Page 17

Primitive though they may be considered, one must respect the cunning of a people who would send the avatar of love as a diplomat. Few seem immune to his charm. Even I find myself drawn to him, almost enough to abandon my current work. An authoritative history of the war between the former Emperor and the High Court would be groundbreaking.

Untitled Manuscript in Progress

by Guildmaster Klement

The ball wasn’t nearly as torturous as Einar had expected. Not because Gwynira’s court had polished their manners, or because the seneschal had stopped his subtle campaign of sabotage. No, the formal outfit the servants had delivered for Einar had been the worst yet. It had been a glaring shade of orange that Einar could not imagine flattering anyone’s skin tone, and at least two sizes too small. He’d shunned the offering in favor of another of his simple but meticulously tailored pirate prince outfits.

He’d attracted a flurry of whispers upon his arrival, but Einar doubted that the furtive mutters and sidelong glances were entirely due to his choice of attire. Gwynira might have expressed her belief that Einar was not behind the recent attacks against her duchy, but her court did not share her confidence.

Just as well. It kept him from having to make small talk with them.

Five of the more gullible-looking ones had gathered around Sir Jaspar, who was no doubt taking great liberties with the truth as he recounted the battle to save Jamyskar. Every lull in the music allowed a few words to drift to where Einar stood. Judging by those bits and pieces, the seneschal had single-handedly saved half the villagers while barely avoiding Einar’s repeated attempts at treacherous sabotage.

A woman whose towering curls sparkled with enough diamonds to buy a palace gasped at Sir Jaspar’s latest comment and shot Einar a look of delighted terror. The urge to bare his teeth in a snarl nearly overwhelmed him, but the woman had a glint in her eye that told him she would only relish it.

The fools of this court had lived too long under Gwynira’s indifferent neglect. They might fear Einar, might even hate him, but they lived soft lives of unquestioned safety. Fear wasn’t real to them. It did not settle in their bones and remind them of their own mortality. Fear had become a hobby for them, a thrill they sought out in order to feel alive, a bit of spice for their otherwise intolerably easy days of repetitive luxury.

In Gwynira’s shoes, he would have packed the whole lot of them onto a ship and hoped the ocean saw fit to swallow it whole before they ever set foot on land again.

The thought drew Einar’s attention to the low dais on the far side of the ballroom, where Gwynira reigned over her court while that enormous bear of a bodyguard lurked behind her. She was earning her fair share of sidelong looks tonight, as well—perhaps because she was actually smiling. It was startling to see the expression on her usually chilly face, even though the smile failed to entirely thaw her eyes. But Einar supposed that if anyone had a chance of doing so, it was Aleksi, who reclined easily on the ornate throne that had been placed next to hers.

The Lover looked as elegant as ever, his light-brown skin flawless, his dark hair artfully mussed, and his elegant body displayed to perfection in the Imperial clothing Einar had scorned. He didn’t look stiff in the ornately embroidered jacket, the way so many other men of the court did. Aleksi’s grace transcended whatever he put on his body to the point where the man would undoubtedly look handsome in a grain sack.

Einar doubted that physical perfection was what had softened Gwynira’s demeanor, though. On the dais, Aleksi leaned in and whispered something to her, and his sudden smile could have eclipsed the sun. Gwynira’s lips quirked, as if she was fighting the urge to return that smile.

She wouldn’t last. No one did. Einar figured that was the point of sending Aleksi when you wanted to make friends—no one could know him for long and not end up wanting to earn one of those smiles.

As if the Lover could hear his thoughts, Aleksi’s gaze swept toward him. Einar found himself on the receiving end of one of those devastating smiles, and the force of it nearly stole his breath. His lips tingled, as if he could still feel the other man’s kiss, and the subtle crinkle around Aleksi’s eyes made it clear the Lover knew exactly where Einar’s thoughts had drifted.

Then Aleksi looked back to Gwynira, breaking the moment, and Einar exhaled roughly. A hardened pirate warrior who had seen over two thousand years of life was certainly too old to blush just because a man smiled at him—even if that man was the manifestation of desire and passion. Especially if that man was also wholeheartedly playing matchmaker. Only the Lover could half seduce a man while throwing him at someone else with both hands.

At least Einar knew better than to take it personally. Aleksi half seduced everyone.

The welcome thought of seduction had him surveying the vast ballroom again, but Naia was nowhere to be found. Not that he’d had to look to be sure. Her presence prickled over his skin now whenever she was near, as if their moment of passion in the ruins of the goddess’s temple had bound them together with invisible ties. Naia’s absence was a tangible ache, and not only because she was the only reason he’d wished to attend this cursed party to begin with. It was as if those ties had stretched too tight, threatening to snap.

He knew in his head the strings weren’t real, but his heart dreaded the loss all the same.

His gaze swept over the seneschal just as the man shot him another withering look. Einar simply stared at him, letting his utter disregard gather behind his eyes in an unmistakable challenge.

Sir Jaspar blanched and looked hastily away.

A man stepped up next to Einar, a wry smile curving his lips. “Sir Jaspar has a terrible habit of picking fights he’s too cowardly to win.”

Einar turned to face him more fully. He’d seen him around the palace, and had come away with only the vague impression of a scholarly man with an easy smile. Nothing he saw now dissuaded him from that initial opinion. The man was of middling height, with black hair beginning to silver at the temples and ink stains on the first two fingers of his left hand.

He wore the same tunic and long jacket popular in Gwynira’s court, but the embroidery on his was scant. His only true ornamentation came from a gold medallion as wide as Einar’s palm. It hung from an equally ostentatious chain, and was stamped with scrolls and a quill.

A guild token. Einar had seen half a dozen of them over the centuries, usually cast in silver or bronze. Rumor claimed that few people of each generation earned the right to wear a golden master’s medallion in their chosen field. Those fortunate or hardworking enough to be so honored were rarely parted from them.

The man noticed the path of Einar’s gaze and beamed at him. “Never met a guildmaster before, have you?”

“I can’t say I run across many in my line of work,” he replied dryly, earning a hearty laugh from the other man.

“No, I can’t imagine you would!” He inclined his head. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Guildmaster Klement, of the Scholar’s Guild in Kasther. When young Jaspar was blustering about studying there, he meant he studied under me . It pains me to say he was a mediocre student.”

Surprisingly, the name sounded vaguely familiar. It was no surprise, however, to find that Jaspar had overstated his scholastic achievements as generously as he had his martial ones. Einar bit back the urge to say as much, and responded only with a short nod. “I’m Captain Einar.”

“Oh, I know.” Smile lines crinkled around Klement’s eyes as he beamed at Einar. “I’ve been so hoping for a chance to get you alone.”

That sounded ominous, another observation that was undoubtedly unfit to make aloud. He cast another furtive glance around the room, but Aleksi was deep in conversation, and Naia still hadn’t arrived.

There would be no rescue, then. He made what he hoped sounded like a polite noise of interest. It came out more like a low, rumbling growl.

“Oh, nothing nefarious, I promise.” The master lifted a finger, and a servant rushed over with a tray full of chilled glasses filled with bubbling deep-amber liquid. “You must try the ice cider.” Klement picked up a glass and handed it to Einar. When the servant had vanished, he raised his own glass in a toast and savored the first sip.

At his expectant look, Einar reluctantly tasted it as well. It was sweeter than he’d expected, almost cloyingly so, and unfortunately far too weak to get him as drunk as he needed to be if he was going to have to continue speaking with curious Imperials. “It’s very good,” he managed.

“Yes, a specialty of this island.” Klement drank again, his fascinated gaze fixed on Einar’s face in a way that was almost unnerving. “The precolonial history and culture of this island is a bit of a passion project for me, in fact. I’ve written several books on the subject.”

Was that why the name sounded familiar? Had it been on one of the books Einar had found in the library? For the first time, honest interest in the man before him stirred. “Have you?”

“Indeed.” Klement tilted his head. “You look surprised, Captain.”

“Perhaps more ... curious.” Einar gestured with the glass in his hand to the little clusters of Imperial nobility, most of whom were still casting him sidelong glances. “In my experience, the Empire prefers to erase what came before. They rarely allow it to be preserved, and they certainly do not celebrate it.”

“True enough,” the man agreed readily. “Our former Emperor had his reasons for that, I suppose. The stability of the Empire, and his wish that the people focus on the wonders and glories of our promised future.”

For all their blandness, there was an acidic edge to the words. Einar arched one eyebrow. “You didn’t agree with those reasons?”

With a tight smile, Klement waved a hand, taking in the palace and the island beyond. “I am here, am I not?”

He said the words as if they were answer enough, and Einar frowned. “I don’t understand.”

The guildmaster huffed out a laugh, then lowered his voice. “I assume you know that Grand Duchess Gwynira was never the Emperor’s—no, you call him the Betrayer, I believe. Either way, she was never one of his favorites.”

It was a polite way of putting it. Einar had heard stories of Princess Sachielle’s time spent as the Betrayer’s prisoner. Gwynira had been the only member of Sorin’s court to treat Sachielle with anything approaching kindness, and even that had been chilly at best, and almost certainly self-serving. But Gwynira had given Sachielle a knife meant to slay the Emperor, which was presumably the reason they were here to begin with.

Einar had never believed in making common cause with people simply because you shared an enemy, but there was no doubt Gwynira had viewed the Betrayer as exactly that—an enemy. But that still didn’t answer his question. “What does that have to do with you being here?”

“Roughly a thousand years ago, Gwynira did something to enrage Sorin. This?” Klement gestured around again. “This was her punishment. Exile to a frozen island. He thought it clever, I imagine, given her affinity for ice. The rumor is that she was only meant to rule here until she had learned some humility. And yet, one thousand years later, here she remains, cut off from all the comforts of Imperial civilization.”

It grated to hear rulership of his ancestral home referred to as punishment , but Einar supposed that to those accustomed to the sleek technology of the Empire, a place like this would seem barbaric.

“As for her so-called court ...” The man gave a self-deprecating smile. “The Emperor has spent every generation since sending people like Sir Jaspar to serve here, just to irritate her.”

So the whole lot of them were odious by design . People whose mere presences were meant to be punitive. It explained a lot about the atmosphere of this place.

And Gwynira’s perpetually foul mood.

It did raise an interesting question, though. Einar studied the cheerful older man, wondering if he would actually answer it. When the man simply smiled and sipped his drink, Einar gave in. “So what did you do to get exiled here?”

“The greatest sin you could commit in the Empire without dying for it,” Klement replied easily. “I liked to look backwards instead of forwards. I suspect I had come close to the line once or twice before, but after I wrote a book about the people who had called Kasther home before the Emperor’s arrival, he stripped me of my estates and banished me here to live out my days with”—his voice changed, and for a moment it was an almost uncanny echo of the Betrayer’s smoothly distinctive tone—“ the rustics and primitives you find so fascinating. ”

From everything Einar knew about the Betrayer, that would enrage the man. He wouldn’t have liked the reminder that his glorious, benevolent Empire was steeped in blood and built on the bones of a hundred cultures he’d conquered. “You must have known it was a risk. So why did you do it?”

“I got complacent.” Klement smiled and patted the heavy gold medallion on his chest. “I was the first scholar of history in five hundred years to become a guildmaster. In the Empire, a master is all but untouchable. I learned that day that all but untouchable means very little when you anger a god.”

He wasn’t the only one in this room who needed to learn that lesson. Einar might not have the power of a member of the High Court, but he had still walked this world for over two thousand years. Enduring the disrespect of the Imperial Court grated, political necessity or no.

“But I didn’t mind coming here,” the master continued. “I had already considered making Akeisa the focus of my next scholarly work. In Kasther, one might struggle for weeks to unearth a single half-remembered legend. Here, the culture still thrives. While I do miss my ancestral manor, it’s possible he did me a favor. I get to spend my days in my research, and I no longer have to waste my time trying to educate people like Sir Jaspar.” He beamed at Einar. “I should love to hear your stories sometime, Captain.”

Einar could imagine nothing he wanted less than to have his childhood pain made into this man’s next scholarly treatise. But the master had at least been friendly, so Einar made a noncommittal noise.

Klement clearly took it as agreement, because he lifted his glass in another toast before draining it. “Wonderful! Not tonight, though, of course. Perhaps in a less ... confining situation. The local village will be holding their Flame of Life Festival tomorrow night. It’s a charming celebration with a fascinating history.”

An honest smile came to Einar’s lips for the first time. “I’ve heard of it. Petya told me stories—”

“Petya?” Klement cut in excitedly, his eyes suddenly feverishly bright. “Petya of Stenyar? Captain of the Queen’s Guard? So it’s true, then? You were raised by her?”

“Yes, I—”

“ Amazing. ” The guildmaster clapped his hands together. “Oh, you and your friends simply must attend tomorrow. Tell me that you will.”

The intensity of the scholar’s interest was almost uncomfortable, but Einar sensed nothing beyond earnest fascination beneath the words. He opened his mouth to answer, but in that moment a hush fell over the ballroom. One single stringed instrument wailed a solitary note before it, too, fell silent.

Heads turned, one by one. Einar followed their gaze to the doorway.

Naia stood there, framed perfectly in the archway, the light from a dozen crystal lamps catching the bits of glass sewn onto her gown. Every breath made her shimmer.

Einar didn’t know where she’d gotten the dress, but it certainly wasn’t Imperial in design. The wide skirt started at the bottom with the indigo of the deepest ocean, churning up into the navy of the North Sea, and the vivid teal of the Siren’s own waters around Seahold. The tight bodice bled into the gentlest aqua, a color only seen around the distant Summer Isles, and was cut so low between her breasts that his fingers itched to trace the soft skin revealed there.

Naia took a single step forward, and the tiny bits of glass sparkled. She looked like a vision rising up out of the sea again, every shade of the ocean swirling around her as she shone like sunlight refracting through tiny drops of water. A siren in truth, ethereal and deadly, luring sailors to wreck themselves on whatever rocks she desired.

The ballroom was still frozen. Einar didn’t think the assembled Imperials were even breathing anymore. They might not feel the sea in their bones the way those born to this island did—the way Einar did—but even the most ignorant of them recognized a goddess in their midst.

Every gaze in the room was fixed on her. And she only had eyes for Einar.

She swept toward him, her heels clicking softly and her skirts rustling as they swayed around her. The rest of the ballroom seemed to vanish in a swirl of mist, like the fog rolling in off the cliffs north of the Lover’s Villa.

Einar’s first step toward her felt like destiny, pulling him to where he had always been meant to be. The song of her wove through his blood, more intoxicating than anything a mortal instrument could hope to match, and his magic rose to meet it. He knew from the assembled crowd’s sudden, sharp inhalations and muffled gasps that his eyes had begun to glow as the Kraken rose, too, brushing against the inside of his skin, whispering its need to take her to the ocean and dive so deep that no one would ever find them again.

Someday, he promised that other-self as he extended his hand. Naia was almost close enough to touch, but he didn’t. Not yet. Simply held out his hand and let the words roll out in a rumbling invitation that still held too much of the monster. “Dance with me?”

Instead of accepting his hand, she gathered her skirts and spread them wide as she swept a curtsy so elegant, one would think she had come straight from the Mortal Queen’s court. She gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling as much as her dress, her smile so bright that it burned away the fog. “With pleasure, Captain.”

As she slipped her fingers into his, Einar heard the familiar cadence of the Lover’s voice, lowered in a whisper. He turned in time to see Aleksi settling back in his chair with an easy smile. The musicians, seated close enough to the dais to be able to respond to any requests the Grand Duchess might make, lifted their instruments with haste.

Music exploded through the room. The song Aleksi had used to teach him how to dance.

The Lover left very little to chance.

Naia’s free hand settled on Einar’s shoulder as he reached for her waist. He tugged her closer with a hand at the small of her back and savored her inhalation as their bodies touched. His senses were so full of her that he couldn’t remember the first step, but his body knew. One step forward and they were moving, gliding across the floor in a sweeping arc as she mirrored his every step. Advance and retreat, forward and back, swaying as the music he heard with his ears twined with the melody he’d heard in his dreams.

“You dance very well,” she said softly, her eyes shining.

Perhaps Aleksi had imparted some skill or grace unto him, like the Lover giving a blessing, because Einar didn’t even falter as he spun her into a turn that made her dress flare out and the onlookers gasp again. Let them gawk. Let them envy . In this moment, she was his, and he proved it by pulling her to him with a wicked smile. “Only with you.”

“You flatter me.” The hand on his shoulder drifted up until her fingertips brushed the back of his neck, a whispering caress that was more than enough to stir his hunger. “Perhaps it’s simply that we know each other so well now.”

The mischief in her eyes left very little doubt what she meant. That swiftly, he was back in that shattered temple, on his knees before her. Memory conjured the sounds she’d made all too readily—soft and breathy at first, then yearning, then desperate as he drove her toward bliss. She tasted every bit as sweet as he’d imagined, and even the fury of a storm hadn’t been able to distract him from the pleasure of feeling her shake apart for him.

A reckless thing to be thinking about with the hostile eyes of the entire court on them, but he didn’t care. He let his hand drift, sliding it from the small of her back to the curve of her hip, where a flex of his fingers drew her so tightly against him that she could feel how his body responded to her every touch. He dipped his head just enough to let a whisper rumble over her. “Did you dream about the way I felt, my sweet goddess? Because I dream about the way you taste.”

She tilted her head until their lips were so close he could almost taste that mischievous little smile. “Even when I’m awake,” she breathed.

He nearly kissed her right then and there, but her cheeks flushed and she ducked her head with a laugh, hiding her face against his shoulder. His blood pounded as they spun again ...

And he saw Aleksi’s expression.

The Lover watched them the way everyone was watching them, but there was none of the triumph or pleasure Einar had expected to see on the face of a man whose matchmaking plans were coming to fruition. Oh, he was smiling pleasantly enough, but it was less like one of the Lover’s generous smiles and more like one of Gwynira’s—perfect and precise, with none of the joy reaching his eyes.

His eyes didn’t smile. They looked sad .

Their gazes locked across the ballroom, and Einar could feel the ghost of Aleksi’s hands on his body, guiding him through the steps of this dance. His lips tingled with the memory of their kiss, and it didn’t matter that the entire length of the ballroom separated them. For one moment, it was as if the Lover was there , a part of every swaying step, every glancing touch. As if the three of them danced together.

Maybe if they were dancing together, they could chase the sadness from Aleksi’s eyes.

Then the steps of the dance spun them again, and the moment was broken. Einar turned his face into Naia’s hair and inhaled her familiar scent. She felt right like this, folded in his arms. Aleksi had told him he was worthy of the treasure of her trust ... but the look in the other man’s eyes haunted him.

There would never be any question whether the Lover was worthy. Even Gwynira’s heart had softened for Aleksi, and Einar knew that his own beat faster when the man fixed the full force of his regard upon him. Who wouldn’t be swept away by knowing the elemental manifestation of love saw you ? Wanted you ?

Did Aleksi want what Einar now had? And if he did, was it fair to Naia for Einar to stand in the way?

In that moment of indecision, Naia lifted her head to smile up at him, and something dangerous stirred inside him at the thought of never touching her again. An ache formed in his chest, like the memory of a loss so deep it was carved in his very bones.

If she walked away, he would let her go. He could do nothing else. But he would never turn away from her first.

“So intense,” she murmured, lifting a hand to rub the spot between his eyebrows. He tried to relax his brow, but the ache had not yet dissipated. “What are you thinking?”

He parted his lips, unsure of how to respond. Then the final notes of the song dwindled into silence, and a spatter of applause broke the spell.

“Oh, wonderful!” Guildmaster Klement appeared at their side, positively beaming. “Your grace puts the rest of us to shame,” he gushed, bowing deeply to Naia. When he straightened, he swept his graying hair from his face and gave her a hopeful look. “I can hardly compete with Lord Einar, but would you consider granting me this next dance, my lady?”

“I would be honored,” Naia replied graciously, and Einar released her with great reluctance so she could accept the old man’s hand. Klement started to lead her back into the dancing, but Naia looked back over her shoulder and arched one suggestive brow in a look that promised she and Einar would dance again—be it at the ball, or someplace far more intimate.

Einar fervently hoped it would be the latter.

He watched the two of them dance for a few moments, relieved to see nothing but that same earnest curiosity in the scholar’s gaze. He wasn’t exactly graceful, but whatever he was saying prompted an honest laugh from Naia as they twirled awkwardly. Satisfied that she wasn’t in any distress, Einar went in search of something stronger than ice cider to drink.

He found it at a table near the back, where some sort of punch flowed over an unmelting ice replica of Gwynira’s palace. The bright-blue color of the liquid didn’t seem promising, but the first sip kicked so hard that Einar considered finding out what it was so he could bring a few dozen bottles back to his ship.

“You’re doing well,” a familiar voice murmured at his shoulder. “With the dancing, I mean. No one would ever guess you’d had only one lesson.”

Einar turned and raised his glass to Aleksi. “I had a good teacher.”

Aleksi mirrored his salute and smiled. “Unearned praise. But I will take it.”

There was that smile again—perfect and precise—but the tone of the words had a slight edge that was reflected in the Lover’s usually dancing brown eyes. They looked almost wry, now, as if he had told himself a joke that wasn’t even a little bit funny.

That ache throbbed in Einar’s chest, and this time he knew the name of it.

Fear.

Einar had spent his youth fishing the most dangerous waters known to their people, fighting currents and the weather and the beasts themselves to haul in the elusive great swordfish off of Dead Man Shoals. When the Empire had attempted to invade the Sheltered Lands, he had invented naval combat while still a mortal. He’d plunged into stormy waters to swim beneath massive ships and hack open their hulls. He’d found a way to rain fire down on enemy sails and decks. He’d tasted death a thousand times before his power had swelled and the Kraken had exploded out of him, promising that death would have to patiently wait out millennia before it could finally embrace him.

Fear had never been a problem for him before. Not until Naia.

Not until he considered losing her.

But what could he do? Ask Aleksi if he regretted his meddling? Ask the Lover if he wanted to be the one Naia gazed at with trust and mischief?

And what would Einar do if he did? Fight the embodiment of love itself? Winning would mean losing, because surely passion could not thrive if it came at the cost of the Lover’s broken heart.

Einar took another bracing sip of the punch, let it burn away the fear, and made an awkward attempt to change the subject. “Things seem to be going well with Gwynira. I didn’t know she could smile.”

Between one heartbeat and the next, that odd discordance in the Lover faded. His smile finally reached his eyes as he chuckled. “I think the Grand Duchess appreciates that I have no hidden motives. I don’t imagine she encounters that often.”

Einar couldn’t hold back a huffing laugh of his own. “Not in this court. Her seneschal is over there taking credit for the hard work of others. By the end of the night, Sir Jaspar will be the sole hero who saved every person in Jamyskar.”

The Lover’s gaze settled on Jaspar, who didn’t seem to have the temerity to glare at him the way he had at Einar. “I’ve known men like him before,” Aleksi murmured. “They’re all talk and posturing.” He paused for a moment, before continuing, “Until they’re not. We’d best keep an eye on him, just in case.”

“Definitely,” Einar grumbled. Jaspar was watching Naia now, and the naked desire in his eyes was far more upsetting than the open hostility he’d directed at Einar. The fact that the man would disrespect Naia by erasing her heroics at Jamyskar, but still look upon her with such acquisitive hunger made Einar’s blood boil.

When the dance in progress wound to a close and the ass started toward her, his anger manifested in an audible growl that only deepened when he caught sight of Naia’s face. Even from across the room, he could see the hesitation in her gaze. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was, but was not willing to cause a diplomatic incident.

Einar slammed his glass down on the table hard enough to crack the stem. Fuck diplomatic incidents. “If he lays one finger on her, I’m going to snap it off.”

He started to move forward, but one strong hand landed in the center of his chest. Aleksi held him back with that simple pressure and a low hum. “Subtlety, Einar. Please, allow me.”

Whispers and conjecture and covetous gazes followed the Lover’s progress as he crossed the room to Naia. When he was close enough to make it seem casual, he called her name, drawing her attention so she turned away from Jaspar. When she saw Aleksi reaching out to her, her gaze lit with relief as she slid her hand into his.

It was neatly done, without even the possibility of confrontation. Sir Jaspar was left standing a few paces behind them, alone and fuming, but with no opportunity to press his suit. Einar savored the man’s helpless fury as the musicians responded to Gwynira’s raised finger with a sudden ripple of music.

It was a far more complex song, one of the court dances Einar had dreaded. If he’d been forced to learn the steps to this , he would still be in Aleksi’s room, cursing in frustration. But the Lover made it seem effortless, his inhuman grace turning the advances and retreats and complex spins of the dance into a floating kind of beauty that drew all eyes.

And Naia kept perfect pace with him. Maybe a memory of this dance had drifted up in her as they so often did, granting her skills beyond her experience. But Einar doubted many sailors and fishermen of the past had found themselves in ballrooms like this, navigating the intricate steps of complicated dances.

No, this was Naia’s own inborn grace, coupled with the Lover’s skill. He subtly guided her until most of the other dancers had fallen away, transfixed by the two creatures of otherworldly beauty floating through their midst. The Imperials might scorn the idea of gods beyond their blighted Emperor and the parody of the High Court he’d created, but it was clear that some of them had finally begun to understand just who walked among them.

The Lover. The manifestation of passion and life, whose blessings gifted fertility to the land and people. Whose gentle mercy could be found in the bond between family and friends and anyone whose heart had ever made space for another.

Even Einar’s frozen heart wasn’t immune. The rest of them had never had a chance.

“She’s delightful.” Einar glanced over to see Klement watching the dance with that same look of fascinated wonder. “I’ve seen the tokens the servants have left for her. They’re quite taken with her. Did Petya teach you enough to understand why?”

Einar watched Aleksi’s head dip toward Naia’s ear. He whispered something that made her laugh, the delighted music of it sliding under Einar’s skin to settle as longing. “She reminds them of the goddess,” he answered with only half his attention. Naia wasn’t the only one laughing. Aleksi was, too, any shadows of pain swallowed by pure joy.

“Yes, the goddess. Of course, the stories about her paint a fairly clear picture of what she might have looked like, and Lady Naia shares very few of her more superficial features. But the power? The power is enough to give even a doubting man pause.”

“Uh-huh.” Einar couldn’t tell what this feeling in his chest was. He’d never imagined himself capable of jealousy. The potential loss of a lover was hardly threatening when you had never intended to keep them in the first place. If anything, on the rare occasion a paramour had lingered beyond a few nights of shared pleasure, Einar had been greatly relieved to detect any sign that their attention was wavering. As a mortal, he had not always been careful with the hearts flung at his feet. As a god, he had tried to move with greater care. The last thing he had ever wanted was for anyone to fall in love with him.

“And then there’s the matter of your sigil ...” Klement droned on, the words fading to an incoherent buzz as Einar watched Aleksi and Naia twirl and laugh.

Jealousy would be foolish, in any case. Aleksi was all but throwing Naia at Einar. Why the Lover was so fixated on the two of them making a match, he couldn’t begin to guess. Then again, perhaps that was simply one of Aleksi’s hobbies, the way the Witch enjoyed cultivating strange new plants and the Huntress read every book she could put her hands on. Why would the god of love not entertain himself by playing matchmaker?

If only reasoning it away could soothe the ache. It was still there, lodged deep in Einar’s chest. Like a yearning for something that felt out of reach, which was equally foolish when he knew Naia would return to him soon enough.

Naia would. But Aleksi would drift onward, back to duty, back to diplomacy and the mission.

His gaze sought out the Lover again, examining his long-familiar features as if for the first time. That perfectly sculpted face—how many times and in how many places had Einar seen it lovingly carved into stone or marble, cast into bronze or gold? Artists had been trying for centuries to capture the elegant angle of the Lover’s jaw, the exquisite shape of his cheekbones, the full lips that always seemed a mere heartbeat away from a smile. Few had managed, because chill, unmoving stone and metal couldn’t capture his essence , the warmth and the life and the unspoken promise of acceptance and compassion in every expression or gesture.

Einar knew his own features were pleasing enough. But when artists captured him in stone, it was inevitably far more charming than the real thing. Stone had a softness to it that Einar lacked. Softness had had no place in his life—not as a child on a mean little fishing boat, not as a sailor braving the frozen north, not as a pirate or a warrior, and certainly not as the Kraken.

The Lover was everything warm that the Kraken could never be. And the Kraken had hard edges that the Lover would always lack. They were nothing alike, which was undoubtedly why their paths had so rarely crossed in the past.

But as Aleksi twirled Naia through the final complicated spin of the dance, Einar caught a glimpse of the Lover’s unguarded face.

They had one thing in common now. Her.

And maybe this new ache in his chest was so odd because it did not go with his fear. Einar didn’t want to snatch Naia away from Aleksi.

He wanted to join them.

Polite applause broke out as the song ended. The collected nobles might spurn Einar, but they were as susceptible to Aleksi’s charm as the mortal court in the Sheltered Lands had been. Naia’s cheeks flushed as Aleksi acknowledged the acclaim with a dazzling smile, then tucked her hand through his elbow and murmured something to her as they headed back toward Einar.

That funny ache in his chest expanded as they came within earshot and Naia gazed up at the Lover, her eyes sparkling. “You did not say that to the king’s envoy.”

“No, I did not,” Aleksi admitted. “But I thought it very hard in his direction.”

Her laughter swept over Einar in a wave, obliterating that ache under the sheer pleasure of having her close again. Of having them close. Because this wasn’t like watching her endure Jaspar’s awkward flirting. Aleksi made her laugh with delight. He made her eyes sparkle, and Einar liked to see them sparkle.

And he liked that the smile had returned to Aleksi’s eyes, the warmth of the Lover the same sweet caress he remembered.

“Excuse me,” he said, cutting off whatever Klement had been saying. He managed a polite nod, then swept forward to meet Naia and Aleksi. Abruptly, feeling the weight of the gazes of the entire court upon them, Einar simply wanted to be gone from this cursed place. “How long do we have to stay to be polite?” he rumbled.

One of Aleksi’s elegant eyebrows swept up. “Longer than this,” he said dryly. But then he seemed to soften. “But not too much. Give it another quartermark, and you can sneak away.” Aleksi raised Naia’s hand to his lips for a kiss before releasing her. “I’ll handle the party.”

A tiny furrow of concern creased her brow. “Are you certain?”

“I could do this in my sleep, love,” Aleksi assured her. Then he cocked his head and grinned. “Fairly sure I have, actually. The first King Dalvish’s court never was very exciting.”

Leaving would be a blessing. But leaving Aleksi behind, alone, surrounded by these sharks ...

Protectiveness stirred—irrational, foolish protectiveness. Even if Gwynira and Arktikos were Dreamers, they were still children compared to Aleksi, barely past their first thousand years. The Lover had taken out another of the Betrayer’s court with the lazy ease of swatting a bug. The man was devastatingly brutal with a sword in his hand.

Aleksi didn’t need Einar to watch over him. This ballroom was the Lover’s traditional battlefield, and he understood it in a way Einar never could. So he locked down his hesitation and nodded. “Thank you—”

But Aleksi was already turning away, melting back into the crowd.

A touch at Einar’s elbow drew his attention. Naia was smiling up at him with a sweetness that almost stole his breath. He lifted a hand, shivering at the bliss when she slid her fingers trustingly into his. “One more dance, then?”

“Insolence!” she gasped, her eyes alight with teasing glee. “I dressed up for you. You owe me at least two.”

Einar traced the plunging neckline of her dress with his other hand, letting his fingertips graze her collarbone just to see her flush again. “Are you saying you wore this for me?” he asked in a rumbling whisper.

“Of course,” she replied simply. She stepped closer, and Einar set a hand at her waist and did his best to lead her into the dance already in progress. They turned—a little too swiftly, as Einar attempted not to dance them directly into another couple—and Naia smiled down at her skirts as they flared out. “It has all the colors of the ocean.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and he meant it. The crafting was exquisite, and when she moved she looked like an ethereal creature of the depths rising up on a cresting wave to tempt a sailor to his doom. Which gave him the perfect idea of where to take her.

Perhaps he should feel bad about leaving Aleksi to do this on his own, but the Lover was the diplomat. And stealing Naia away would give him the chance to ask her one important question.

Hopefully Aleksi would like the answer.