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Fordham drowned in the sights like a man dying of thirst in the desert. His eyes took in everything as they made their way through the village, but he never said a word.
“Over there is where my friend Parris lives. He’s a fashion designer. Very up-and-coming. Only works with the wealthy, but we met years ago when he was in the House of Dragons. So, he still designs for me.”
They passed Parris’s shop with fashionable dresses in the windows.
“He was a Dragon Blessed?” Fordham finally asked.
“Yes. He was scooped up by a woman in Sayair who saw his talent. They trained together for a few years, and then she helped him open up his own boutique in the village.”
“And that’s what you could do?”
She swiftly shook her head. “Oh, no, I have no real talent like that. Plus, I really don’t know what I’m going to do about a tribe. I haven’t heard from Ellerby, and I’ve been so focused on this assassin and Lyam’s murder and training.” She sighed. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“You’ll find someone. You seem to charm everyone you meet.”
She laughed. “Hardly. Most people find me too outspoken. I’m not particularly ladylike.”
“Overrated,” he said.
And she smiled, turning her face away from him. “Well, a problem for another day. We’re here.”
“Here?” he asked and looked up at the location they’d stopped in front of.
“Carmine’s Books.” It was the largest bookstore in the village complete with a large sitting area and stage. Musicians performed on the small stage, and parties were housed inside the store. It was something magical—to be surrounded by books on all sides for an evening.
A sign out front read: One Night Only—A Magical Poetry Experience Unlike Any Other.
Fordham eyes glued to the sign. “You didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?”
But Fordham seemed to have lost all words.
“Tickets,” a man said at the door.
Kerrigan produced her two tickets and passed them to the man, and then she all but dragged Fordham inside. The interior of the bookshop was warm and homey. Candlelight flickered around the room in protected glass cases. Wooden chairs were set up before the stage, which had just one stool and a herringbone wood backdrop. They were offered drinks, which they took, and then found seats in the middle of the room.
“What is this?” Fordham whispered.
“A poetry reading.”
His eyes were warm. The gray almost silver in the candlelight. He placed his hand over hers. Sparks flared at the smallest touch, and she had to make sure that she was still breathing.
“You did this for me?”
She swallowed and nodded. “I saw that you like to write. I thought… that you should see that Kinkadia has something to offer other than fighting. It has art and culture and music. It has poetry.”
Fordham was speechless. She had known him to grow silent when he was irritated or disdainful, but this was altogether different. This was like watching the moon try to capture the sun—hopeful, endless, and impossible.
Kerrigan just smiled at him and withdrew her hand. Fordham still sat in stunned anticipation as the musicians ceased their playing and a woman walked onstage. Carmine gestured exuberantly, sinking into her ample hip, her golden-brown skin almost glowing. And then the reading began.
The poets’ verses varied wildly. Most spoke about love and lust and death. They were evocative and endearing. The poets’ voices filled with emotion, dripping with enthusiasm. A few were downright erotic. Her cheeks tinted pink at the mere suggestion of what their words implied.
But the best and the most dangerous was the final poet—a young human woman dressed entirely in black and holding a candle before her face.
Red.
The color of blood.
The color of life.
The color of death.
Masks.
To shield the guilty.
To wield the darkness.
To field the hate.
A worm writhing in the dirt
does not know how it can be hurt.
But it can feel the impending doom
as the boot so ever looms.
A spark is the light of the first
who knows what it is to thirst
for a world that will burst into flame
and not burn it down as a game.
Now is the time to rise up
against the boot that would smother our heat.
Now is the time to fill your cup.
To tell the game masters, we will not be beat.
Red.
The blood of our people.
The life of our children.
The death of our existence.
Masks.
The guilty.
The darkness.
The hate.
A hush fell over the crowd as she finished. Then, a soft round of applause followed her exit.
Carmine stepped back onto the stage, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Neslie. That concludes our evening performances. Feel free to mingle. We have music and refreshments.”
Fordham looked to Kerrigan. “That was pointed.”
Kerrigan frowned. “Indeed.”
She had known that the Red Masks were at the Dragon Blessed ceremony, that they were in her vision, but she hadn’t seen them since. But if poets were writing about them and reading about them, then they must be gathering forces again. She shuddered at the thought.
