Page 17 of The Flame and the Forsaken

I could tell them all about your lush of a brother. How I caught you fondling yourself in the bath. How you snuck off to be with another man on our own feckin’ idyllmoon.

Sessaly prodded. “Erran?”

“Well, I...” He couldn’t decide whether to speak with an accent or without. Either way, he’d be ridiculed, thanks to her. “I willnae...”

“Ye what? Will... nay?” Khallum asked, chortling. He was genuinely amused, more than Erran had seen from him since his father had been murdered by the king.

“Quit taking the piss,” Erran retorted through a clenched jaw.

“Mixed audience here, mate. Could be either version of yourself.”

Erran rarely wasted time on such a useless emotion as hate, but in that moment, he hated Mariel.

But if he retaliated, it would only magnify her insults, validate how they’d disturbed him. The only answer was to do the opposite.

So he laughed. He laughed with everyone laughing at him, all the while stabbing her with his eyes as he matched her fury, glare for glare. “My wife has my measure, I see, just as my mates do,” Erran stated with a terse shrug. “I ken I could tell ye all some things. Mariel is a capable woman, as are all Southerland lasses, and you wouldnae be surprised to hear me numerate the ways.”And thank feck I don’t have to, for I prefer not to make a liar of myself.“But one value we share is our love of family. And while I know she misses hers, I hope the Rutlands can, in at least some small way, provide what she’s been without.”

Instead of the laughter and taunts that had followed Mariel’s revelations, Erran’s left the room quiet. A fewawwscut the silence as many smiled warmly at whoever was beside them, or slipped a hand into their spouse’s.

There, wife. Now don’t you look the fool.

Erran tucked his head low and started away, catching the warm breeze flowing freely through the open veranda. What he needed was to stand with his toes in the sand and his eyes facing the sea, remembering that no matter what Mariel said, he was salt and sand, through and through. A man’s accent, the amount of leather in his skin… Neither of those things defined what was in his blood, and always would be.

“Son. The dance,” Rylahn said, assertive.

Erran froze. His shoulders pinched back as he turned. He flashed a smile. “Oh. Right.”

He couldn’t even look at Mariel as he stretched a grudging hand to lead her to the center of the room, where the revelers had parted to make way. But instead of taking it, she marched past and went ahead of him. It was another cruel and unnecessary slight after he’d extended a sign of amity with his own “adoration.”

Most dances in the Southerlands were lively feet-stompers, but not the nuptial dance. It was a slow, intimate affair called the sand and sway. He’d expected Mariel to revolt when he reluctantly took one of her hands in his, resentfully placing his other at the small of her back, but she was surprisingly pliant, falling into formation.

The melody, a heady composition of string instruments, carried their pace. Other couples began to salt and sway as well.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” Erran brushed the words close to her ear, through his teeth, smiling joylessly at those watching. “We agreed to be allies. To playnice.”

“Aye, thatwasnice,” she said defensively. The antagonism in her voice was cut with something else, something he hadn’t heard before but was clear enough now. Hurt. “As nice as they’d believe, given all the whispers about us. Some, as I understand it, from you directly.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he didn’t care. She was well out of order, and he was already sick of it. “You want me to believe you didn’t enjoy that?”

“I was only performing my part.” Mariel straightened, and his hand slipped lower. “They expected another Yesenia. I tried to give them one. I thought you would approve.”

His arm at her back tightened. “Yesenia would never have humiliated me like that.”

“Did I say anything untrue?”

“You willnae—” Erran grunted, grinding his teeth. He could almost feel her smirk form against his shoulder. It was an equal defeat, whether he kept up the accent or dropped it. “Will not make me the fool here. I know what you were doing. Getting your stabs in where you could. Is it because I couldn’t get Destin an invitation?”

“I never actually expected you to stand up to your father,” Mariel said, a touch of unsteadiness in her defiance. “You never do.”

“So itisabout that.” Erran scoffed, shaking his head. Her hand felt like quicksand on his, and he couldn’t wait to be rid of the cloying sensation. “Instead of blaming me, perhaps you could look at your brother’s deviant behavior for what it is.”

“My brotheris a wounded man. Did you ever ask your father about Mistgrave? About the loch?”

He’d squandered several opportunities to ask, though in every case, there’d been something more pressing. “All men are wounded, Mariel. It’s the way of life.”

“And why is that, Errandil? Do you ever ask yourself, or have you been on the side of the oppressor so long, it doesn’t even occur to you there may be those not as able to defend themselves from tyranny?”

“What is this really about?” He missed a step, throwing off their rhythm. “Everything was... fine at Mistgrave. Was fine the past two days since we’ve come home. And now you’re acting like I’ve shat in your porridge when you should be acting like you cannot wait until everyone leaves so you can be alone with me.”

---