Lightfall, p.23
Lightfall, page 23
“You’re High Tribune Niklause, aren’t you?” Cistine said. “Of Tyve Court?”
“That I am. And I know who you are, Princess Cistine.” He glanced over his shoulder toward sanctuary at the edge of dance floor.
Cistine gently tightened her hold on him and raised her voice above the music. “I’m sorry about what Salvotor did with your Court. I’ve never met a man so conceited about what he’s owed or so vicious in how he claims it.”
Niklause’s gaze revolved back to her, the faintest softening around his bright brown eyes. “I’ve heard rumors of what you suffered in that ancient temple. Very few escape unscathed when a cruel man swings his sword.”
Cistine swallowed around the lump in her throat. “That’s true. I hope things are better for you now with Salvotor in chains.”
“They will be once Chancellor Thorne sniffs out what remains of his father’s spies.”
“Talheim is personally assisting in that effort. We’re making some progress already.”
New interest kindled in Niklause’s eyes. “Are you, now?”
Cistine smiled wryly. “Yes, when we’re not handling a thousand other crucial matters.”
Chuckling, Niklause spun and dipped her. “Welcome to ruling. You will find there is always something else important nudging for your attention. The trick isn’t to unbury yourself from the work, it’s to prop up whichever part of the heap is about to come crashing down on your head while you deal with the next one.”
The warmth in her chest was a reminder that she did this not just to win a kingdom’s support, but to truly open her heart to Valgard’s needs, its strength and wisdom—just as she had with the cabal. “Tribune, may I ask you a question about poison studies?”
The hard muscles in Niklause’s brawny arm corded under her hand. “What use does Talheim have of Tyve secrets?”
“Not Talheim…me. I don’t want you to tell me your Court’s secrets, either, I’d never be so bold. It’s just about poison.”
Niklause halted mid-dance, shrewdly searching her face. “And what does a princess care for these things?”
Cistine bit the corner of her lip, holding his wary stare. “The threat we face from the South is led by a man sometimes called the Poisoner King. All our Wardens for the past twenty years have trained in poison studies because of his obsession with battle waged through herbs. As Talheim’s princess, that battle is as much mine to fight as anyone’s. I’d like to know more about those threats, and I thought Tyve would know best. Besides…” she blinked away a scattering of heat in her eyes. “I’ve already lost someone I loved to poison. I never want to see it happen again, if I can help.”
Niklause’s gaze darted left and right—searching again for escape, or ensuring no one saw what he was about to do. Then he led her off to a corner where a servant offered flutes of sweet wine, took one for himself, and handed another to her. “The power of life and death in herbs is never to be taken lightly. One misguided man in a Tribune’s seat with vengeance in his heart and poison at his fingertips, and our very way of rulership comes crashing down.”
“I understand,” Cistine said. “And I would never try to subvert that.”
“Be that as it may, if you hope I’ll tell you how to poison someone, you’re wasting your time. I’ll tell you how to guard against a man who wields those gifts amiss, but I won’t place a weapon in a foreign kingdom’s hand.”
“I don’t ask you to. But I know the power your people wield. All I’m asking is that you tell me how to protect mine.”
Niklause reclined against the wall, arms folded, clinking the wine flute against his chest. Then he said, “Tell me more about this Poisoner King.”
Hours later, Cistine finally peeled herself away from the conversation with Niklause, haunches smarting from sitting so long at the table where they’d finally retired when they grew sick of standing, her mind whirling with all the information given and imbibed. The things Ashe taught her of poultices and tinctures in Hellidom was mere child’s play compared to what Tyve knew. Horrific images of convulsions and foaming mouths and death played at the corners of counteragents and healing properties. She would be up half the night writing down what Niklause taught her.
But equally as important as what she learned was what she forged: an understanding deeper than mere talk of war, a kindred heart in Niklause, now confronted with the notion of a southerly King who used his Court’s passion against children no older than his own grandbabes.
Cistine returned to her place at the wall with new respect for a Court she hardly knew before tonight, and with knowledge she was grateful to have regardless if that was all the aid Tyve ever offered.
Thorne found her again in minutes, this time with his jacket slung over one shoulder. The dark shirt beneath fit him unfairly well, making it difficult not to stare when he reclined on the stones beside her. “That looked like a scintillating conversation.”
“I think my head is as stuffed as my stomach,” Cistine moaned. “It’s no wonder Salvotor wanted to control Tyve. If they were less honorable, they could poison Valgard and rule everyone with a cure held ransom.”
Thorne nodded grimly. “Valdemar may have his flaws, but I’ll never take for granted what he could do but chooses not to. There’s more nobility in the Courts than it may seem when we’re at one another’s throats.” He inclined his body slightly toward hers. “Did you tell him about Jad?”
“Yes. I never thought Jad would be the enemy I’d rather face, but thinking about him is easier than thinking of Salvotor. And the things Niklause taught me tonight make him less frightening, too. He feels beatable to me now. He hasn’t always.”
“Any enemy is beatable, Logandir. It’s only a matter of having the right weapons to face them.”
“I suppose that’s true of anything, even forging alliances. You just have to find the common threads and weave them together.”
“Do you think you made an ally tonight, then?”
“I hope so. I think…part of me forgot how to open my heart to Valgard after it was so trampled on, with Baba Kallah and Helga, and Julian, and Kristoff…” she trailed away, thumbing the compass pendant. “But this was how I befriended the cabal. I never would’ve found friendship if I wasn’t willing to risk being hurt. That’s what this treaty is about. It’s not just telling the Chancellors what lies at stake, I have to lay my heart wide open so they can see what’s inside and maybe find something in me they want to ally themselves with.”
Thorne was quiet for some time. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m proud of every risk you take and every battle you win.”
Skin all but glowing with warmth, Cistine tapped her heel restlessly and folded her hands behind her back, watching Tribunes feast and laugh and dance together. She spotted Kyost among the crowd, and her stomach twisted. Another ally to make; another mountain to ascend. But already she was weary; a tired heart laid bare could only take so much, and she frayed more quickly now than she used to. “I think I’m through taking risks tonight. Kyost is a problem for a different day.”
“Then we’re done here?”
Cistine turned her head to the wall and looked up at Thorne. His face was near enough that their noses might’ve brushed if she rose up on the tips of her toes. His gaze drifted down to her lips, studying them in a way that made her heart absolutely pound.
“Between us,” he murmured, “this isn’t the best entertainment Valgard has to offer.”
“Oh?” Cistine breathed.
Thorne’s eyes flicked back up to hold hers, mischief sizzling in their depths. “Let’s get out of here.”
She blinked, leaning back. “Thorne, this is an official feast. As a Chancellor—”
“As a Chancellor, I would be remiss not to show Talheim’s emissary that not all Valgardans are pompous, pampered elites wining and laughing in fine clothes.” He tipped his head even nearer, his warm breath fanning her face. “It would be my honor to prove our kingdom is still capable of some real enjoyment.”
She cast a last glance at the stuffy room, the bejeweled gowns and fine coats, all the conversations had and not had tonight, and her throat hitched. “I’m all yours.”
Smirking, Thorne pushed up from the wall. “Meet me in the courtyard in twenty minutes. I’ll show you the sort of fun Sillakove used to make in this city.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
STORNHAZ SPARKLED UNDER waning moonlight, pale homes glinting with the thinnest sheen of ice. The frigid air reminded Cistine giddily of Darlaska, though here the gods themselves took pleasure in the decoration, adorning homes and shops with lacy patterns of frost whose subtle winking matched the smile on Thorne’s face.
“Where in God’s name are we going?” Cistine asked for the fourth time when they crossed from the elite districts and into the poorer ones.
“You’ll see.”
A quarter-mile later, he brought her inside a tavern.
After the disastrous night in Veran when she first met Quill, Cistine never expected to feel at ease in a place like this. Yet the rustic tenor of the wooden walls, antler sets, and beast hides on display, even the peal of a fiddle and drum were more welcoming than the gilded finery of the Tribune’s feast. Here, she was not the only one in armor; hardly anyone looked at her twice. Everything felt like an echo of Hellidom or the Den, or even the place in Jovadalsa where she and Maleck journeyed on the hunt for Ashe.
Melancholy crested through her at the thought of him, scarred and strong and smiling. She missed that smile and the dark, looming shield of his presence guarding her back. She’d been apart from him and Ashe too much lately, and with time even the pain of her Warden’s betrayal in Siralek was fading into sheer missing.
Thorne’s hand brushed the small of her back and he bent his head to speak in her ear. “This was where I talked Quill, Maleck, and Aden into joining Sillakove. At that table in the corner.”
He nodded at the place where so much began, a corner most would overlook. Blood running hot with glee, Cistine grinned at him. “Let’s sit there!”
She snagged their seats while Thorne ordered meads, sliding one to her while he took up position across the table. She relaxed before her first sip, and Thorne wore a perpetual smile, sprawling in his chair, one hand braced on his thigh, eyes scouring the room with a blend of nostalgia and contentment.
“I like seeing you this way,” Cistine blurted with boldness she couldn’t blame on the drink. “Without the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders.”
His gaze darted back to her, smile softening. “The feeling is mutual.”
Flushing, Cistine buried her nose in her tankard again and surfaced with a question. “What’s your favorite memory from before you left Stornhaz?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me yours in Talheim.”
“Agreed.”
He leaned forward to thumb a fleck of mead from her nose. “I was fifteen. Quill, Tatiana, Aden, and I got into a tavern brawl, entirely not our fault…”
Cistine lost track of time after that; lost track of who came and went from the tavern, how many reels began and ended, when they traded mead for water. A plate of roasted pork and vegetables appeared between them, and they devoured it, still asking questions: their best and worst birthdays. Their favorite seasons. Places they would travel and things they would see if they could go anywhere.
“Now that I’ve been here, it’s the Wild Islands.” Cistine pointed at Thorne with an asparagus spear. “Did you know there’s an entire kingdom of pirates out there? It’s rumored to be one the most dangerous places in the world. Ships will add weeks to their travel just to give it a wide berth.”
“So, naturally, the sole heir of the Middle Kingdom wants to go there.” Thorne parried her asparagus with his so he could dip it in the bowl of horseradish sauce between them. “Knowing you, you’d soon have them eating from the palm of your hand.”
“It’s possible! If I can manage one treaty, maybe I can manage more,” Cistine laughed. “And what about you? If you could go anywhere in all the kingdoms of the world, where—?”
“Talheim.”
No hesitation. No teasing. Nothing but bare honesty in his face. Slowly, Cistine set down her asparagus. “Thorne.”
“It sounds beautiful, the way you describe it. The Calaluns, the amber plains, the mineral lakes and gold deserts to the south. I want to see it all like you see it.” His voice quieted. “I hope to see it with you someday.”
Cistine swallowed the heat from her throat. “I’d like that. To show you my kingdom.” An impossible, reckless hope winnowed into her heart; that perhaps he wouldn’t only visit it, but perhaps, someday, beside her—
A man staggered out of the dance and bashed into their table, jolting it against the wall and ramming their chairs off-kilter. They righted themselves, and Thorne reached up to catch the man before he collapsed in a drunken, chortling heap on the floor.
“Well, that’s that!” His partner laughed, pushing her short-cropped dark hair from her eyes. Fists perched on her hips, she nodded along to the changing tempo of the music, studying Thorne. “How’s about a dance?”
He shot a glance at Cistine, equal parts hope and concern, and she flapped her hands. She needed a moment to quiet her raging heart and lock away that rash and errant thought seeding in her head before it could fully take root. “Go have fun! I’m not finished eating. Besides…” she reached into her breastpocket and tugged out the small bestiary he gave her in the library. “I have work to do.”
“A bestiary, eh?” The woman arched a brow. “I’m a hunter myself. Don’t let the look of all these men fool you, though. I doubt you’ll have any need of that thing here.”
“She’s always prepared for the occasion.” Thorne winked, following the woman to the dance floor.
Chair wedged against the wall, legs crossed on the seat, Cistine sipped and ate and read the bestiary, watching the room throb with glee and abandon between pages. It didn’t matter which Court these taverngoers were sworn to tonight, who’d Named them if they were Named at all. As one people, they danced and drank and celebrated, none belonging to one partner; they were their own and each other’s, a twisting ribbon of linking arms and pounding feet circling the floor, forever trading, forever changing. And there was her selvenar, dancing and drinking with friendly ease among them, then letting them drag him to a gambling table where his roaring laughter over a game of cards carried better and brighter than the music.
Cistine watched him in the ghostlight, his shirt collar undone and sweat streaking his hair and cheeks, looking far happier among the poor and luckless than he ever did among the elites. He came alive here in ways she hadn’t seen since Hellidom and Geitlan, reviving a smile all but lost after Baba Kallah’s death. She didn’t realize how much she missed that until she saw it again; her own grin stole across her face until her cheeks ached.
Thorne had begun here. For all his lofty heritage, the plight of people like these had first woken the leader within him; not his glorious destiny as Kanslar’s Chancellor, a path set before him by his father, but the road paved with stars all the way to Sillakove Court. That dream had begun among the destitute rabble where Thorne spied needs unmet in bent heads and bowed backs—and resolved to do something more than what came about from fine feasts like the one they’d abandoned tonight.
In all those ways and so many more, he was her equal: born rulers both, but leaders by choice. She’d never met someone so like her, had never felt so seen as when his eyes found hers across the tavern, understanding searing between them so hot and bright it flipped her stomach.
The fiddle picked up tempo, and Thorne excused himself from the gambling table, conveniently forgetting his hard-won mynts. He slid through the crowded room toward her, lifting his arms and twisting a few times to avoid barmaids and drunkards until he reached her chair. That mischievous glint was back in his gaze, both hands sliding back through his hair. “I have no doubt the Princess of Talheim can waltz, but can she dance a jig?”
Cistine’s cheeks warmed. “It’s entirely possible she’s never tried.”
Thorne offered his hands, palms upturned. “If you’ll have me.”
She slid her fingers over his, calluses to calluses. “I’ll always have you.”
He tugged her into the dancing circle, smooth and practiced as if they’d already done this a hundred times. And, by the gods, they danced.
Cistine’s bare feet were rubbed raw and her calves ached worse than after any training session when she and Thorne finally fell in their chairs again, spent and sweating and laughing. The trace of his fingers still branded her hips, his hair a ruffled mess where she’d looped her fingers into it while they spun. Gulping mouthfuls of warm water until she was sated, Cistine wiped her mouth on her wrist and gasped, “I never want this night to end!”
Thorne draped his head over his seatback, eyes tumbling shut. “I’m not sure it’s even night anymore, Logandir.”
That was entirely possible. The windows were so gritty with dust from the streets and layered in frost, it was impossible to tell what time of day or night it was.
Cistine boosted herself from her seat and plopped sideways on Thorne’s knees, and his head swung up. Surprise lit in his eyes, then cautious curiosity. And perhaps it was the mead, or the dancing, or that thought she couldn’t quite bury even when reading and jigging; perhaps it was simply because she’d had a full night without a single dip into panic or one crippling sense of doom. Whatever the cause, Cistine felt bolder than usual as she laid her hands on Thorne’s chest. “Say my Name.”
“Cistine?”
“Not that one. And not Logandir, either.”
His throat bobbed in a sharp swallow. Gripping the seatback in one hand and her waist with the other, he shoved himself upright, shifting her deeper into his lap, their faces inches apart. His nose brushed hers, his breath on her lips; his eyes fell to half-mast, then lower. “Wild—”
