“Yes.”
“Is that how you got your scars?”
He turned his head, a question in his eyes.
“When you were fighting with Red,” I explained. “You took off your shirt.”
“Ah. Right. Failure was unacceptable. It was weakness, and weakness was to be punished away. But never erased,” he quietly added. “Children bear the scars of their parents’ choices. And pay the price for their mistakes.”
Without thinking, I reached out and took his hand. He held firm, interlacing his fingers with mine. I wanted to memorize the weight of his hand. Of the solidity. Of the security. A memory that I could lock away in a secret room in my mind—a memory that wouldn’t be forgotten.
“When things were bad,” I said, “I thought of my father. He didn’t smile often; he was always so serious trying to keep us alive. But when he was really, really happy, he had this great crooked smile. When it was hard at the manor, I knew he’d be furious with the Lady but glad I was alive. So I focused on that.”
He nodded. “My mother died young. When she was gone, the memory of her helped.”
“How did she die?”
“She was murdered,” he said, the words hard.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
He shook his head. “It’s a thing that happened. A servant was executed for the crime, but no one believes she was the true killer—or the mastermind.”
“Who do you think killed her?”
“I can’t be certain. Documents are missing from the archives. Witnesses dead. Some say she was killed by my father’s enemies. Some say shewasthe enemy—a spy for Vhrania or a woman unfaithful. But that’s impossible. I’d have seen it.” He paused for a moment. “Some say she was killed by an ally of my father’s future wife.”
I could hear the conviction in his voice; that was the rumor he believed.
“The current empress. And your stepmother.”
Little wonder he pretended to be a guard. He’d been brutalized as a child, his mother taken from him, possibly by the woman who’d taken his mother’s place.
“You survived,” I said. “That’s a victory.”
“As did you, Fox. We became who we needed to be to stay alive. I made my own plans. But it’s dangerous. And being a Lys’Careth, for all the wealth, comes with certain shackles.”
“Golden shackles?”
“Maybe. But they hold just as tight. Do you know the story of Malayza?” he added.
“No. Who is she? Someone from the palace?”
“No,” he said with amusement. “She’s a story and a star.” He raised his arm and pointed. “The bright one that shines a bit red. Malayza was a princess of Orlash, daughter of a powerful warrior. She was riding her horse across the taiga—her frozen land—one cold, bright day when she found an injured man just off the road. She helped him find shelter and food and a healer. A few days later, a spy sent by an enemy warlord reached her father’s palace. She was shocked to see that it was the man she’d helped. And for their help, the spy killed Malayza and her father.”
“The moral of that story is that we shouldn’t help people?”
“No. The moral of that story is that we should help people, even if fate doesn’t reward us for it. One of the old gods took pity on Malayza and cast her into the sky where she might live forever.”
“That’s very grim.”
“Then you tell one.”
“A story? I only know the ones from storybooks aboutprincesses meeting frogs who turn out to be cursed princes, or evil princes stealing maidens, or evil princes turning into frogs. They’re mostly about princes.”
“And why not? We’re powerful, handsome, wise beyond our years.”
I snorted. “And humble, to boot.”
