“This is Lia. She’s part of my guard. Lia, this is Lara. She’s…”
“Queen.” The young woman inclined her head. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
Lara inclined her head, curious about Ithicana’s female warriors. Her father had told Lara and her sisters that they’d be underestimated because they were women, but the women here seemed to be as respected as any man.
Lia had turned her attention back to her king and was handing him a folded piece of paper. “Season’s been declared over.”
“I heard the horns. Two weeks earlier than last year.”
Lara picked up her own letter, hoping they’d say more if they believed her distracted. Serin had written about her eldest brother, Rask, who was heir. He’d apparently fought successfully in some tourney, and the Magpie described the events in vivid detail. Not that she cared, having never had anything to do with her brother. The Ithicanian codebreaker had circled the letters that formed the code, but not, she realized, Marylyn’s code. Rereading the document with an eye for the code her eldest sister had created, Lara contained a smile as she lifted the pattern from the page. Apparently the Ithicanians were fallible, after all.
Her hidden smile vanished as she parsed the code. Maridrina receiving only rotten produce. Molding grains. Diseased cattle. Valcottan ships departing with holds full of superior goods.
Serin had explained the new trade terms that had been negotiated as part of the treaty. The elimination of taxes on goods Maridrina purchased in Northwatch, which would then be shipped to Southwatch with no tolls. On the surface, it was a good deal for Maridrina and a large concession for Ithicana. Unless one considered that it placed all the risk of goods deteriorating during transport on Maridrina’s shoulders. If the grain purchased in Northwatch rotted before it reached Southwatch, it was Maridrina’s loss and not Ithicana’s problem. And what wonder Maridrina was receiving the worst of goods when it was Ithicana who coordinated the transport. The pages crumpled slightly under Lara’s grip, and she tore her eyes from the writing as she heard Aren say, “No getting around her request, I suppose.”
Lia agreed, then inclined her head. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Lara watched the other woman leave, struggling to master her expression. Serin’s message didn’t surprise her, but it was still infuriating to know that the man calmly sitting across from her playing cards was consciously making choices to harm her people.
Cards snapped against the table. Another hand. Another truth.
Picking them up, Lara eyed the hand, knowing they were high and that she should think up a question that gained her something. But when she won, the question that came out was something different. “How did your parents die?”
Aren stiffened, then scrubbed a hand through his hair. Reaching over, he jerked the bottle out of her hand, draining it dry.
Lara waited. In her failed searches for maps, she’d found other things. Personal things. Drawings of the prior king and queen, the resemblance between Aren and Ahnna and their beautiful mother striking. She’d also found a box full of treasures that only a mother would keep. Baby teeth in a jar. Portraits. Notes written in a childish script. There had been rough little carvings, too, with Aren’s name scratched on the bottom. A much different family than her own.
“They drowned in a storm,” he answered flatly. “Or at least, he did. She was probably already dead.”
There was more to that story, but it was clear he had no intention of sharing it. And that he was running out of patience for this horrible game of chance. More cards on the table. Lara won again.
You rattled him, she told herself. He’s been drinking. Now is the time to push.
“What’s it like inside the bridge?” Her eyes skipped from the cards, to the empty bottle, to his hands, resting on the arms of his chair. Strong. Capable. The sensation of them running across her body danced across her skin, the taste of his mouth on hers, and she shoved the thoughts away as her cheeks—and other parts of her body—heated.
His eyes sharpened, the haze of brandy wiped away. “You need not concern yourself with what the bridge is or is not like, as you’ll never have cause to be in it.”
Aren rose to his feet. “My grandmother wishes to meet you, and she is not one to be denied. We’ll go tomorrow at dawn. By boat.” He leaned down, resting his hands on the sides of her chair, the muscles of his arms standing out in stark relief. Invading her space. Attempting to intimidate her the way his damned kingdom intimidated every other.
“Let me make myself abundantly clear, Lara. Ithicana has not held the bridge by spilling its secrets over a bottle of brandy, so if that’s your intent, you’ll have to get more creative. Better yet, save us all the trouble and forget it even exists.”
Lara leaned back in her chair, never breaking eye contact. With both hands, she pulled up the skirt of her dress, higher and higher until her thighs were revealed, seeing the intensity of his gaze shift to a different target. Lifting one leg, she pressed a naked foot against his chest, watching his eyes race from her knee to her thigh to the silken underthings she wore beneath.
“How about you take your bridge,” she said sweetly, “and shove it up your ass.” His eyes widened right as she straightened her leg, shoving him out of her space. Picking up her book, she tugged her skirt back into place. “I’ll see you at dawn. Goodnight, Your Grace.”
A faint chuckle filled her ears, but she refused to look up even as he said, “Goodnight, Princess,” and disappeared from the room.
13
Aren
Vitex wove his way in a serpentine pattern between Aren’s ankles, purring as he went, seemingly not inclined to desist in his pursuit of attention, despite the fact that Aren had been ignoring him for at least ten minutes.
The nearly blank sheet of paper on the desk taunted him, golden edges glinting in the lamplight. He’d gotten as far as writing out the formal greeting to King Silas Veliant of Maridrina, but not a word further. His intention had been to accede to Lara’s request and correspond with her father, to assure the man of his daughter’s wellbeing. But now, the pen in his hand on the verge of dripping onto the expensive stationery, Aren found himself at a loss of what to say.
Mostly because Lara remained an enigma. He’d attempted to learn more about her nature during that awful card game, and after hearing how she’d been taken from her mother, it was very clear that if she was a spy, it wasn’t out of love for her father. But that didn’t mean she was innocent. Loyalty, to a certain extent, could be purchased, and Silas had means.
Irritated with the circular nature of his thoughts, Aren tossed his pen aside. Picking up the box of stationery, he pulled up the false side to reveal the narrow drawer designed to hide documents from prying eyes, and shoved the letter to Lara’s father inside. He would complete it once he was more certain that Lara’s welfare was something he could assure.
Patting his cat once on the head, he shooed the animal out the door and strode down the hallway. Eli was polishing silverware, but he looked up at Aren’s approach. “Going to the barracks, Your Grace?”
It was painfully tempting to escape down to the barracks where he could sit around the fire with his soldiers, drink and properly gamble, but that would raise questions as to why he wasn’t spending his nights with his new wife. “Just a walk down to the cliffs.”