“They can be a nuisance sometimes, but I swear, come dawn, they make the most beautiful chorus you’ve ever heard,” Samson said. He bit into a cloud cookie, vapors of red escaping from between his lips.
At the edge of the courtyard, a gardener ripped out a cropping of silver-headed mushrooms that gave off such a strong, sulfurous scent that Yassen could smell it from the terrace.
“Are we having mushrooms for dinner?” he asked and turned to Samson, who was carefully applying a layer of gingerberry beads to a piece of toast.
“No, because I assume they still turn your stomach,” Samson said. “Remember the time when you threw up all over Akaros’s shoes? Skies above, he was livid. He must have made you scrub those filthy leather loafers a hundred and fifty times before he put them back on.”
“I spat in them for good measure,” Yassen said, and Samson laughed.
“How is that old man? Keeping the boys miserable as always?”
Yassen didn’t answer; instead, he motioned to the signet ring on Samson’s pinkie. “I thought you had given up on the family name. Or at least that’s what the reporters say.”
“What do you think?” Samson asked, and Yassen recognized the subtle edge in his voice. It was the same voice Samson would use when they had to interrogate their sources for information. He was testing him.
Yassen hesitated, eyeing his friend. Though he had the same smile, this man was a stranger, not the boy Yassen had once known. The boy who had clutched his arm so hard that Yassen found marks in the morning; the boy who had promised that he was done with his name, done with the Arohassin, and that he was leaving and would one day come back for Yassen.
Yassen felt the ghost of Samson’s hand pressing into his flesh.
“I think that—as much as you decry your family name and the horrors it’s brought upon you—you still miss Seshar. Maybe not all the people, but at least the horses.” Samson chuckled at that. Yassen pushed on, picking his words with care. “But what I still don’t understand is, with all the wealth and power you’ve built, why haven’t you gone back? Why haven’t you punished the people who killed your family?”
“I see you haven’t changed a bit.” Samson lowered his leg, sitting straighter. He reached for his tea, pouring carefully, but Yassen heard the coldness in his voice. “You’re still obsessed with punishment. They drilled that one deep.”
“You were supposed to come back,” Yassen said, hating the faint crack in his voice. “You made a vow to get me out.”
Samson stopped pouring. There was a slight tremor in his hand as he set the pot down.
“We both know the Arohassin would have cut off our heads if I had returned,” he said softly. But there was pain in his eyes. Samson had abandoned him to a miserable fate. And now here Yassen was, a thin, scarred, burnt reminder of Samson’s shortcomings. Perhaps the militant knew of guilt too.
“I see you’ve employed your people,” Yassen said after a while, nodding to the gardeners and the servants. “Are they all Sesharians?”
“Every single one.”
“And Farin gave them to you?”
“You don’t give men. They’re not slaves,” Samson said, a hint of reproach in his voice. “I simply convinced Farin that not all colonized people make good miners.”
“They make better soldiers,” Yassen said pointedly, looking at Samson.
Samson paused and then gave a slow nod. “Some better than others.”
A servant came to refill their cups. When she left, Samson cleared his throat.
“Look, Cass. I’m glad you called me. And, I-I’m sorry for leaving you behind. You’ll never know how sorry I am. After you helped me escape during our squad mission, I wanted to come back. To find you. But it wasn’t safe, for me or you.” He paused, biting his lip.
“But when you told me that you had defected, I had to take safety precautions. You see”—he placed his hand in the space between them, the dragon insignia of his ring flashing in the light—“I already have an assignment for you. But I won’t force you to take it. It’s your choice. Heavens know you deserve rest.”
His words were kind. But Yassen knew he really had no choice as Samson tapped the table and holos shot up. News clippings and images opened before them, but Yassen already knew what they contained.
“Ravence,” he said simply before Samson could speak.
Samson shook his head. “I knew you’d figure it out. Yes. Ravence is about to crown its new queen, and they’ve asked me to provide security. You know why?” His eyes bored into Yassen.
Yassen met his gaze without flinching.
“Because the Arohassin plan to attack and assassinate the Ravani family on the coronation day.”
“Did they tell you anything else before you ran?”
