Page 138 of Kissed By the Gods
I cup the little bar of soap, and tears spring to my eyes when I smell the lavender. But of course, she knows it’s my favorite. I get the lavender from her garden, after all.
When I’m done, I slip my arms into each sleeve of Elowen’s gown. It’s a wrap dress, so I pull one end fully around, then the other, before tying the golden silk belt around my waist so the skirt falls into place. The dress is nothing but a cool whisper against my skin, and drapes down my chest in a perfect V. It leaves me feeling naked, even more bare than my robe. I finger the material, standing in front of Elowen’s full-length mirror. I don’t even recognize myself. I trace the scar on my temple that glitters a soft gold. If it weren’t for the still-raised edges, it could pass for a tattoo. I twirl a finger in my still-wet curls.
I haven’t cut my hair since I came here. It’s well past my ears now, curling down along the edges of my nape. I run my fingers through it, the corkscrew curls pulling down and then bouncing back into place. I reach for a pair of scissors Elowen has on her vanity, to shear the curls off again. Not because Altor wards keep their hair short, though they do, but because it’s a symbol ofmourning in Selencia. I’ve kept it short ever since Alden died—a symbol of grief and a sign to other men to stay away.
I fist a section of my hair, but my hand hovers there, my fingers frozen on the grip, with the hair between the blades. Exhaling on a whoosh, I drop my hand. It’s time. Ryot or no Ryot, it’s time to let Alden go. He’s gone. Long gone. And I’m not the same girl who loved him so fiercely and so innocently. I can’t ever be that girl again.
I put the scissors back down on the table and use a towel to smush some of the water out of my longish hair before I open the door to the chamber and step out into the room.
Both Thalric’s and Elowen’s eyes go round. Thalric drops his booted foot from where he’s got it propped up on a table. It lands with a thump.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask, running my fingers down on the dress, twirling in a little circle so I can try to see what’s wrong with it. The end trails behind me. “What’s the matter? Did I already rip it or something?”
He just gets to his feet, a resigned look on his face. “Come on, Catastrophe. We’ve places to be, mobs to incite, and rebellions to start.”
I smile at his dramatic compliment. Only Thalric would tell me I’m pretty in such a surly, grumpy way.
“The dress is divine,” Elowen says, but she purses her lips into a frown. “And I don’t think you need any jewelry, not with the scars. But I don’t have any slippers that will fit you.”
“That’s alright,” I say, slipping my feet back into my combat boots, lacing the straps up all the way to my knees. “Even wearing boots, this still is the most stunning thing I’ve ever worn! Thank you, Elowen.”
Thalric is shaking his head at me. “Sweet Amarielle, how did the combat boots make it even hotter?” He rips the door open with more force than necessary. “Silent skies upon us.”
Elowen laughs.
“Aren’t we just going to a brothel?” I ask him.
“There’s nojustabout any of this,” he replies ominously. “We’re all in for a very interesting evening, veilstrider.”
“The Altor give up much. The least we can provide for them is an outlet for simple pleasures. Otherwise, they may revolt.”
Decree from the Archons in Year 113 of the Eternal Wars
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
LEINA
Faelon was right again.The Crimson Feather is a pleasure house, not a brothel.
I’d pictured something dark and ugly, where sex is exchanged like apples and coins at a market. But that’s not what this is.
The Crimson Feather itself is not a building. It’s been carved directly into the heart of the mountain, its entrance a wide set of doors with faravar wings carved into the wood. Red lanterns glow at the entrance and line a path that winds down the mountain. From a distance, it appears as though the mountain itself is bleeding.
There’s a line to enter, and it wraps down the path, a slow-moving serpent of people that stretches so far down the road toward Edessa that I can’t see where it ends. There are hundreds of Faraengardians, men and women alike, all of them brimming with an eager, impatient energy that hums in the cold evening air. A second line stands apart from the first, shorter but somehow heavier, filled with those who walk and speak with the kind of effortless entitlement that comes with wealth and rank. Their clothes are velvet or silk, their boots are polished, andthe guards at the entrance move them forward with a careful rhythm.
At the threshold, each woman who enters is handed a drink. The cups are small and silver, and without hesitation, the women swallow the contents in a single, greedy gulp.
Thalric and I walk to a separate door, closer to the Synod, where there’s no line. The muscled man guarding the entrance nods at Thalric and then me. His gaze lingers a tad too long on my scars, and then he drops his eyes to the ground when he hands me that same drink all the other women have been throwing back.
Thalric catches my confused look. “Contraception tonic,” he whispers to me. “All the women take it.”
Ah. I tip the cup back without ceremony, swallowing the bitter liquid in one sharp motion. The guard gives a gruff nod, then swings the heavy wooden door open for us.
