He looked back at me, and after a moment, a slow smile spread across his gorgeous face. “Fox, are you jealous?”
“Of course not.” Jealousy was for good coins and soft furs. Not princes.
He looked at me for a long time. “You’re lying. You have a tell.”
Being called a liar was one thing. Being accused of having a tell—of beingobvious—was a different kind of insult. I was a thief, after all. “Ido nothave a tell.”
“You do.” He actually looked amused by this. “You clench your right hand.”
My immediate reaction was to object. And then I unclenched my right hand. “Damn it,” I said, then crossed my arms.
He bit back a grin. “ ‘Niko’ is an improvement over ‘Your Gods-Damned Highness,’ but I still hate the name. And youhave nothing to be jealous of.” He leaned forward, lips at my ear. “But if you think it’s necessary, I’m perfectly willing to prove my…interest…to you later.”
Every bit of my traitorous body rose to that obvious bait, eager for him to make good on that promise.
When he left the room, Wren moved beside me. “I don’t know where to start.”
“You don’t need to. I can hear it already.”
“Was it worth it? Whatever put that look in your eyes.”
“I’m sorry to say that it absolutely was.”
She made a very unhappy noise. “If he likes her, he’s dumber than we thought.” She looked at me, her eyes cold as Edgelands ice. “And if he hurts you, I will end him.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“You’re welcome.”
“As for the prince—trust me on this: You’ll be second in line. And I still have your blade.”
We made our way to the courtyard, where a table bore a dozen bladed weapons of all shapes and sizes, including a sword in a silver scabbard crusted with glinting sapphires.
“Are these actually good weapons?” I asked Wren as we looked them over. “What if sapphires fall off?”
“They won’t,” the prince said. He joined us at the table, picked up the sword, and unsheathed it. He put aside the scabbard and I watched carefully, just in case one of the jewels rolled away. So easy to slip into a pocket, but no luck there.
The blade was no less impressive than the scabbard had been. It was a silver longsword with a golden guard, the blade etched with lines and symbols. It gleamed in the sunlight. Heran a finger down the engravings in the same way he might have touched a lover. “It’s called the Moriad.”
“It has a name?”
“It does. It was commissioned by the third—or maybe it was the fourth—Emperor Eternal.”
“It was the third,” Catalaya said behind us. Her maid stood behind her, her expression as hard and cold as the steel.
“Was it?” the prince asked, his gaze on the blade.
“It was. Laeith’s mother was emphatic that he learn his Carethian history, and I was taught alongside him for several years. They say the emperor wanted to remember the blue sky that hung over the plains where he slaughtered marauders from the east, so he had the sword commissioned for the victory.”
“The telling I heard,” the prince said, extending the sword at arm’s length, “was that he was moved that the sky would shine so beautifully over a field of death. He commissioned the sword so he would never forget the cost of victory.” He glanced at her. “Would you like to hold it?”
“Of course.” He extended it. She took it neatly, rolled her wrist with what looked like expert skill. “Well weighted,” she concluded, and handed it back.
Jealousy flared in my belly again.
“Fox, would you like to try?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” No point in showing off what I couldn’t do.
