“Yes, well. I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” he says, folding his arms. “Did you sleep better?”
“I need my sword.”
“You’ll get it back later.”
“Considering I was just attacked…”
“It won’t be repeated,” he interrupts. “You forget I’ve seen you fight. I’m sorry, but I’m not letting you loose here with a weapon. You were good enough to hold your own, against Avreen, without one.”
That wouldn’t be true if she’d blinded me from the start.
“If multiple people attacked—”
“They won’t,” Roiven says smoothly. “I’ll talk to Avreen. She won’t try that again.”
I could kill him now, part of me whispers. He can’t fight back. I don’t need a sword when I can just snap his neck. Avreen has gone and Sava’s nowhere to be seen. One of them would certainly kill me before I could escape, but two years ago I vowed to kill him, andthe War-Father’s orders don’t matter anymore if they just wanted Roiven alive as bait.
But last night, Roiven said a new king or queen would just rise in his place. I'd get my vengeance, but it wouldn't achieve much. And then nobody alive would know that Rancor fired on her own people.
“Where am I? Is this the Gray Tower?”
“No. Come. Sit.” He gestures at the table.
“I don't want to.”
“You aren’t leaving the courtyard. You can go back to your room if you prefer it.”
I laugh, once, the sound hollow.
“So now I’myourprisoner.”
“You’re a guest. But one who has yet to prove she can be trusted. Come, you must be hungry. I know I am.” He makes his way to the table, stepping between two clusters of bright-colored flowers, and sprawls onto one of the curved benches.
Nobody’s as nice as he’s pretending to be. Especially not to an enemy who he visibly hated just a day ago. He’s plotting something. Why else would he have comforted me last night?
I chew my lower lip, then slowly approach. Could I convince him to take me back before the barrier is repaired, so I can reach the council at Barivum in time to tell them Harfor killed our own people before she’s given more Enchanted? Roiven watches through narrowed eyes as I crouch next to the table and press my living fingers to the petals of a flower. So smooth, and delicate, andreal. I touch the soil next. It’s damp, and messy. It gives under the weight of my hand. The rich smell of earth floods my nose. This isn’t an illusion spell.
“You look good in that,” he says abruptly.
“What?” My head snaps up, expecting to find him smirking, because he must be making fun of me. But Roiven’s face looks serious, and he’s staring straight at me. My chest flutters.
“The dress. I mean that it fits you. We weren’t sure. About the size. We’re gathering more clothes for you.”
I shake my head to clear it and turn back to the flowers. Of course it was just about the fit.
“What is this place?” If they have flowers, do they have fruit? Vegetables? Plant matter thatisn’tsome form of algae from the sea?
“You’ve never seen flowers before?” He doesn’t say it like he’s mocking me. There’s a strained curiosity in his voice. Almost pity. The witch lounges, one foot on the bench, his arm supporting him as he leans to the side.
“Of course I have. In Barivum, and inland. And the War-Father keeps a garden on Amkreig.” I stand slowly and brush my hand clean. “His garden master said your people depleted the land so badly, it took nearly a decade of work before anything at all would grow there.”
“He saidmypeople did that?” Roiven’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. I shrug, give him a defiant look, and take the seat opposite him. It’s a small table. Not as much room separates us as I’d like.
“Witchcraft.”
“Witchcraftgets its power from the bonds between willing, living things,” Roiven practically growls. The look in his eyes makes my heart race. “Yourenchantments drain life and leave polluted death in their wake.”
I know, in my bones, that he’s wrong. I also know I shouldn’t anger him if I want his help getting back, but I can’t stop myself.