And they speak of her as if she were a beast for purchase.
That idea continues to morph, this time replacing my thoughts with inventions of my mind. In those conjured images, she is afraid, cornered by the Elf King. I imagine him slipping into her room—her bed.
I see red, and my tail stirs against my thigh, eager to come free from the bindings and help guide my cleaver to my hand. I clamp down on the urges for they will accomplish nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing but further separate me from the one bit of my soul that is still redeemable after what I did.
I think of what Mrath said about what she would do to Arlet if she was found bearing the king’s child.
If I had the gift of magic, it would’ve exploded in this moment.
I keep my head bowed. I swallow my snarl.
Another voice farther back speaks up during another lull. “They’ll give her a chain, they say. At the ball.” He snorts. “I’ve seen whores wear chains while they wet a soldier’s cock. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think a consort should wear such a thing in public. It’s as if the king doesn’t know the other courtiers call him a weak, pretending cunt behind his back. As if we didn’t know that his claim to the throne is compromised.”
I hear them call for another round.
“You’ll not get any of us killed for spewing treason in a backwater tavern, Kell. Your allegiance is to the king.”
“Besides, ballsack-brain, it’s not a chain,” a third argues. “It’s a collar, practically a necklace. Don’t be dramatic. We have bigger things to worry about with an army marching to the north. We have something very important to bring the king.”
Just when I am primed to listen and glean more, the man is hushed and once again pushed back into mundane conversation.
Logging the information, I drift away before my hands betray me. North…like to the Sisterhood’s Enclave? Does that mean he knows about the artifact?
Despite trying to distract myself with the weaknesses in Arion’s armor, my breathing feels like molten lava pouring out of my throat, so I decide to leave. Surely I know enough for now—five nights till the ball. She will marry soon after.
But she’s not married now. There is still time to fix everything—to get her out of here, away from that masochistic predator, and back to her dragon. We could be at Enduvida in a week. There, I could start working on convincing her to forgive me. In time, she might love me…again.
My throat tightens as I come up on the last dregs of a night market. There are stalls pulling their shutters while grease-smoke lingers in the air. While the crowds are gone, I observe once again a fine selection of wares. Enduvida was limited to what we could source within the caves, even with the help of underground farming with Estela.
The abundance makes my head spin. A fishwife slaps a last carp onto chipped tile, a boy with a broom fights a losing battle with scales, and then I see swathes of fabric being hauled off.
The last soldiers mentioned tailors. Or…maybe not? Something relating to fabric.
I slink closer and find two tall elves, one man and a woman, huddled together wearing disapproving frowns. The woman has deep brown skin, and even darker hair that is left in free curls down her back, while the man appears much older and wizened. His sun-tanned complexion looks like it has partially melted into wrinkles.
They continue to speak in hushed tones, and I move closer and closer, ducking around vacant stalls, hoping to hear whatever gossip they are sharing.
As I approach, I slide on a bit of damp stone, landing on my ass and crushing my tail. I curse inwardly, and the whispers go silent. I am almost sure I am caught, then another figure approaches, effectively saving me.
I right myself, peering over the wood, and see a young man with something glinting and shining, like knives or needles, arranged in a tray strapped to his chest.
“Took you fucking long enough,” the woman gripes. “Nicnevin’s tits, where were you?”
“I heard from Kaersi that they’re going to reopen positions for court tailors. Thought you might be interested in that,” the boy says with a chuff.
“Reopen positions? Less than a week before the ball? Have they lost their mind? With Keralyn gone, I’ve been so swamped in work I can’t get a straight head to save my life,” the male tailor snarls. “She was the only one who could shape a bodice for the court without incurring their wrath. Now what? I’m supposed to take on the snippy mid-classers and the royal court? When the hell will I sleep? Will His Majesty provide me with an in-fitting-room bed?”
The needler sniffs. “Thought you would be pleased for the chance to get out of these shitty streets. You should be grateful to the bitch for killing your competition.”
“Don’t go around saying ‘killed’ unless you want to get thrown into a cell,” the female tailor says quickly. “Disposed. That’s the word they’re using.”
“Disposed?” The needler’s laugh is a bag of nails. “You dispose ofscraps. One day, those sniveling silkbloods will realize if you kill all the people on the bottom, there’s no one?—”
The sound of metal and boots passes by, effectively silencing the dangerous talk.
Liana was right about Shvathemar. I slip into an alleyway, not wanting to be caught slinking by potential guards on their rounds.
Three doors down, a boy plays a reed pipe badly, and a pair of girls dance on a plank for coins. A man in a stag-badged cloak watches, bored, then flips a copper when the taller girl stumbles and blushes. I grimace, guessing he likes the blushing, not the music.