Page 144 of Kissed By the Gods
“What did he do to you?” I ask, my voice a deadly whisper. My voice is not velvet. It never has been. It’s coarse and jagged.
“Nothing,” she says. “He wasn’t able to do anything.”
Wasn’t able. Not “he didn’t do anything.” I flex my fingers, cutting off even the little gurgle of air he’d been dragging in. Roran’s eyes start to drain of life, his ineffectual clawing at my arm slows.
“Ryot,” she whispers, bringing a hand to my cheek and turning my face to look at her. Still, I keep my eyes trained on him. “He’s not worth it,” she tells me. “Let him go now. For me.”
My fingers loosen, and Roran sucks in a breath. I drag my gaze from him to her. Her perfect amber eyes stare into mine.She smiles a little, like she’s proud of me. “That’s very good.” She taps my arm. “Now, all the way. Let him go.”
I drop Roran to the ground, realizing that I’d been holding him suspended in the air by his neck. He collapses in a useless heap.
“You’re crazy,” he gets out between coughs, coming to his knees. “I’m going to your?—”
I snap a foot out, connecting precisely with his larynx. The cartilage collapses with a dull crackling noise, and Roran crumples fully onto the ground, hands clasped around his throat, as he strangles out a choked gasp and starts wheezing. I bend down to his level, and smile.
“Now,” I tell him, “everyone will see you for exactly what you are.” His eyes widen as he realizes he can’t even scream through the mangled tissue in his throat. “And that is so rewarding, it’s worth whatever little punishment the archons come up with.”
And there will be a punishment for this, despite the loose rules that govern play at the Crimson Feather. There’s a general understanding that civilianswillget hurt here; that they understand the risk of wanting to “play” with the god-like Altor. Altor are rarely punished for the injuries, so long as no one dies.
But Roran is—was—the king’s Chancellor of Speech.
After my investigation of Selencia, the thought is disgusting in a way I’d never really considered before; that the monarchy depends on a Gifted to convey their messages and coerce the support of the people through magic somehow never registered. Perhaps Selencia isn’t the only place where the monarchy has turned to rot. Perhaps the rot started here, in Edessa.
The king will no doubt want Roran healed, but there’s only one healer in Faraengard capable of repairing a wound like this, and that's Elowen. And even Elowen—cursed with a dangerously soft heart and an unshakable loyalty to her father—might refuse to heal Roran. She knows better than most what he’s capable of.
Leina is staring down at us, worry etched across her face.
“Let me take out the trash,” I tell her. “And then we’ll talk.”
I grab Roran by the collar, dragging him across the soft carpet. I swing the door open to see Thalric and Nyrica standing sentry, having cleared out the onlookers. I drop Roran in the hallway. “He needs a healer. Make sure it’s not Elowen.”
Nyrica’s eyes widen, but Thalric nods. “Fucking catastrophe of a night. I knew it,” he mutters. He nods his head back toward the room. “Leina alright?”
I jerk my head into a nod. Nyrica bends down, and swings a silent, writhing Roran up over one shoulder, carrying him down the hallway toward the stairs. “You stay here,” he calls back to Thalric. “I’ll deal with this.”
Thalric takes up his spot by the door again, but catches my eye. “I’ll stand guard here. But take it from me—once you go down this path, there’s no turning back.”
I lower my voice to the barest hint of a whisper, something not even Leina can hear a few steps behind me. “Is it worth it?” There’re a few men who have formed bonds, like Thalric and Nyrica. They risk so much to be together, but they do it anyway.
Thalric looks down the hallway where Nyrica disappeared. His eyes are almost unbearably sad. “I don’t know that ‘worth it’ is the right question.” He turns his eyes back to me. “The real question is whether it’s inevitable.”
That word clocks me like a fist to the gut, and I stare at him, a feeling of dread uncurling and taking root.
“Ryot.” Leina’s angry voice yanks me back and I clear my throat at Thalric, nodding my thanks.
“We’ll be a minute,” I say, my voice surprisingly hoarse. Thalric turns, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes up a position outside the door. The only people who will get through him are the archons or the Elder. And even then, I have no doubt that he’d warn us, first.
I turn back to Leina, to the room with the floor blanketed in crimson carpet and the large bed draped in fine ivory silks and crimson pillows. One lantern on the wall lights the space, casting shadows in the corners.
I close the door, leaving us alone inside. The fourth-floor rooms are preternaturally sound-proofed. The walls are a foot thick and stuffed with acoustic absorbers, like rockwool and sound-isolating panels. Turns out, a group of men who can hear a pin drop on a carpeted floor don’t like to have to listen to each other fuck all night. Or at least, not all of them do. Comforts are taken care of here, in a way that they aren’t in the military sparsity of the Synod. But I still flex out a shield, wrapping it around the outside of the room. Making sure no one can see, hear, smell, taste, or touch a godsdamn thing.
And Leina … she’s … I don’t take my hand off the doorknob, clenching it with such strength that I imprint the shape of my fingers into the metal before I consciously loosen my hold.
This is dangerous.
“What the hells was that, Ryot? I’d already handled it.”
“And now I’ve made it so no one else will have to ‘handle it’ again. Or worse, wake up the next morning wishing they’d been able to.”
