“Hardly. I simply wasn’t expecting an invitation to anything involving the Paexyrian. Your flight leader has been somewhat less than welcoming.”
Yara merely waves away my worries. “Don’t take Arwen to heart. She’s not a big fan of change, whether it’s in the form of a midsummer wedding or a new wind weaver. Not to mention, she’s overprotective of her brother.”
“You don’t say.”
My sarcasm is not lost on Yara. Chuckling, she signs something to Bretiax that makes the other woman grin.
“Why she thinks her brother needs protection fromme, I can’t imagine,” I mutter mostly to myself. “I’m not exactly a threat to the King of Llyˆr.”
Yara’s eyes drift back to me. Her voice softens. “There are many ways to hurt someone, Rhya. Not all of them physical.”
What is that supposed to mean? I could not wound Soren if I tried.
I take a large sip of my wine, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The mug is nearly empty. I will need a refill soon.
Bretiax signs something, her fingers moving rapidly in the air.
“You’re right, Bre.” Yara nods, then looks back at me. “She says to remind you that Arwen hated Alaric at first, too. The longer you stick around, the better your chances at winning her over.”
“Maybe I don’t want to win her over.”
Her lips twitch. “Word of advice?”
“If you insist.”
“You may not want to win her over, but you need to. After Soren, Arwen is the most powerful person in all of Llyr. As your ally, she will save your life a thousand times over. As your enemy, however…”
My temper flares despite my attempts to tamp it down. “I didn’t do anything to earn her wrath besides exist.”
“When it comes to Arwen, sometimes that’s enough.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Glare at me all you want. I’m just trying to be a friend because…Well, frankly, you seem like you need one. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. Arwen is not someone you want on your bad side.”
I lean forward a few inches and hold her eyes. “Neither am I.”
At that, Yara throws back her head and roars. I think she’s laughing at me until she slings an arm around my shoulders. “Gods, maybe we should try you out for the Paexyrian. You’re scrawny, but so long as you can keep your saddle seat, you’ll fit in with the rest of the riders perfectly.” Her arm squeezes affectionately. “A certain amount of blatant disregard for reality is encouraged in our ranks.”
I shove her off, acting annoyed, but am forced to hide my smile behind my mug. Something about Yara reminds me of Farley. Not only the red hair, but the playful temperament and tendency toward teasing comments.
I wish suddenly that my old friend was here with me instead of a whole kingdom away. Farley would love everything about Ledge, from its intriguing method of entry to the strong ale to the abundant supply of fit soldiers to flirt with. If he were here, he’d have half the establishment in stitches of laughter by the end of the night—and, more than likely, the other half trying to drag him into bed.
My smile slips as longing sweeps through me. I do my best to banish it, draining my last sip of wine in one large gulp.
Time for a refill, unquestionably.
I open my mouth to ask if Yara or Bretiax needs a fresh pour, but never get the question out. A sudden silence descends overthe boisterous bar, lively chatter ceasing without warning as mouths snap closed and minds clear of thought.
Instantly alert, I jump out of my seat and turn to confront whatever new threat has materialized. What will it be this time? More arachnidae? Giant wharf rats? Mutated seagulls? Another fleet of Frostlanders, out for vengeance?
But no.
It is only a woman.
She weaves through the crowd like a needle through fabric, footsteps smooth and sure. She is clad in a scandalously sheer gown made of a unique Llyrian fabric finer than the smoothest Midland silks. It flows around her legs in panels of many different hues, dips low between her breasts to display her generous cleavage. Her hair is the inky blue-black of a midnight sea, cascading down her spine in a riot of lush curls. Her pale skin shimmers in the fading sun, like the light catching the scales of a fish in the shallows.
I cannot tear my eyes from her. Nor can any other living soul in the bar. Her magnetism is absolute, unwavering. I swallow hard, mouth parched.