Page 80 of Bride of Ash & Dust

I step closer to her. My fingers brush hers in the heat radiating off the coals.

“Keep your knife on you,” I whisper. “I’ll be right back.”

She nods again. I step back, and she turns to face me. Her lips brush mine, a sudden, urgent kiss, and then she pulls away. Her cheeks burn in the low light.

“Good luck,” she whispers as she steps back. Her voice is small and breathless.

I blink. Something twists in my chest.

She kissed me. Without an audience, without prompting from the royal crier, without anything at all to gain from it.

I nod. And then, because I can’t think of a single thing to say, I nod again and leave the tent.

Cold wind assails me as soon as I step through the tent flap. The sun rolls low on the western horizon, turning the light red as it washes over the far mountains. Our horses have been hobbled, and they graze on sparse grass in the little valley. Smoke and the sound of low, male voices carry toward me from the other tent. I brush my lips with my fingers and imagine I can still feel the heat of her mouth.

She kissed me.

Chapter 44

Zarek

OUR HONORED GUEST

I’m shivering by the time I reach the other tent. Night is coming on fast, and the wind is picking up. I briefly consider lingering outside the tent, trying to make out what the men inside are talking about, but then I remember the strange look on the huge servant’s face and decide against doing anything suspicious.

So I push open the tent flap and walk in like I belong there, smiling just like everyone else.

The room falls silent. It’s about what I expected, this tent. Rough cots press against the flapping canvas walls with two long tables down the middle. It’s exactly what you’d expect to find in any of Vsenrog’s military campaigns. The jarring contrast between the massive bridal bed in my tent and the table full of men who look like soldiers in this tent makes me feel sick.

“Look who it is,” a voice drawls from the far end of the table.

Syvan comes to his feet. He’s standing where the commander would sit, at the head of the table, and he’s watching me with narrowed eyes and a tight smile. There’s a glow to his cheeks that makes me think the mug of wine in his hand isn’t his first.

“What’s the matter?” Syvan asks. “You got tired of your fat little bride?”

Some of the men snigger at this. Briefly, I imagine pulling out my dagger and sinking it into their exposed necks.

“It just seemed a little early to retire,” I reply with a smile. “If I’m not an imposition, of course.”

Syvan laughs. It’s a sharp, hard sound, like a glass shattering on stone, and that low pulse of alarm in my gut flares again. Syvan is always dangerous. But here, when he’s been drinking and he’s surrounded by men who’ve sworn their loyalty to him, he could be a monster.

“I thought the snake of Vsenrog goes wherever he wants,” Syvan hisses. “Isn’t that what they all say?”

I pull out an empty chair and sit down, making myself a smaller target.

“People say a lot of things,” I reply. “You should hear what they say about me in the Golden Rose.”

A few of the men laugh at that, thank the gods. Syvan sits back down, but he’s still staring at me through narrowed eyes. My skin crawls like it’s trying to drag me away. I reach for a mug, and Syvan seems to shake himself.

“Lyam,” Syvan calls. “Get our honored guest a drink!”

I pull my hand away from the mugs in the center of the table. A moment later, Lyam plops an elegant carved goblet down in front of me. It’s filled with dark liquid, something that smells expensive.

I take a sip. It’s wine, good wine, but with a harsh undertone, almost like it’s been fortified with something stronger.

“You’re too kind,” I say, tilting the goblet toward Syvan.

He laughs again, that harsh, brittle bark. “You’re the one we’re all celebrating,” he replies, lifting his own glass. “Now, come on, snake, show us what you’re made of. We’ve all heard you can drink!”