Page 40 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

They’re staring, all of the guards who watch over me, mouths open, exchanging looks.

Her stare isn’t awed, though, the black-armored warrior of the order Brem came from.

Her eyes are tight and she’s been tracking my movements all along, learning my techniques.

I’ve revealed more than I should have, but she’s trusted me with this.

Hasn’t had me killed for last night or called me out.

She could have by now, denied me this exercise.

Perhaps she wanted a chance to see me fight, except she’s already done so, when I battled her former order sister in the throne room.

So, what’s going on behind that scarf, behind those silent, dark eyes of hers?

She finally lowers her head, one fist against her chest, then salutes me as she and her sisters had Brem the day before.

The guards, shocked at her act, follow suit.

“I had the honor of watching you fight in the Dome,” she says, “before your battle yesterday, in the throne room. But I’ve never seen anything like that, your highness.”

“You knew Brem,” I say.

She flinches. It’s the tiniest response, but tells me so much more than words could. “We grieve still the loss of our sister,” she says.

There’s so much about Brem’s story I still don’t know, I guess. She only told me she was sold, not why. “I can show you,” I say, holding the staff out to her, “if you like?”

She wavers, eyes lighting up, despite herself.

But she finally shakes her head with a little laugh that startles me.

“Temptress,” she mutters. When she meets my gaze again, her eyes are smiling.

“I would be lax in my duties if I said yes,” she tells me, “and would join you with an arrow in my back.”

“A pity,” I tell her, turning and racking the staff again. “I guess I’m ready to go back now.”

I’m not, but what other option is there? I’m mid-debate on seduction—Mother, enough with your favorite tool after violence—when we arrive back at my quarters and the order warrior walks me to my room, the others taking up their places in the garden again.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I don’t know your name.”

“Let’s keep it professional, highness,” she says. So, she knows what I had in mind? “I’m a faithful servant of the Sun God, in this life and every one that came before and will come after.”

“You truly believe he’s a reincarnated god?” I don’t wait for her to answer, waving her off, tired at last and just wanting a bath. “Go, then,” I say. “Slave to your beliefs and the order that discarded your sister. I’m done with you.”

She wavers. I’ve finally made her angry. But she fades back into the shade again, neither of us bringing up what happened last night.

I almost wish she had.

The water is the same temperature as the humid air, the lack of difference making the sensation of sinking beneath it strange and leaving me unsatisfied.

Or perhaps it’s just me and this cage I’m in, again.

I scrub myself clean, not once, but twice, though I’m not that dirty, and tackle my hair the same way, with vigor and aggressiveness.

It’s heavy, and for a moment I’m tempted to seek out something sharp to shave it away, to free myself of it, at least, the burden of it.

If I had a blade, though, would I still be here?

Grumpy, grumbling to myself, I emerge from the bath and begin the long, patient task of braiding.

Perhaps the tight, blunt coils I create aren’t meant for beauty, without decoration wound into them, but they feel familiar, like home, like the battlefields I grew up on, and by the time I’m done, I’m calm.

I tuck the final end beneath the weighted weaving and clean my armor, with care and attention, using the expensive and fragrant body oils they’ve provided me, scented with flowers and spices, to oil the leather that I’ve killed in. Which also suits me perfectly.

It’s not until late afternoon that the warrior in black returns, through my front door this time, obviously in charge of my captivity, and now wary again.

“You’ve been summoned for dinner, highness,” she says, gesturing to the two young women who enter. “These two will prepare you.”

I don’t need their help, but allow it, the dark makeup they use to line my eyes, smudging it into the waterline, layering it on my lashes with some liquid that makes them look longer and thicker than before.

The other tends my hands and feet, scrubbing at the callouses, though I ensure she only takes the first layer to soften as little as possible, and she acquiesces even if she’s clearly distressed by the state of me.

The oils I used on my armor are applied to my heels and knees, elbows and wrists, then others, thinner and heavily scented, too, rubbed into the rest of my skin.

When they try to take down my braids, I refuse, and they finally give in on that, though they drape what I’ve done with a net of gold links and sparkling purple gemstones, before I’m dressed firmly and carefully in a short gown of gossamer.

At least this time I’m covered, no tiny strips of fabric to barely hide me from the world, though the skirt barely skims my ass and the cut is low enough that if I bend forward, I’m sure I could expose my belly button.

A weightless veil is added to the back of my hair and bangles to my wrists, and then I’m left to follow the order warrior, once again surrounded by archers, through the temple.

I’m starting to learn the layout, counting turns this time, though my guess about the throne room’s location will have to wait because we’re not going there, the turn I expect missed, carrying further forward until we emerge into another garden.

Like the small dining area we ate at last night, this one holds a low, stone table covered in food, but it’s far bigger, the cushions inset into little seats elevated half a foot from the ground.

I’m guided to my place, gold plate waiting for me, but I barely notice because I’m the last to arrive and I’m more interested in the woman at the far end of the table who sits next to her father and refuses to look at me.

Sheelan. I have to talk to her.

But we’re not meant to have a moment together, or even to attend to dinner. Because the sullen young man pouting on his father’s other side looks up as I enter, dark eyes narrowing when I appear.

“Finally,” Theille says, sitting forward.

I catch Hallick’s stiffening attention, the way the princesses huddle, more fresh wounds barely hidden by the clothing they wear.

Even Vae looks ill, tense and a little dazed, but is it from the head wound she received last night, or is she as disillusioned as her Chancellor lover? “Father, I have something to say.”

I haven’t even sat down, stiffening behind the seat waiting for me, as the Sun God turns to Theille.

Mild surprise seems to be one of his favorite expressions, though he’s indulgent enough with his heir, while I struggle to equate the dangerous Sunnish armies with this man who claims to be reincarnated divinity.

Hallick’s fears are foundless, then, and his excuses thin, mere greed.

He’s going to get us all killed, or destroy the rest of the world with his madness.

Unless I stop him.

But Theille is speaking now, and I’m realizing that the real danger isn’t the sitting god, but the one in waiting.

“It’s time to take action, Father,” he says, that cracking, warbling in the young man’s voice doing him no favors as he tries to show force and will and falls very short, more petulant child than ever. “To ride north.”

“We are discussing that, my son,” Isthisahaloun says. “Which is why our guests are here. Why you are to choose one of these royal women to wed.”

Theille’s still glaring at me, so whatever he has in mind, it’s got nothing to do with marriage. “None of them are worthy of the seed of the Sun God,” he says with a sneer. “And one will be insufficient, Father.”

Isthisahaloun observes his heir for a moment, without a trace of surprise, and has to be considering it. “You propose all of them, then?”

“All,” Theille sweeps one arm through the air, “all that the northern heathens have to offer. And if they refuse, we take them.” He fists his hand in the air. “As we should have long ago.”

They’ve had this talk before, I’m sure of it, debated it. Perhaps even Isthisahaloun himself planted the idea’s seed. But he’s frowning now, the Sun God, and shakes his head with a sigh.

“Forgive my son,” he says to the rest of us, as though he’s just an errant child and not the next in line to take up the mantle of this kingdom’s threat against us. “I’ve agreed to parley, and I will abide by that.”

I see it before it happens. I’m the only one, too, since the princesses now cower deeper, turning toward Hallick, who splutters and finally spins on me. The conversation we had still stands in the demand in his gaze. I know what he wants me to do.

Not that it matters one way or the other, because I’m not going to be responsible for the death of the Sun God after all.

Everything is caught in my periphery. I haven’t sat yet, still standing behind my place, the guards watching me. When they should have their eyes on Theille.

I’m leaping the next instant, not thinking about arrows or threats to my person, hearing the distant draw of strings, knowing bows are at the ready and that not only am I risking everything, reacting as I’ve been trained to do even knowing the distance is too great, that I will likely die no matter what I try.

My attempt to stop what I know is coming falls far short.

Theille has already turned to his father with a dagger appearing in his hand, pulled up from beneath the stone table where he’s secreted it, held it this whole time.

“Then you will die,” he says into Isthisahaloun’s startled face, and drives the blade deep into his father’s throat.

I hear it strike with a sickening sound as the first arrow bounces from the surface of the table, narrowly missing me, the whistle of more launched harsh in my ears.

All irrelevant. Nothing matters except the drama unfolding as I land a foot short of the murderous Theille and his dying father.

The Tenth Incarnation of the God of the Dominae of the Sun goes on to his next life gurgling blood, hands clawing at his son and heir, as his soul drains from him and he sags back, collapsing.

While Sheelan inhales.

And screams.

***