Page 75 of The Flame and the Forsaken

“Ses.” Erran scorched her with his eyes.

“Tell me what?” Mariel’s suspiciousness was back.

“It wassupposedto be a private event, for the family and the parents-in-honor, then Lady Warwick decided she wanted all the great houses. Even though Erran is the lass’s father-in-honor, we had to politely decline, with the two of you playing happy families on some island, but then you came home, and suddenly the entire plan changed. Now us and Yesenia’s new family are the only ones invited at all, the others completely off the guest list. So I asked Mother, and she told me the truth.”

“That’s enough,” Erran said, knowing nothing could stop his sister on the verge of a revelation that would shift all the power her way. Even if he could convince her to ease off, Mariel wouldn’t let it go, not with the distrust already settling into her tired expression.

“It seems Father views this trip as an opportunity to prove to all the Southerlands that his hopeless romantic of a son is no longer so hopelessly in love with Yesenia, our Lady Quinlanden, so all the rumors will stop swirling. I would expect to see them encouraged to interact as much as possible.” Sessaly’s mouth pursed in mischief. “So let us all hope his change of heart isn’t just a ruse, for he’s never been much of an actor.”

“Ahh,” Mariel said, paling as she shifted her focus back to the passing landscape.

“She’s being dramatic, like always,” Erran said, leaning close. He glared at his sister, who looked as satisfied as she should for the incendiary she’d dropped into his marriage, for no other reason than her own entertainment. He couldn’t wait until she was Aliksander’s problem. “Don’t listen to her.”

“It’s not my business whether you are or are not still in love with her,” Mariel murmured, shifting her legs away when he reached for one. “As I told you weeks ago.”

Weeks ago. Before the wreck. Before the island. Before they’d bonded. Before, he’d seen his future with more clarity than ever before and with more desire than he’d ever known. How she could speak of it so glibly was either a sign of her easily shifting alliances or a cover for the pain Sessaly’s words had inflicted, but he wouldn’t solve it in front of the others.

“Ouch,” Sessaly hissed, poking Destin with an elbow. “Did we touch a nerve?”

“We? Don’t lump me in with your antics,” Destin replied. “I’m with Erran. Don’t listen to her, Mar. She’s needling you for her own amusement.”

“And what do you know of my amusement, Destin?” Sessaly said, blinking coquettishly.

“More than I’d like to but not nearly as much as I know about gambling, Sessaly.”

“Sessaly,” Erran said, firmer. Trying to silence his wayward sister had only ever made her more determined, but she’d inched too far, even by her standards. “That’senough.Unless you want me to punt you out of this wagon and leave you for the vultures.”

“Father would murder you.”

“A rather small price to pay for the relief it would bring.”

“She can say whatever she likes,” Mariel said. “Why should it bother me?”

“Even if it was true...” Erran said, but she was still faced away. She might have been listening, but so were the others, and there was nothing he wanted to say in front of them—especially his sister, who had a near-perfect memory and never missed an opportunity to unleash it.

“Oh. It is,” Sessaly said confidently. “Whether Erran will prove him right or wrong is a matter for the Guardians.”

“I’m not ruled by deities, nor should you be. I’m married now, so is Sen, and we’re not children playing games, unlike you still seem to be.”

“Sen.” Sessaly snorted, her eyes flicking toward Destin. “So familiar. And I don’t recall a silly little nuisance like ‘marriage’ stopping you before, aye?”

The carriage slowed. Erran craned to see the sea reappear below, the great bellows of the mine roaring with action. They had traveled down the steep slope into a city so packed and loud, he never quite felt at ease. It was the antithesis of Whitecliffe, a gentle enclave of coastal relaxation. Warwicktown was chaos personified, the capital of a Reach teeming with commerce, suffering, and grueling work. There were pockets so dangerous, even the Warwicks and their steel spines didn’t venture there.

The keep itself was an enormous, utilitarian stronghold, with few defining features beyond the infamous Lord’s Hall, where past and present Warwick lords held their council meetings. As boys, Erran and Khallum would play under the table with the serrated edges, wondering which council member would forget themselves next and lose another finger to their enthusiasm. They’d stand at the broad paneless window that overlooked the calmest stretch of coast in Warwicktown.

Erran had spent so much of his youth there, playing with Khallum and Yesenia and their little brother, Byrne. Like Khallum and Yesenia, Byrne, too, had been sold into a marriage chosen by the king and was wedded to the reputably formidable Lady Asherley of the Westerlands. Erran wondered if he’d be there for the blessing too.

Sam and Hamish and Lem had been there too, but back then, there’d been no one he’d spent more time with than Khallum—like their fathers, who had been inseparable friends in their own youth, a bond that had never dulled with time and responsibility.

But Khallum had become the lord himself, the one leading council meetings, on which Erran’s own father sat—and where he would one day himself sit. How keenly he wished for his old friend’s advice, which had always been a helpful balance to the wisdom of Sam and the crude affection of Hamish, but the moment Khoulter Warwick had died and left his son the heirdom had been the moment Khallum had shifted from mate to leader.

Shouts and whinnies filled the air. The carriage pulled to a stop and the door swung open, held by one of the Warwick attendants. The women exited first, Erran going last. Some of the others made gagging sounds, whispering about the stench of brine and shit that seemed to affect everyone but him. His second home.

His mother and father had ridden in the carriage ahead and were already headed toward the drawbridge, where a line of people were waiting to greet them. Erran craned to see, but the elevation was too low, the crowd of workers too thick as they scrambled to make the arrival perfect.

Mariel had drifted to the side, walking by herself. He moved toward her and slipped his hand through hers with what he’d wanted to be a reassuring smile, but he’d felt how weak it was and confirmed it in the droop of her gaze.

Khallum’s gregarious laugh rang in his ears. He could hear his father and mother working their way down the greeting line, but he couldn’t tell who all was there.

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