Page 32 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“Sick.” The dhemon touched his stomach with his hand and then shrugged. “Just sick.”

Well, then. That did not explain much, but what did she expect? She spoke to these people as though they were not working twice as hard as she to understand her words. Her cheeks flushed, and she nodded her understanding before asking, “Your name?”

This time, the dhemon did not look for assistance. “Jakhov, ydhom.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Ariadne. Please.”

As though noticing her discomfort and finding it amusing, Jakhov fought back a smirk. “No. Ydhom.”

Now Ariadne looked to Madan for help. Being called princess by every dhemon she met was not high on her list of desires. She had just escaped the title of the Golden Rose—ran from it, even—and was not eager to gain a new one. Particularly not when she still needed to get accustomed to even being around these dhemons without going straight back into that cell in the mountain keep.

“Jakhov,” Whelan cut in with a pointed tone, then spoke quickly in their language.

Beside her, Margot ate her food, glancing between the dhemons as though this were a standard occurrence at her table. How long had they occupied the Caldwell Estate? She seemed so at ease with them in attendance, Ariadne got the feeling they had become the norm.

After a quick exchange between the dhemons, Jakhov cocked a brow at her and tilted his head to bring his horns a bit closer before saying in his thick accent, “Ariadne.”

She leaned away from the horns tilted in her direction, much to the amusement of the dhemons around her. Her cheeks burned at the chorus of chuckles. She glanced at Kall, then Whelan. “What did I do?”

“This,” Whelan mimicked Jakhov’s movement toward Madan, “is an apology.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. There would be a lot to learn about this vastly different culture. Food preferences, mannerisms, and their language—if she ever wanted to properly communicate with them.

“It will take some getting used to,” Margot said quietly with a small smile up at her.

Ariadne swallowed hard. “How long did it take you?”

Margot’s eyes softened, and she looked around at the fae gathered. “They have been here for several months now. Since my husband entered his final sleep.”

Her heart stumbled at the implications. She cast Madan an uneasy glance. He had mentioned his theory that someone had been poisoning the late Lord Governor with liquid sunshine, causing his insides to slowly wither and die. After his own encounter with it, thanks to Loren, he understood the way the poison worked. Neither of them had shared the information with Azriel to allow her husband to focus on his position and provide Madan time to investigate who could have done it. Whether he had shared this information with Margot, she could not say.

Across the table, the unintroduced dhemon fixed her with an intense stare. His deep syrah eyes bore into her as though trying to understand her inner thoughts. Black tattoos seemed to drip down his cheeks from his lower lids to his jaw like tears.

“Why did you all choose to come here?” Ariadne looked at the dhemons, then hurried on, “I mean…why choose to come to a place where you would not be safe?”

Margot smiled. “To keep me safe.”

She did not like the sound of that. If the wife of the late Lord Governor was not safe in her own home, then they suspected the worst of the Caersans—the worst of those who should have been her protector. Now Ariadne fell into that same category as their ydhom and a runaway. It did not sit right with her that these men who knew nothing about her would put her life before theirs.

“I want to learn to fight,” she blurted, fixing her gaze on the plate before her. Under the table, she twisted her fingers into the fabric of her skirt as everyone went still. It had been something she contemplated along her journey to Monsumbra. If she knew how to keep herself safe, none of the protection they provided would be necessary.

Kall cocked his head and replied first. “Why?”

“We can protect you,” Madan said, the color draining from his face despite the glint of interest in his eyes. “As we’ve always done.”

Ariadne shook her head. “But you will not always be around, and I will not sit idly by as others go to Algorath for Azriel.”

The dhemons exchanged looks, and the unintroduced man hissed something to Jakhov in their language. The exchange, cut off by Whelan, ended with light chuckles. Those tattooed eyes swung back in her direction, alight with renewed interest.

“Vampii girls no fight,” the tattooed fae said, his accent as thick and difficult to understand as Jakhov’s and Kall’s.

The word he used for her, vampii, rolled through her mind, igniting a strange memory. It had been used in the dhemon keep; someone had once interrupted Ehrun’s tutelage to ask a question and used the word. She had not placed the voice before, but after hearing the dhemon say it again, she knew it had been him. He had been there during her torment.

Her breath caught, and she stared at him. Stared and stared and wished she had known what else the man had said to Ehrun. What question had he asked?

“You are wrong,” she croaked back at him, resisting the urge to curl in on herself. “I will learn to fight with or without your help.”

“If that’s what you wish,” Madan said, “I will make sure it happens. But I won’t always be around to teach you.”

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