“Have you had time to read over what I sent?” he asked as her handmaid brought out tea and a platter of cloud cookies. Rain drummed against the balustrades and down in her garden as the banyan trees rustled in the wind.
“It’s a bit rough, but I can fix it.” Elena poured, examining Samson. She had heard stories of his military feats, and he certainly looked like a warrior with his broad shoulders and warm, bronze skin. But she also saw the makings of a royal within him: the confidence and arrogance in his posture, the sureness in his gaze. He would make a pretty king.
“Let us be frank,” she said as he reached for his cup. “Is Ravence your only play for a throne?”
If the question surprised him, Samson made no sign of it. He merely regarded her with his dark blue eyes.Too much water, she thought and stopped herself from rubbing the back of her neck. Such eyes were considered bad luck in Ravence. Out here in the desert, water drove men wild with greed.
“No,” Samson finally said.
She ventured a smile. At least he knew when to be honest.
“What other queens have considered your hand?” She took a sip from her tea, never averting her gaze.
He held it. “Only two. A queen and a king, in fact. But… Farin thought it would be a bad alliance.”
“And why would you need Farin’s permission?”
“I am but a humble servant of the Jantari, aren’t I?” A wisp of a smile played across his lips. “Or at least, that’s what people say.”
He was toying with her; she could tell by the amusement in his eyes.All right then, she thought as she spooned sugar in her tea.Let’s play.
“Which of the rumors are true?” she asked.
“What, your little intelligence networks can’t get the bulletin from theJantari Times?” He grinned. “What have you heard?”
“That you’re a Sesharian who sold his brethren just so you could be free,” she said.
“Old rumor. Come on, my rani. You must have something better than that.”
“You’re a charlatan who picks up the scraps from the tables of kings just so that you can feel like one.”
“Mm, tough, but I know you can be tougher.”
Elena paused. “My apologies. I know what you are.”
She leaned forward. “You’re lost. A man without a home, serving a king who will never raise his boot from your neck, no matter how many praises he showers upon you.”
“Somewhat closer.” Samson still didn’t flinch.
“No matter where you go, no matter where you run, you will always be lost,” she whispered. “Because your home no longer belongs to you.”
His breath was warm against her lips. “Wrong.”
He was close, so close that if he tilted ever so slightly, he could kiss her. And for a moment, Elena wondered if he would. He was her betrothed, might as well get on with it, for the sake of duty and whatnot.
But then he did something that surprised her.
Samson took her hand, his fingers brushing the backs of hers.
“‘A steady hand and a quick sword,’ isn’t that what your scriptures say?” He slid his hand down, touching the soft skin of her wrist. “You’re the hand, I’m the sword. You command, and I’ll burn their names in the sand. How can I be lost then, if I know my purpose? Imagine the Arohassin gone and peace with the Jantari. Your reign—our reign—will bring back the Golden Suns. An age of splendor.”
Elena carefully pulled her hand away. “And that’s what you are here for?”
“Peace, and freedom.” He smiled. “It’s not pleasant dancing to Farin’s tunes. But I must, at least for a bit. He thinks I’ve asked for your hand so that I can help Jantar invade, but we both know you’d cut off my hands and tongue before I could open the gates.”
At this, Elena smiled. “Glad you’re already learning my ways.”
“It’s my job, isn’t it?”
