Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Rust and cream. Solentine.
Even among all this finery, he stood out, cutting an elegant figure in a tailored doublet that also resembled armor. That must’ve been the formal fashion, and it was perfect for Solentine. Everything my new cousin did, from the tilt of his head to the casual gesture of his hand as he spoke to an older man next to him, was refined and graceful. Solentine dripped sophistication.
Our gazes met. Solentine Dagarra did a double take. And then he looked to the side.
I turned slightly to follow his gaze.
Everard. Alive.
Thank God he was alive.
He wore black from head to toe, leather and cloth with a green inlay on the chest. Black leather pauldrons broadened his shoulders, his green cloak dripping from them in structured folds. He looked like some infernal prince in armor forged of cosmic darkness. Behind him, the retainers of Selva stood shoulder to shoulder, in black and green.
His face was glacial. Cold and unyielding, as if cut from stone.
I never should’ve come. Seeing him like this, in those clothes, was not good for me. I had won my freedom from him, and I had to keep it.
Wait. He was fine. So was Solentine. Both of them were here, in perfect health, and neither of these assholes had thought it was worth their time to let me know that they had arrived safely or that Everard wasn’t dead. I had driven myself up the wall worrying, I had lain awake at night thinking he might have gotten poisoned, and they didn’t even bother to send a note. One word: Alive. That’s all I needed.
It was crystal clear to me now. I was a weapon. A tool, like a dagger. Ramond vi Everard was content to use me when it suited him and to ignore me when it didn’t. That Solentine did it bothered me less, but Everard had lived in my head rent free almost since the moment I came to this wretched city. He’d lied to me, he’d saved me, and then he’d lied again by pretending he cared for me, and I kept deluding myself and buying into his lies.
You know what, screw this.
Shock slapped Everard’s face. He had finally seen me. His eyes flared with green.
Yes, yes, here I am. Didn’t expect that, did you?
The entire Selvan delegation was focused on me now. Somebody would notice this. They were painfully obvious about it.
I glanced at Solentine. He started moving to his right, the shortest path around the room and to me.
Okay then, time to impersonate Homer and the hedge and fade into the background. I took a careful step back.
A taller woman walked into me. She stopped at the last moment, so she didn’t quite knock me over, but we did bump into each other.
Blond hair, piercing blue eyes, rose, teal, and white crest. Eliarde. Arvel’s second cousin and the Butcher’s would-be victim #3. Crap.
She glared at me. And she was pissed off. Awesome.
“Who are you?”
“Excuse me, my lady.” I took a small step back toward the wall, clearing her path. She preferred to be addressed as dame, but in the formal setting the noble title took precedence.
“I asked you a question,” she ground out.
The two women following her stared at me. The one on the left, in a blue dress, sighed. “Let her be, Elie.”
“No, I want to know what makes her think she can stand in the front row.”
I saved your life, you ungrateful cow.
“I don’t recognize these colors.” Eliarde took a step toward me.
No surprise there. Izarn Demarr was a border commander, who visited Kair Toren once in a blue moon, while Eliarde was a Silver Eagle, part of the royal garrison. The only way she would ever see the Trihorn would be if Sauven personally went there. But recognizing the colors or no, I was a woman with a crest in an expensive dress who was allowed to enter the joedurar. Most people would’ve taken that into account.
Eliarde was not most people. I could tell by the set of her jaw that common sense had left the station. Something had irritated her, and she was looking for a lightning rod to scorch. She’d done it multiple times in the books. When something annoyed her, any target was a good target.
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
“Because I was invited,” I told her.
“By whom?”
“By His Majesty, Sauven Savaric.” Chew on that.
“Isn’t it blindingly obvious?” another female voice said.
I glanced to my left. A stunning woman with light brown skin and a wealth of curly hair braided into a gorgeous arrangement bore down on us. The bodice of her dress, a beautiful gray, resembled armor, and her skirt was like a gush of arterial blood. Two women accompanied her, waiting a step behind.
Lady Ilandra Bors.
Great. Just great. The two candidates for the deadliest female knight in the kingdom who hated each other with the passion of a thousand suns and me, the gnat stuck between them.