Page 23 of Kissed By the Gods
Leif turns back to me, gives a conspiratorial wink, and mouths “thank the gods.”
I slap a hand over my mouth to hide a little smile. Tyrston flushes, which makes the injury on his face look even more livid. He stands, his presence threatening despite the lack of weapons in the room.
“Laugh at me again, bitch.”
That moment of humor felt good, almost normal, but that feeling is gone, replaced with a sinking certainty that I’m outmatched. Not in wits or kindness or anything else that should matter in this world, but in pure brute strength. It’s a feeling I know well—the soldiers have long ruled by might alone.
Tyrston is brimming with fury, not even bothering to shield his emotions. The blast of it is a furnace against my flesh, hot and searing and uncomfortable. It’s as if I’m back home, smothered by the emotions of my family. It’s shocking after spending so much time with Ryot, who kept his emotions firmly to himself.
I don’t cower. I won’t. I throw the tangled sheets away from my legs, and stand, pressing my bare feet onto the cold stone floor. I’ve curled the fork into my good hand, and hold it tucked behind my back.
Even standing, I have to look up at Tyrston. I hate that, but I don’t stand alone. Leif comes to his feet, too, his shoulders taut with tension, though his ribs are wrapped in a way that tells me they were broken recently, and he’s got a nasty gash on the side of his head. It surprises me—I barely know him. But even after this short amount of time, he reminds me of Seb—sweet, but not soft. The kind of person who steps into fights even when they probably shouldn’t.
“Don’t be an asshole, Tyrston,” Leif says.
“She’s an abomination! You wouldn’t know. You weren’t back from the Carrisfal attack when she landed. You don’t know what she is.”
Leif slashes a hand through the air. “I don’t need to. All I need to know is she’s here, she’s afraid, and she’s not the one threatening people in a damn sickbed.”
Tyrston’s lip curls. “You’re a blind fool. All of you in Stormriven are fools, like the idiot Ryot who brought her.”
“And you’re a coward,” Leif fires back. “You lash out like a cornered dog. Maybe that’s why Atherclad loses so many of its own. You fight with panic and pride.”
Tyrston’s hands clench into fists, his whole body vibrating with rage. I brace myself, but before he can lunge, the infirmary door swings open.
All three of us snap our attention toward it.
Three men walk through the door. Two of them I recognize from the tower.
Maxim’s eyes immediately land on me and his sneer is everything I remembered it to be—unsettling and ugly. Archon Lyathin takes in all of us before his eyes fall on me, too, like I’m the problem. He scrunches his nose.
The third man, I don’t recognize. Besides Lyathin, who must be in his 60s, he’s the oldest man in the room. He still has the look of brawn and health of relative youth, but his black hair is silver at the temples, and his green eyes are heavy with horrors that can’t be unseen. His eyes run between Leif, Tyrston, and me—and he takes in the fork I’m palming with a raised brow—before he turns to Leif with an exaggerated sigh.
“I can’t even leave you alone in the infirmary without finding you in the middle of something.” He says it with a dry voice, but there’s a hint of teasing under the reprimand.
Leif immediately relaxes, the tension in his shoulders easing. An easy grin spreads across his face. “Middle?” Leif answers, rocking back on his heels “Master Thalric, I assure you, we’re only at the beginning.”
Archon Lyathin cuts a frustrated hand through the air. “This is no time for common banter,” he says, turning to Thalric and Maxim. “Your wards have sufficiently healed. Remove them.”
Maxim smiles, like he knows something I don’t and he’s going to enjoy it immensely. I exchange a quick glance with Leif, whose grin has faded. He tips his chin at me. “Silent skies uponyou,” he says, before he follows Thalric out of the small room. The Faraengardian benediction for “good luck” takes on new meaning after yesterday.
“And to you,” I murmur.
Thalric hesitates at the door, but Archon Lyathin closes it firmly with a soft click behind them, so that we’re alone in the chamber.
“Girl.” His tone is neutral, but there’s a weight behind it that I don’t like.
I stand a little taller. “Leina. My name is Leina Haverlyn.”
“Leina Haverlyn,” he acknowledges. “Of Selencia?”
“Yes. Of the village Swyre.”
He waves his hand, like that bit is irrelevant. The deep sleeves of the robe-like tunic he wears billow with each movement, pooling around his elbows when he clasps his hands together. “I’m Archon Lyathin of the Fellsworn Vanguard,” he says. “Do you know what that means?”
I jerk my head. I’m coming to understand that Selencian serfs—what these men call grounded—know nothing about the Altor, the Kher’zenn, or anything about the world outside of our small villages.
“There are four archons here at the Synod. We are the highest-ranking men of each vanguard. As such, we sit on the Synod Council,” he explains. “The other member of the Synod Council is the Elder, the highest authority here. You met the Elder yesterday.”
