Page 15

15

ESSA

I was at the hatchery, saddling Othura for the day’s challenge when Ollie found me. “We need to talk about your reporter.”

“Ha,” I said, cinching up a strap. “You mean my prisoner?”

“He escaped.”

I wheeled on Ollie. “What? His door was guarded.”

Ollie held up a hand, trying to still me. “Don’t blame the guards. He climbed down last night.”

“Impossible!” I exclaimed. “A squirrel couldn’t have climbed down from there.”

“And what’s more, he climbed back up just before dawn,” Ollie grinned at my shocked reaction. “It would appear he’s extremely spry for a scribe.”

“But… why? Where did he go?”

“I’m not clear on that yet, but you know me. I have ways of finding out. Of course, the simplest way would be to ask him.”

“So ask,” I said, turning back to work on the saddle.

“I thought perhaps you might like to ask,” Ollie suggested. “After all, he seemed to take a shine to you during your tour of the city, from what I’ve heard.”

That was one of the infuriating and valuable things about the Torouman. They had spies everywhere.

“I do not wish to see him,” I snapped, hating the petulance in my voice.

“That’s understandable, but your mother charged you with him. And just yesterday she was asking Hoatan how Kit was liking our city. I put him off for now, but…”

I sighed. Hoatan was the head of the Torouman order. Ollie’s superior. Crossing Hoatan could get Ollie in trouble, just as it would be trouble for me to disobey or lie to my Irska. I didn’t want Ollie to face punishment on my account.

Ollie is right, Othura said in my mind.

You always take his side! I shot back.

Because he’s always right, Othura said.

I shook my head, irritated.

“You need to let the reporter out,” Ollie concluded. “At least for the day. Let him attend the challenge. Your mother will see him out and about, and then you can do with him what you wish.”

Those last words sent a cascade of impure thoughts through my mind. Stars, I needed to find a boyfriend. It had been a long time since Braimar…

But Ollie was probably right, as usual.

“Very well,” I sighed.

* * *

Rohree met me outside the foreigner’s door.

“Your majesty,” she curtseyed. “Forgive me for being here. I’ve left him for the guards to care for the past few days, just as you said. But when they told me what state he was in this morning… he came back at dawn, you see?—”

“I know,” I grumbled, reaching for the door handle.

“Um—he’s bathing,” Rohree said, stopping me.

I frowned. “Well, get him out. I have plans for him today. What’s this?”

She held up a bundle of cloth.

“New clothes for him. The ones he came back in were ruined, cut up and bloody. And can you believe he climbed down and back up? I hardly think any of the Skrathan could pull off a feat like that.”

I gritted my teeth. “If he could do it, any Skrathan could.” I took the bundle from her. “I’ll deliver these,”

“He is in the bath.”

“So you said,” I replied. “Thank you, Rohree. That will be all.”

She sucked her teeth. “It’s improper for you to go in there while he’s indisposed, your majesty. I mean, I hardly blame you. He is quite the specimen. Just see you don’t cause an international incident. I once heard of a?—”

“That will be all,” I said again and Rohree curtsied and turned to go—though I had no doubt she’d double back soon enough to put her ear to the door. That was the way of life in court.

I entered the foreigner’s room, locking the door behind me and placing the key in my pocket to prevent another escape.

Inside it was cozy and humid, the air infused with scents of mint and eucalyptus.

The poet lay in a copper bathtub, a washcloth laid over his eyes.

“Thanks Rohree,” he called when he heard me enter. “Be a dear and leave the clothes on the chair, would ya?”

I did drop the clothes onto the chair, then I meandered slowly to the tub.

“You seem awfully comfortable giving orders,” I said. “One would think you’re the princess.”

The poet snatched the cloth from his face and looked at me, blinking. His hands disappeared into the water and I imagined he was covering himself, although the suds made the act unnecessary. Still, I found myself wondering what his body looked like under that water. His face soon distracted me from my musing, though. Removing the cloth had revealed a nasty bruise and gash on his forehead.

“Your majesty,” he said, composing himself.

“I heard you went on a little jaunt last night.”

“News travels fast here,” he said with a tight smile.

“Where did you go?”

“I visited your friend Clua.”

That derailed me for a moment. It wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting to hear.

“You risked your life scaling two hundred feet down a sheer stone wall in the rain to go and visit Clua ?”

“Well, the door was locked,” he said.

He was playing the wise-fool, thinking himself clever. Fine. I’d play his game.

I pointed at his face.

“Did Clua do that to you?”

He chuckled. “No. I bumped my head.”

“And if I talk to Clua, she’ll have the same story?”

He shrugged. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t.”

Could he be trying to woo Clua? Why else would he risk his life to sneak out and meet her. The thought left an uncomfortable tightness in my chest.

My eyes narrowed. “And when you scaled down the tower, did Clua catch you at the bottom?”

“No,” he said. “I did that all on my own.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“She and I are preparing a surprise for you, if you must know.”

“A surprise for me?” I repeated dumbly. “What is it?”

He leaned on the edge of the bathtub, revealing a surprisingly muscled arm.

“If I told you,” he said slowly, “It wouldn’t be a surprise.”

I stared at him for a long moment, letting Othura’s intuition flow through me. I felt her sniffing the air, plumbing as far she could into the stranger’s mind.

After a moment, her voice came to me: He speaks the truth. But he is hiding something. He is more than he appears.

That was obvious. Whoever heard of a poet who could scale towers? I crossed my arms, watching him.

His gaze met mine, then, after a moment, he looked away, clearing his throat. “If we don’t have other plans today, I thought it might be nice to meet the Prelate.”

These were the last words I’d expected to hear from him, and they hit me like a slap of cold water.

“The Prelate? Prelate Kortoi?”

“Sure,” he said, giving me what, for most women, must have been a disarming smile.

But though I was on guard before, the mention of Prelate Kortoi truly made my hackles rise.

“What do you know of Prelate Kortoi?”

He laid back in the bath, put his feet up on the edge. “Not much, really. I’ve just heard talk of him back in Ironberg. Heard he was a fellow I should meet.”

“If you don’t know about him, I’ll give you a primer. Kortoi is the chief of the Gray Brotherhood, head priest to the Gods of the Void. His Lacunae are dreaded warriors and his Brothers are mages powerful in the dark arts.”

“Gods of the Void.” Kit yawned. “That sounds ominous.”

I found his casual air maddening.

“The Gods of the Void—and the power their priests possess—are indeed ominous. They’ve probably killed thousands of URA soldiers since the start of the war. That’s why I wonder that you should be so excited to meet him.”

“You don’t seem to like this Prelate much,” Kit said. “What’s the problem? Do his gods not play nicely with your gods—the Earth Mother and Star Father?”

I glared at him. “Kortoi’s gods are as old as time and as hungry as the worms of the earth that eat the flesh of the dead. The gods of the dragon riders are gods of sun and rain, plants and flowers. Earth and life. The gods of the void stand for eternal oblivion. Both exist. Both are real. Both are necessary. We require Kortoi to maintain communion with those dark forces. To keep equilibrium. It’s true, there are times when he and my mother are at odds over certain issues. The priorities of the spirits of the abyss are not the same as those of the living. But Kortoi is loyal, if that’s what you’re asking. And he is certainly no friend to the URA.”

Kit scratched his chin. He’d been clean-shaven when he arrived, but the stubble there was growing thicker—which lent his fine features a ruggedness that suited him infuriatingly well.

“I don’t have to meet him. It makes no difference to me,” he said.

I sighed. “I’ll introduce you to Kortoi. You should know that dragons aren’t the only formidable power in Maethalia. But we have other plans first. Get out and get dressed.”

I tossed a towel to him. He caught it deftly, then paused, waiting for me to turn away. When I didn’t, he smiled.

“Are you going to watch me, princess?”

“If I want to, I can. This is my kingdom.”

I expected him to give me a snappy retort. Instead, he stood. I glimpsed strong vein-lined arms, square shoulders, chiseled abs—and a manhood that made my breath hitch in my chest before I spun, turning to face away from him.

I hadn’t expected that he’d really stand up…

My face flushed, my heart was beating nearly out of my chest, as I stood there, listening to the soft sound of the towel caressing the moisture off his body.

“I’ll wait outside,” I muttered, bolting for the door.

* * *

My mind should have been on the day’s trial as I rode Sisha out of the city and up the trail toward The Cauldron. Instead, it was on the poet. On his arms, which were wrapped around me and his body, pressed against my back. Arms I’d glimpsed slick and moist and hot from the bath…

Stop, I chastised myself. Focus.

Othura’s presence nosed its way into my mind. What did you expect, making him ride with you again?

I expected to tease him. To drive him crazy. Not myself.

But apparently distaste and distrust didn’t prevent attraction. Good to know.

A warm feeling of amusement flooded over me. Othura was laughing at me.

“Shut up,” I grumbled.

“What?” the poet said.

“Oh. I was just talking to Othura. Sorry, sometimes I forget if I’m speaking out loud or not.”

“I always thought that was a faerie tale,” Kit said. “The whole dragon / rider psychic connection thing.”

“It is,” I said. “And faeries are meticulous historians, so of course it’s accurate.”

“Right…” he muttered.

We topped the hill and the Cauldron appeared before us. Most of the other riders and their dragons were already there. Others were soaring in now, alighting on the lakeshore. Riders shouted greetings. Dragons, excited for the competition, snarled and snapped at one another. Othura was there, too, curled up on a broad, flat rock like a snake sunning herself.

“Remind me why we’re coming in on horseback while all the other riders are arriving on their dragons?” Kit asked.

“Normally I would ride Othura up here,” I said. “It’s much faster. But foreigners can’t ride dragons, remember? It’s forbidden. And since you’ve proven untrustworthy, I figured I’d better accompany you.”

“Untrustworthy? Me?” he feigned hurt.

I turned in the saddle and glared at him again.

“Yes. And until you tell me truthfully the reason you snuck out, I shall continue to hold you under suspicion. Is that clear?”

“Clear as glass,” his teased in a low whisper that reminded me how close we were—mere inches separating our lips. I turned away again fast.

The Thurn horn sounded at that moment, signaling for the riders to get ready, and I coaxed Sisha into a gallop. “See. You’ve made me late,” I snapped.

“What’s today’s trial?” he shouted over the clatter of hooves.

“The thimble race,” I called back to him.

“Is it as dangerous as the last one?”

“More dangerous,” I said, reigning Sisha in and dismounting.

“What do you have to do?” he asked.

But I was already jogging over to Othura, running up her outstretched tail as if it were a ramp and dropping into the saddle.

“I’ll tell you all about it afterwards—if I survive,” I said. Then Othura leapt, pumping her wings, and we were in the sky.