Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

No, no, no. Come back…

But he can’t. He needs to get away, before he does something stupid.

Did Rahzien notice anything between us? I glance at him, but he’s immersed in a deep discussion with a cluster of nobles.

So far, so good.

Over the next hour I endure the attentions of more guests, parrying the awkward attempts at conversation by men who know me, and yet are bidding for the chance to fuck me. I whirl round and round in their arms, I submit to their kisses, and I wait for Rahzien to decide my fate.

The King alternates between conversations and dances until finally, with one of the dancers clinging to his arm, he moves to the clerks’ table and pores over the sheets of paper for what seems like an age.

At last, apparently satisfied, he strides to the head of the room and mounts the first two tiers of the platform, signaling for the music to stop.

“My lords, thank you for joining me this evening. I am pleased by your enthusiasm, your generosity, and the high value you place upon my Conquered Consort. My servants will take her to her royal bedchamber, and one lucky man will join her there.” He takes the chain with the key from around his neck and dangles it before the eyes of the men. “That generous, loyal, exceptional man… is Lord Zevin Harlowe.”

Zevin roars his victory and leaps forward to claim his prize. Still grinning broadly, Rahzien grips his forearm as if to congratulate him—but he pulls Zevin close and leans down, speaking close to the young lord’s ear with an expression so intense that I frown. What could the King be saying? Whatever it is, the words drain the triumphant color from Zevin’s face.

The King lets him go, resuming the same effusive grin, and calls for celebratory drinks and a final dance while I’m ushered out of the ballroom by two guards and taken upstairs. Neither of them are wearing helmets, and none of the guards in the ballroom were either. Perhaps the omission was meant to humanize them, to put the Elekstan nobles at ease.

The corridor leading to my suite is empty, which doesn’t surprise me; I know from long experience that most of the servants will be busy with the party, and the rest are probably in the servants’ kitchen or common room. The ground floor of the palace was teeming with guards, and several were stationed near the main staircase, but since all the valuables have been removed from this part of the palace, there’s no reason to place extra guards here. Undoubtedly Rahzien is living in my mother’s rooms, which are on the opposite end of the palace, as far from me as she could get.

The absence of guards seems to trouble one of my escorts. “Is two of us enough to guard her chamber?” he asks his companion.

“Lord Harlowe will be coming up soon,” replies the second guard. “He’ll have his own men to keep watch.”

“I suppose.”

We’re nearly to the main entrance of my suite when a figure rounds the corner at the far end of the hall. He’s short, with wavy red hair, a pretty face, and a scar through the right side of his mouth. I recognize him as the man who intervened after Kyreagan’s fight with Zevin. He’s leaning heavily on a gilded walking stick, limping and wincing as he approaches us.

“Finally, someone to help me!” he exclaims, with a huge sigh of relief.

“What are you doing up here?” demands one of my guards.

“I think someone played a terrible trick on me. You see, I was supposed to meet a very lovely dancer for a little tryst, and I do believe she gave me false directions. It’s terribly hurtful to be treated this way, and I’m so fucking tired… please, can you help me?”

“We have our orders,” replies the guard. “You’ll have to find someone else to assist you.”

“At least give me directions.” The red-haired man limps closer—he’s just a few paces away. “I have no idea where the stairs are.”

“You’ll head down this hall—” The first guard turns, pointing back the way we came, and at that moment, the red-haired man’s stance changes dramatically. The weariness drops from his body and the exasperation vanishes from his face. He swings the bulbous head of his walking stick and strikes the skull of my second guard with a vicious thunk. As the first guard turns back around, he takes the blunt force of the walking stick right in his face. Bone crunches, and he falls backward like a felled tree, his nose and cheekbones crushed into his face. Dead.

The red-haired man sets the butt of his staff to the throat of the other guard, the unconscious one. Then he takes a deep breath and bears down until there’s a dull crack.

“Right, then.” The stranger steps back and leans against the wall, breathing hard. “God, murder takes the shit out of me. Now I remember why I don’t kill people more often. Give me just a moment.”

Stunned, I watch while he inhales a few deep breaths. I consider fleeing, because I doubt he could catch me when he’s in this state, but I don’t think it’s wise to underestimate him like the dead guards did. Besides, I’m curious, and the only way to get answers is to wait.

Once his breathing slows a bit, he whistles softly out of the scarred side of his mouth. Three black-clad people hurry around the corner, pick up the dead guards, and carry them away.

“Where are they taking those men?” I ask. “Who are you?”

“Trust me, love, we know how to dispose of bodies so they won’t be found.” He lifts the flap of his brocade jacket and uses the lining to polish a few dots of blood from the head of his staff. “And to answer your second question, we’re friends. Well, not exactly friends, perhaps, but thereabouts. We got no love for Vohrain, anyway.”

“You were with the Prince of Zairos. Earlier.”

The man smirks. “Kyreagan. Yes.”

Hearing Kyreagan’s name in his mouth sends a jolt of delighted panic through my chest.