Page 15 of The Flame and the Forsaken

“Ye finally snogher and all ye wannae speak about is herscars?” The ale in Hamish’s thick hand sloshed in time with his vivacious laughter. He snorted, his head shaking at Erran. “Mate, yer doing it wrong. Khal, tell him he’s doing it wrong.”

“It’s ’cos he’s lying,” Khallum muttered, grinning into his own mug before taking a swig. “When have ye ever known our Erran to be good at it?”

“Ask your mothers what I’m good at.” Erran’s face heated, despite the sea breeze sweeping through the fluted columns into the sumptuously trussed terrace, where everyone they knew was gathered to celebrate a union they’d already celebrated once before. The heady aroma of the extensive florals from Mistgrave mixed with the tang of seawater in a nauseating combination of a world he hated and a world he loved.

Although he’d thought Mariel’s idea a prudent one when she’d suggested it, as he stood in a huddle of his closest friends, he wondered how he could have ever thought they’d buy any of it.

“Good at feckin’ or lyin’?” Hamish nudged Erran, his good-natured smile turning somber. “Donnae need to put it on for us, mate, aye? We know ye ain’t happy. Cannae judge ye for the heart wantin’ what it wants. I married for love, after all.”

“Lying,” Khallum said, answering Hamish. “We’ll not be discussing the feckin’, lads, seeing as he learned it on my sister.”

“Oh, aye.” Hamish’s eyes widened at his error. “Aye indeed.”

Erran breathed in through his nose, fighting a frustrating sway. He hadn’t seen Mariel in some time, not since their saccharine-smiled greeting line to kick off the party—and the impromptu kiss she’d landed on him for show, after warning him against the same behavior—and then handed her off to his mother. “Just... donnae run your mouths where my father or mother can hear, aye? They’re already displeased with me.”

“After ye just added all that to yer family’s legacy?” Hamish scrunched his nose in disbelief.

“Who are ye talking to? Telling tales? Come on now.” Khallum belched and banged a fist on his chest. Hardly a year had passed since the untimely death of his father, Khoulter, and his ascension as lord of the Southerlands. He’d tried distancing himself from his long-standing reputation as the vulgar libertine of the group, but there were still flashes of the old Khallum, reminders of the before times. “But if she’s giving the same story to Gwyn and Yanna, or any of the other women... Well, the wives are even more keen than us. They could look at the shore and tell ye if even a grain of sand was missing.”

“Isnae a lie, that,” Hamish agreed with a tilted nod.

“Donnae even know where she is.” Erran shrugged, but he was growing concerned. He’d agreed she could dip out near the end if they could play nice until the toast and dance, but he was starting to fear she’d actually left hours ago. His anxiety had been making the slow climb for a while, but he could hardly feign smiles anymore.

Samuel nestled into the group with a full pitcher. He whistled at their half-full mugs with a scolding head shake. “Falling behind, lads. I’ve been gone long enough that you should have been empty by now. Would you put such disrespect on the names of your fathers?”

Hamish downed his, made a sputtering sound, and thrust his mug out. “Properly shamed, Sam.”

Samuel chuckled and topped him off. “Erran, Sessaly stopped me on the way back. I’m supposed to tell you they’re calling for the toast and dance now. She seemed rather... excited at the notion.”

Erran smiled without joy. He’d barely touched his own ale. Every drop that hit his lips sent a curl of uneasiness through him. He wondered again where Mariel was. Who she’d been talking to. Whether she’d said something he’d be working to unwind over the next few days. If she was even still there... or had deceived him, sabotaging her own damn scheme.

Erran caught his father watching from the other side of the terrace. Between them, over two hundred Southerlanders drank, cursed, and whirled to the lively music, a mix of piped and wooded instruments. Rylahn wore his admiralty regalia, donning the red and gold of Warwicktown, the Southerlands capital, as well as the symbol of the Rutland standard, the jagged alabaster crags of Whitecliffe. Their eyes stayed locked, his father’s expression as smooth as stone. Erran nodded at him, unsure if he’d just been silently scolded or praised.

“Are any of Mariel’s people here?” Samuel asked. He’d taken no mug for himself. He was the teetotaler of the group, their voice of reason and confidence. His father, Steward Damian Law, was the treasurer for the Southerlands, and a top adviser to the Warwicks. Sessaly would be marrying into the family soon, betrothed to Samuel’s younger brother, Aliksander. The Laws hailed from a region of the Southerlands as wealthy as Whitecliffe, but unlike Erran, Samuel didn’t put on pretense by affecting an accent that wasn’t natural to him.

“What people?” Khallum scoffed. “It’s only the brother, and he’s nay fit.”

“So there’s no one here for her?” Samuel frowned.

“I tried,” Erran said. “Father thinks Destin would make a scene and...” He almost addedhe’s not wrong,but guilt stayed him. Samuel’s observation emphasized the fact that Mariel had no allies at Goldsea Spires. If anyone should have been willing to advocate for her, it was her husband, and he’d folded at the slightest disapproval from his father.

Khallum clapped him on the shoulder. “For the best, mate. You’re already up to yer neck in it.”

The music halted. Conversations dwindled before dying to whispers as everyone turned toward the west end of the room, where Rylahn and Hestia stood waiting to speak. Sessaly dashed in beside them, a blur of dark curls and pink frills.

Khallum broke away from Erran and the others and headed to the front of the room, where he was expected to make a brief speech as lord of the Southerlands.

Erran’s heart did a somersault.Just stay through the toast and dance, then you can leave, and I’ll make whatever excuse you like,he’d told Mariel, and she’d agreed. So where was she?

“Aye, it’s true what they say about a Rutland party.Muchmore civilized than many of us are used to,” Khallum joked, breaking the patient silence of the celebrants. His voice carried all the way to the back of the terrace, where Erran was still rooted in place with Hamish and Samuel. “It’s tradition for the lord of the Southerlands to bless the unions of stewards. Should be my father here, but...” He cleared his throat with a cursory glance upward. “You’re stuck with me instead. Deepest apologies, and may the Guardians see fit to bless the couple anyway.”

A ripple of subdued laughter moved across the room. Erran couldn’t even make himself smile. His mouth was a bed of cotton. Samuel gave his shoulder a brief squeeze.

“I’ve known Erran since we were bairns, crawling around on the sand, giving our mothers heart palpitations.”

More laughter.

“He’s a good man. Mariel, ye couldnae find a truer heart than his. But I ken you already know that, or he’d be a dead man by now, since I have it on good authority you’re even fairer with a bow than he is with a sword.”

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