“Somebody has to tell the council the truth about what happened on the Bluff. Otherwise Harfor is going to get all the funding she needs. I can nearly guarantee it.”
His face is still as he stares at me, anger still etched into his expression. Slowly, his eyebrows raise.
“And why would you want to stop that, knight?” His voice is dangerously low.
“Does it matter?” I say. He keeps staring. He isn’t going to give in if I don’t tell him something. “I don’t want them to kill any more of the Enchanted than they need to. But they will.”
That seems to satisfy him. The Witch King sits back and runs a hand through his hair.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Once they consecrate the Enchanted, it will be too late. And Barivum isn’t close. It’s…”
“I said I would think about it,” Roiven says sharply.
Another person, tall and narrow-faced, finally walks through the archway carrying a platter of food. They freeze when they see me, a wide-eyed expression on their face. I stare back and have the oddest feeling that they can see right through me. It takes effort to break my gaze away. Once I do, they approach the table. Their blonde hair hangs in braids down their back.
There are marks on their right hand, crawling up their arm like vines. It looks almost like enchantment, but wrong. The lines are more organic, green-black instead of the blue-black of ink and crystal. I’ve seen it on witches before, in combat and on bodies.
“Thank you, Nor,” Roiven says through gritted teeth.
Nor sets the tray down between us. For a moment I’m distracted from the marks on Nor’s arm, as my eyes widen at the array of food. There’s a platter of green shoots in an oily sauce. Some charred, red substance that looks like a plant, not meat. Little white flakes in a large bowl, studded with green herbs and bits of red seeds. Is the white stuff some kind of mealed fish? No: I think I’ve had it before, years ago, at a feast on Amkreig.
Grain. Rice? The food must be playing a trick on my eyes.
For a long moment Roiven and Nor lock eyes. Then Nor nods and practically runs away. Roiven pours himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the tray. I gulp, salivating as the rich, unfamiliar smell of the food wafts into my nose.
“Go ahead,” Roiven says.
“Is the food poisoned?”
“No.”
“Is there achanceit could be poisoned?”
Roiven snorts.
“Considering they’d be killing me, too? Extremely unlikely.”
That’s good enough for me. He watches me sharply as I take one of the empty bowls and spoons off the tray and scoop food into it.
“What was that? Those marks on the witch's arm?”
“A bond.”
“Who did they sacrifice?”
“It’s nothing like enchantment,” Roiven says. “It’s connection. Not a way to control people.”
He didn’t saynobody’s sacrificed.
“If you say so.”
“Bond with me,” Roiven says. I stare at him in horror until I realize he must be joking. Because there is no reality in which I’d agree to something likethat.
I snort, then take the first bite. One of the charred red things. An acidic flavor bursts in my mouth, sour and strong and a little bit sweet. I nearly spit it out.
“What the hell?”
