Page 62 of Angel in Absentia
She held her breath as he lifted his hand and cupped her chin between his thumb and fingers. Clea felt the cool silver against her skin as his face hovered over hers and his words softened.
“When you laid those bodies out and asked for Prince, didn’t some part of you hope that I would come? Didn’t you hope thatI could help you, that maybe I had influence or power or status that could fight, and persuade, and beat back the enemies that I swore I would defeat now just as I swore to defeat them then?”
Her hand circled his, and she swallowed, backing away. He examined her hand in his, thumb moving over her skin. Such a soft and small gesture caused her to swell with a strange sadness.
“You were right,” he said, voice tender, tender in a way it had only been in their last moments in the carriage, tender in the moments before Prince had healed her. “And are you glad that you were? No. Are you so ashamed of what you’ve asked for? What you want despite yourself? They’ve started to see it.” He nodded toward the others. “You may be their queen, but you are also mine. Theirs by obligation, but mine by choice.”
The room was silent, and she stood in front of all of them as if she were trapped in a nightmare of her own inner court, judged and penalized as the truth of her crimes was laid out. She could deny them, but she was betrayed by her own actions, and Ryson’s case, laid out so clearly, had no clear objection.
He had not lied. He’d warned her, and she’d made the choice again and again.
She looked at them all, and then back at Ryson.
“No one will be hurt,” she said.
He smiled, easing down onto the table next to them as if to give her higher ground. The knife was in his hand now, and he set it down against the wood. Dae was standing several paces back, somehow keeping his wits as he listened to their discussion. Iris was reeling him back with the gentle tug of her hands on his arm.
“What do you want in exchange for the defeat of Javelin de Gal and my city’s protection?” she asked. His smile faded softly as if bothered by the coldness of her words and how she distilled their exchange into a deal.
“If we are able to accomplish both feats,” he said, “you’ll heal me of my sifting. Few healers are capable of such a task. I want to be free of it.”
Clea’s expression almost faltered at the request, but she held fast and nodded. She’d understood sifting to be an almost holy practice to Insednians. She didn’t know what it meant to revert it, but the request, if real, was of an extreme kind.
“And,” he said, “your healers will attend to all unsifted Insednians who have been wounded, not just now, but as needed from this point forward. In return, we will be at your beck and call anytime your city is in need of defense.”
Clea resisted the urge to look over at Dae, Iris, and Catagard. To agree to this would be to bind her city into a lifelong agreement with the Insednians. Loda, once a paragon of light, the City of the Sun, bound to the paragon of darkness. The Insednians would always be their moon, reflecting their light in a boundless contract.
She looked back at Dae, Catagard, and Iris.
“It’s not their choice,” he coed, drawing her back to him. “And the offer only stands for a few more minutes. This is our negotiation. What is your answer?”
She tried to find a way to gain leverage. It occurred to her then how vulnerable he might be if she healed him of his sifting. Maybe that was her answer.
“Very well,” she said, glaring from the corner he was clearly backing her into.
“And one last thing,” he added with a glint in his eye. “As an act of good faith, we would like healers to accompany us on our own campaigns. We need Veilin able and willing to serve us abroad.”
The thought of sending Lodain healers out into the mire of the forest, surrounded by Insednians, chilled her to the bone.
“No,” she said.
“It’s not negotiable,” he replied.
“Everything is negotiable,” she replied back just as firmly.
“This isn’t a condition we take lightly,” he pushed, his body completely still, eyes locked with hers, portions glowing like a fragmented blade in the shadow.
She didn’t reply.
“Without it, we have no deal,” he continued, and then his voice warmed, not with gentleness but a competitive and almost playful heat, “and your city falls into ruin. You see, we benefit greatly from this, but our survival doesn’t depend on it. Your people, however, need this.” His voice deepened as he stood, hovering over her now by sheer nature of his height as he almost whispered, “I have already been incredibly lenient.”
“I’m assured we would choose death over slavery,” she replied.
He chuckled, smiling broadly now. “Veilin, always so eager to die. Slavery? No. Not at all. I guarantee the Veilin wouldn’t be harmed. In fact, they’d be treated with utmost care.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not slavery. How many?” she asked.
“Fifty,” he replied instantly.
