“Yes. I’m warm and dry.” She gestured to his forearm, still streaked with crimson. “You’re the one still bleeding.”
He began sealing the wound as she spoke. “Do we wait here?”
“No. Let’s go,” he said, casting one last look at the water, as though he might spot Finn from here. “And hope to Godric that Iqbal drowns before they reach the shore.”
Chapter 33
Reagan
Iqbal didn’t drown, which Reagan later reasoned was for the best.
Stars gleamed above him in the blackened sky, their reflections shimmering along the rim of his glass as he swirled its contents. Only water, so he would be forced to keep a clear head while the elves tried, as they always did, to see how far they could push him.
Iqbal had been going on about some courtier Reagan had never heard of, smoking a roll of velmoria dust that left him with those typical golden rings around his irises. Reagan let the pale smoke wash over him as he worked through a roasted duck and the fragrant contents of a hollowed pumpkin. The anise was strong. He wondered who they were importing it from, doubting Banfgaard produced it.
He was considering that when Arun stood, radiating that warrior air, and struck a path toward Jane.
Reagan didn’t care about the nonsense Iqbal was saying, but he nodded at all the right moments while his attention drifted to the edge of the table. Arun offered Jane his hand with so muchceremony that someone might have mistaken it for a proposal. Reagan thought she smiled.
He lifted his glass to hide the involuntary curl tugging at his mouth.
“Join me for a dance?” Arun asked, his gaze roaming over the tight fabric outlining the narrow waist Reagan used to kiss every night.
Jane set down her glass and rose.
Reagan reminded himself that she loved dancing, and that Arun might as well have been a broom.
They left the table, threading toward where Finn and Maith had long since wedged themselves between the few other guests present.
Reagan waited for some cue that Iqbal had finished talking. Predictably, he hadn’t.
“What do you think, Reagan?” Iqbal purred, his voice wrapped around a smirk. “Sirens.”
Reagan cleared his throat. “I draw the line at monsters.”
Eldar’s brow lifted as he inhaled from his dust wrapper and exhaled smoke, saying nothing.
Iqbal laughed far too loudly. “I live for this sense of humour, but I ask if they are present in your home.”
“Luckily, no. Are your people used to them?”
Only those who had crossed the sea, along with a handful of noble relatives, occupied the long oak table and the small circle of revellers around it. Musicians played a traditional elven ballad while dancers spun beneath shifting magelights. Reagan wondered how many spies were among them.
Iqbal plucked a peach from the piled fruit and held it to Eldar’s mouth.
“They understand everyone needs a place to call home,” Eldar replied smoothly. “Even if you are not a mana wielder.” Reagan noted the shift, the resentment beneath it. “How are your ownpeople? I hear you finally found a way around your blighted soil.”
He wondered what had driven their own staff away, based on what Iqbal had said earlier. Whether the sense of being a minority in the country had been the reason.
“Yes, it’s recovering gradually,” Reagan said. He had no intention of indulging this line of discussion. “But that is not the most pressing concern.”
“Let me guess,” Iqbal said lightly. “The girl slaughtered at your gates?”
Reagan clenched his teeth. “Yes. By the Order. Which is why I am here.”
“Because you need our help?” Iqbal pressed.
“I do. To find them. To learn where they’re hiding,” Reagan admitted. “I’m sure you already know the kind of threat they pose. We haven’t been able to find a lot on Giddeon Madden beyond his carefully worded petitions. But you excel at finding information no one wants out there.”
