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8
Aren
Aren put awaythe whetstone he’d been running across the blade of a knife, staring off into the depths of the jungle surrounding his home. Though a hundred sounds emanated from the trees—the trickle of water, the calls of animals, the hum of insects—the island felt quiet. Serene. Peaceful.
A warm furry body rubbed against his arm, and Aren reached up to rub Vitex’s ears, the big cat purring contentedly until something in the bushes caught his attention. There’d been a female running about, and even now, Aren spotted her yellow eyes watching them from beneath a large leaf.
“Want to go get her?” he asked his cat.
Vitex only sat on his haunches and yawned. “Good plan. Let her come to you.” Aren chuckled. “Let me know how that works out for you.”
Behind them, there was the sound of boots against marble and the door swinging open. His sister blinked as she stepped outside.
“You’re in better form than I thought you’d be,” he said dryly.
Ahnna frowned at him, using one foot to shove the cat inside so she could shut the door. “Why’s that?”
“Because the amount of wine you must have consumed to have passed out at the table probably means my cellar’s looking lean.”
“Good god, did I?”
“If the chatter I heard coming from the kitchen is to be believed.” Picking up his bow, Aren stood from where he’d been sitting on the front step, tapping the end of the weapon against his booted toe. “Eli and Lara dragged you back to your room.”
Passing a hand over her eyes, Ahnna shook her head as if to clear it. “I remember talking to her and then . . .” She shook her head again. “Sorry. And sorry I’m late. I slept like the dead.”
So had he, which was strange, given it had been a clear night. Without a storm to guard Ithicana’s shores, Aren normally tossed and turned half the night. He would’ve been late to rise himself if the damn cat hadn’t woken him.
“Good morning, children.”
Aren turned to see Jor appear through the mist, a bread roll he’d clearly filched from the kitchen in one hand.
The older man gave Aren a once-over. “You’re looking awfully well rested for a man who’s just been married.”
Ahnna cackled. “I don’t think he had much company last night. Or any.”
“Pissed the new wife off already?”
Aren ignored the question, a vision of Lara standing at the foot of his bed swimming across his thoughts, her naked body so damnably perfect that it had to have been a dream. The taste of her lips, the feel of her silken skin beneath his hands, the sound of her breath, ragged with desire. It had all been so vivid, but his memory stopped there.
Definitely a dream.
Pulling a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, Aren handed it to Ahnna. “Your marching orders for Southwatch.”
She unfolded it, eyes running over the revised trade terms with Maridrina, brows furrowing with renewed annoyance.
“I’ll walk down with you to the barracks,” he said. “I need a runner to take Northwatch their copy. Maridrina’s already sent buyers through the bridge with gold. They’ll be wanting to get underway.” To Jor, he said, “Who’s on watch?”
“Lia.”
“Good. Keep her here. I don’t expect Lara to cause any trouble, but . . .”
Jor coughed. “About Lara. Aster’s here. He wants a word.”
“He’s at the barracks?”
“On the water.”
“Of course he is.” The commander of the Kestark garrison—south of Midwatch —was a member of the old guard. He was appointed near the end of Aren’s grandfather’s life, and Aren’s mother had spent nearly her entire reign looking for a legitimate reason to have him replaced, with no success. The old bastard clung to Ithicanian tradition like a barnacle to a boat, and Aren had not failed to notice that of all the Watch Commanders, Aster had been the only one who hadn’t been at his wedding. “I suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
