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Releasing my hold of my affinities and my grip of Jarek’s and Pan’s arms, I step away from the stone wall, allowing myself to breathe in the cool air and acclimate myself to the expansive royal garden. An odd sense of déjà vu hangs thick in my memory, of the night I first entered this world, so long ago.
Beside me, Jarek grinds his molars.
“Do you need a minute to adjust?” I ask pointedly. The morels I swallowed an hour ago will mask my Ybarisan scent, and Jarek has crossed that threshold in Ulysede a dozen times to build up his tolerance, but who knows what passing through this stone does to an Islorian immortal’s cravings.
“No. Let’s get this over with.”
I nod toward the blade in his hand. “You should probably put that away. No one walks around the royal garden with their sword drawn.”
“I do,” he retorts, but slides it back into its scabbard before charging out onto the path, his eyes scouring our surroundings. In his double-breasted suit and with his long hair flowing freely, Jarek blends in more than I thought possible. Of course, beneath that cloak and finery is a lethal form strapped with a dozen daggers of various shapes and sizes.
“You know, you make a pretty nobleman, Lord Barwin.”
His gaze drags down the moss green dress beneath my cloak before settling on my new face—my new old face. But he says nothing in response.
Pan hangs back four steps behind us as instructed, dressed in simple wool breeches and jacket. Appropriate attire for a tributary trying to blend in. As Gesine promised, the glowing symbol on his hand has all but vanished beneath whatever masking trick she used. Her abilities seem endless. “Whose face are you using, anyway?”
Jarek shoots a warning glare over his shoulder. He gave Pan strict instructions not to speak, but he should have known that wouldn’t last long.
“Sorry, Lady Barwin.” Pan drops his voice to a whisper. “Whose face is that?”
I smile. “A girl I used to know.”
“A mortal girl? ’Cause she’s real pretty. If she’s a mortal girl, you think I could meet her some—”
“Stop talking,” Jarek barks, his head on a swivel as he looks for any threat.
“Relax.” I hook my arm through his. That only seems to make him more uptight. “We are a noble couple out for an evening walk with our tributary. We haven’t done anything wrong. And I promise, none of them have ever seen me before.”
“That is the issue. No one would forget that face. They’ll remember not having seen it before anywhere in the assembly.”
“Why? Because it’s so striking? Is that why you’ve been staring at me nonstop? Aww. Do you have a little crush on my old face?”
His dark chuckle sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t miss the hint of pink in his cheeks. “Is that truly your face?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason. This way is fastest.” Jarek nods to our right.
I groan at the cedar maze. “Are you sure you know your way through there?”
“As sure as I know the weight of my sword. Both of you, stop talking.” He leads us down the narrow path, the hedge towering over us on either side, the scent of cedar mixed with cold air a soothing combination. The way he takes each turn without hesitation proves his word.
“How do you know your way around here so well?”
“There is much to do in this garden at night.” He smirks.
“If I recall, there’s only one thing to do in this garden at night.” All those evenings I stood on the balcony, watching nobility disappear with their tributaries. “It seems different now though, doesn’t it? So … quiet.” There were always couples and groups wandering around. Lanterns would burn along the path, lit at twilight each day by the casters sweeping through.
Now they sit cold, and there are no couples, no laughter, no sound.
“Yes, it does,” Jarek agrees softly.
We round the corner and come face-to-face with a guard.
I plaster on a smile, even as Pan plows into my back. “Good evening, guard.”
His expression doesn’t soften. “Who are you, and what are you doing in the royal garden?” he demands.
Jarek offers a stiff nod. “Lord and Lady Barwin from Eldford.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Not our problem you don’t know your way around Islor.”
I press my elbow into Jarek’s side in warning, but then cover the move by slipping a playful hand into his jacket, over his taut stomach. “It’s near the border with Kier.” And fictional, but Jarek swore these guards don’t know half the lordships on the map.
“In the east.” His eyes thin, and I sense we’ve said the wrong thing.
With lightning-quick speed, Jarek has drawn the merth dagger tucked under his sleeve and sliced it across the guard’s throat.
The guard drops, clutching his wound as blood pours. In seconds, he stills.
