He pales. “Eat…people?”
“Even Oracles need to eat. I have a cousin who found that out the hard way.”
The boy’s jaw practically hits my table.
“Oh, he deserved it,” I assure him. Mother knew Aarken and I were rivals and informed me with her usual cruelty and disappointment that I should have taken care of him before the Oracle did. Kill or be killed—the family motto.
“You’re amazing.” The boy sounds breathless.
I laugh. Sort of. “Everyone thinks so.”
He grins at my obvious humility and starts digging around in his pocket for a copper.
“Keep it,” I tell him. “Buy yourself another berry ice and bring one back for me.” It’s so hot I’m tempted to let one melt down the back of my neck, but I’m sticky enough as it is.
“Thanks!” He grins even wider.
I hope the information I’ve revealed about myself remains between us. His smile is charming, and I don’t want another enemy. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen,” he answers proudly.
It’s only a small deception. Pain still rips my soul. Flames sear me from the inside, igniting in my core and lashing out to char my bones. I lock my body down, holding still until the burning passes.
“You’re eleven,” I say coolly. “Why would you lie?”
His face falls, and he stares at his feet. “I wanted to impress you.”
“Lies never impress.” I try not to grit my teeth and scare him. “Remember that when you see the Oracle, or you might come out the wrong end.”
He nods without looking up.
Sweat breaks out on my upper lip. A bead of moisture slips down my spine. Between the southern climate and the boy’s lie, someone’s going to have to peel me out of my pants. I hope Desma’s up for the job.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Jason.” He’s still hanging his head.
“Go get me that berry ice, Jason of Sinta. I’m melting in this heat.”
He flashes me a relieved smile and then dashes off.
I lean back in my chair, fanning myself and longing for the cool north, a view of the Ice Plains, and a way to take back certain parts of what I just said. At least the kid doesn’t realize it’s important. Poseidon and Fisa are worlds away to a southern Sintan boy. Catalia doesn’t mean anything to him.
I’m just starting to convince myself that my unprecedented slipup wasn’t so colossal when a deep voice rumbles behind me, making me start.
“The Gods don’t favor kindness and selflessness. They favor strength and courage.”
Chapter 2
The low voice washes over me like the incoming tide on a dark night, chilling despite the heat. I turn, my heart leaping into my throat. The warlord who was staring at me earlier steps closer, his long fingers nearly brushing my shoulder as he points to the banner proclaiming me a soothsayer. “You planted an idea. You didn’t tell him his future.”
“These conversations are supposed to be confidential!” I snap, springing to my feet. Oh Gods! How much did he hear?
“The boy asked if he’d have magic, and you never told him if he would.”
My jaw unhinges. How dare the brute listen in! “I gave him a way to get magic. That’s better than answering a yes-or-no question.”
“So will he get it?”
I have no idea. That depends on the Oracle. It depends on Jason. “That’s none of your business.”
“You went to an Oracle. Which one?”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “That’s none of your business, either.”
His eyes narrow, and he stares down that hawkish nose at me. “What did you whisper to the boy?”
My heart stutters. “That’s none—”
“—of your business,” the warlord finishes dryly.
If looks could kill, I’d be dead. I don’t respond well to threats, even ocular ones, and my spine shoots straighter than Poseidon’s trident. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, then don’t bother. It won’t work.”
His full lips curve into a cool smile. “In my experience, I can intimidate anyone.”
I huff, incredulous. “Do you want my services? If you do, sit down. Otherwise, go away. You’re scaring people off with that look.”
His expression darkens. “What look?”
“That one.” I wag my finger in his face. “The one that says I’m big, I’m bad, and I can chew you up, spit out your guts, and use your bones for toothpicks.”
The warlord’s face blanks with surprise. You’d think I just morphed into the Hydra and grew some extra heads.
One of his four men, an auburn-haired ax-wielder to his left, can’t repress a snort and gets the back of the warlord’s fist in the gut for it. Not too hard, but hard enough that the end of the laugh comes out as a wheeze.
I glare at the semicircle of large, muscular men now cutting me off from the noise and bustle of the rest of the circus fair. My table is at my back, they’re at my front, and I can’t walk away, even if I want to. “Take your violence elsewhere. This is a peaceful table.”
Peaceful? Me? Ha!
“A fragile flower,” the warlord mocks, magnetic gray eyes looking me up and down in a way that makes my temperature rise. He studies me intently and a little too long. “And wilting in the heat.”
I scowl, repressing the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on his white tunic. He’s too clean for a tribal warlord. He doesn’t even smell bad, and his slightly wild, jet-black hair is shiny, curling softly around his neck. There’s not a drop of perspiration on him, which infuriates me. I contemplate the sword with its two-handed hilt poking up over his shoulder from the leather harness on his back, pretty sure I can’t even lift the monstrosity. Good thing I have other strengths.
The sharp pinch of magic stings my skin, and I turn. Aetos is watching.
“Either sit down and get a question answered, or that man over there”—I point to my painted friend—“is going to pop your skull like a cherry in a crow’s beak.”
The warlord’s teeth flash in the way of wolves before they pounce. “You think he can?”
“I know he can.”
The idiot actually chuckles. “He wouldn’t know what hit him.”
I snort. “He’d incinerate you.”