He nodded. “Today.”
I looked away and traced the scrolled line in the arm of the chair with my finger. This wasn’t a simple rotation of troops. That many soldiers weren’t deployed, especially during the holy days, unless concerns were real. I recalled what Walther had said. Marauders have been creating all manner of bedlam. But he’d also said, We’ll keep them out. We always do.
Walther had been confident. Surely the moving of troops was only a preemptive strategy. More chest-beating, as Walther would call it. The numbers and timing were unusual, but with Father trying to save face with Dalbreck, he might be shaking his power in their faces like a fist. Two thousand troops was a formidable fist.
I stood. “So the book is mine to take?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
That was it? Just yes? He was far too cooperative. Nothing came that easy. I raised a brow. “And where do we stand?”
A small chuckle escaped from his lips. He stood so we were eye to eye. “If you mean will I report your presence, the answer is no.”
“Why? It could be construed as treason.”
“What Pauline told me was in holy confidence, and you’ve admitted nothing, only that you came to borrow a book. And I haven’t seen Princess Arabella since she was a wailing baby. You’ve changed a bit since then, except for the wailing part, I’m told. No one would expect me to recognize you.”
I smiled, still trying to figure him out. “Why?” I asked again.
He grinned and raised one brow. “Seventeen years ago, I held a squalling infant girl in my hands. I lifted her up to the gods, praying for her protection and promising mine. I’m not a fool. I keep my promises to the gods, not men.”
I eyed him uncertainly, biting the corner of my lip. A true man of the gods?
He slid his arm around my shoulder and walked me to the door, telling me if I wanted any other books, all I had to do was ask. When I was halfway across the vestibule, he whispered after me, “I wouldn’t speak to the other priests of this matter. They might not all agree where loyalties should lie. Understood?”
“Clearly.”
* * *
The bell of the Sacrista rang again, this time heralding the noon hour. My stomach rumbled. I stood at the side of the sanctuary, shaded in a dark nook of the northern portico as I looked through the book.
Kencha tor ena shiamay? What is your name?
Bedage nict. Come out.
Sevende. Hurry.
Adwa bas. Sit down.
Mi nay bogeve. Do not move.
It sounded like a soldier’s rudimentary command book for managing prisoners, but I could study it more later. Maybe it would help me understand my own small book from Venda. I closed it, hiding it away in my clothing, and looked out over the heads of the festival-goers. I spotted Pauline’s honey hair shimmering beneath a crown of pink flowers. I was about to call out to her when I felt a whisper at my neck.
“At last.”
Warm shivers prickled my skin. Rafe’s chest pressed close to my back, and his finger traveled along my shoulder and down my arm. “I thought we’d never get a moment alone.”
His lips brushed my jaw. I closed my eyes, and a shudder sprinted through me. “We’re hardly alone,” I said. “Can’t you see an entire town milling in front of you?”
His hand circled my waist, his thumb stroking my side. “I can’t see anything but this…” He kissed my shoulder, his lips traveling over my skin until they reached my ear. “And this … and this.”
I turned around, and my mouth met his. He smelled of soap and fresh cotton. “Someone might see us,” I said, breathless between kisses.
“So?”
I didn’t want to care, but I gently nudged away, mindful that it was broad daylight and the shadow of a nook afforded very little privacy.
A reluctant smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “Our timing always seems to be off. A moment alone but with a whole town as an audience.”
“Tonight there’ll be food and dancing and plenty of shadows to get lost in. We won’t be missed.”
His expression became solemn as his hands tightened on my waist. “Lia, I—” He cut off his own words.
I looked at him, confused. I’d thought he’d be glad about the possibility of slipping away. “What is it?”
His smile returned, and he nodded. “Tonight.”
* * *
We caught up with Pauline, and soon enough Kaden found us too. There were no more bouts in the mud, but from fish catching to fire building to ax throwing, the competition was evident. Pauline rolled her eyes at each event as if to say, Here we go again. I shrugged in return. I was used to my brothers’ competitive spirit and enjoyed a good contest myself, but Rafe and Kaden seemed to take it to a new level. Finally their stomachs overruled the games, and they both went off in search of the smoked venison that teased through the air. For now, Pauline and I were content with our pastries and continued to stroll the grounds. We came to the knife-throwing field, and I handed Pauline my sugared orange brioche, which she happily took. Her appetite had returned.
“I want to give this game a try,” I told her as I headed for the entry gate.
There was no wait, and I lined up with three other contestants. I was the only female. Positioned fifteen feet away were large round slices of painted logs—the nonmoving kind of targets that I liked. Five knives lay on tables next to each of us. I looked them over and lifted them, judging their weight. They were all heavier than my own knife and certainly not as balanced. The game master explained that we would all throw at the same time at his command, until all five knives were thrown.
“Lift your weapons. Ready…”
He’s watching.
The words hit me like cold water. I scanned the festival-goers crowding the rope boundary. I was being watched. I didn’t know by whom, but I knew. I was being watched, not by the hundreds who surrounded the event but by one.
“Throw!”
I hesitated and then threw. My knife hit the target handle first and bounced off, falling to the ground. All the other contestants’ knives stuck in the wood circles, one in the outer bark, one in the outer white ring, one in the blue ring, none in the center red. We hardly had time to grab the next knife before the game master called again, “Throw!”
Mine struck with a loud thunk, slicing into the white outer circle and staying put. Better, but these knives were clunky and not terribly sharp.
He’s watching. The words crawled up my neck.
“Throw!”
My knife flew past the target entirely, lodging in the dirt beyond. My frustration grew. I couldn’t use distractions as an excuse. Walther had told me that so many times. That was the point of practice, to block out distractions. In the real world when a knife was needed, distractions didn’t politely wait for you to throw—they sought to disarm you.
Watching … watching.
I held the tip tight, fixed my shoulder, and let my arm do the work.
“Throw!”
This time I hit the line between white and blue. I took a deep breath. There was only one knife left. I looked out at the crowds again. Watching. I felt the derision, the mocking gaze, a smirk at my less-than-impressive knife-throwing skills—but I couldn’t see a face, not the face.
Watch, then, I thought, my ire rising.