations.

I’m about to shake my head, but Wil is already reaching for his coin purse.

Fine. Letting the Children of the Goddess have their way with Wil’s charity, I continue reading the room—and the dagger-throwing game by the pub’s west wall.

Luca is still there and losing terribly, but my attention skips past him to a mustached man with a mole at the corner of his mouth and a rose’s scarlet uniform on his shoulders. Standing behind Luca’s opponent, the man directs the round with the efficiency of one used to the task. A regular.

Except... I think I’ve seen him before. My gut tightens, though I’m uncertain what exactly is triggering the recognition or where the holy guardsman and I have crossed paths.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Wil leans closer to the two young women, who’ve now pulled chairs up to our table. “The Drought is a punishment from the Goddess?”

I want to roll my eyes. The rhetoric is well known; Wil is feigning ignorance for the sake of female attention.

Not that the girls seem to mind. The prettier of the two leans closer to Wil, nodding enthusiastically.

“She punishes Dansil for consorting with the Dark God’s disciples.

Once we cleanse our lands and minds of their evil, the Drought shall be lifted.

” Her eyes open wide, shining with excitement.

“We live at the very edge of a great battle, and it is up to us sitting here to ensure that the light prevails. What did you say your name was?”

I cock my head in curiosity, dividing my attention between Wil’s answer and the mustached man’s steady presiding over the dagger throwing.

“Liam,” says Wil. “It’s Liam. And who are these Dark God disciples?”

“The whisperers, of course,” says the girl. “They helped Everett invade Sylthia and butcher our people. The Drought is because of them. What do you think, my lord?” That last is addressed to me.

Pulling my eyes away from the rose, I flicker my gaze into the girls’ baskets.

A nest of glow charms—the most basic of living stones, with only a spark of magic—flicker inside.

More trinket than charm. “I think the Children of the Goddess are hypocrites for simultaneously proclaiming the Drought to be the Goddess’s punishment for tolerating whisperers and selling the crystals that whisperers tune. ”

Wil kicks my shin beneath the table.

The second girl smiles. “These crystals are made by whisperers who’ve given themselves to the Goddess’s will, my lord.

They use their craft to support her mission and balance the darkness within them.

Shall you buy one and carry a piece of the Goddess with you?

It will guide your way.” Her eyes dance to Wil.

“I might help you choose one if you’d like.

So you always remember what happened in Sylthia. .. and our meeting.”

Sylthia. I swallow, looking back at the holy guardsman, my memories churning and ordering themselves into the improbable.

Yes. A mustache and a mole and that face.

.. except my mark from the inn near Lord Gapral’s estate was a violent Viva Sylthia terror monger, while this man wears the uniform of a rose and works to keep the heated game civil and fair.

I tap Wil’s hand, interrupting his conversation.

“I’d like to take a trick at the throwing knives.

Are you all right here, Liam ?” Wil nods absently, plainly more interested in the girls’ bodices than their words.

Judging the prince to be in danger of no more than a broken heart and a lightened purse, I stride the several paces to the west wall.

“Bad turn of luck, man,” Luca’s opponent is telling him as I approach, and Luca empties his purse.

I grab the opponent’s wrist before he can hide away the silver. “Rematch. Double odds.”