Page 155 of Kissed By the Gods
“I’m annoyed, too.” Not with the sand, but still.
She snorts like she knows exactly what I’m referring to. I smile quickly, though it fades fast when a horde of faravars launch from a sandstone fortress at the outskirts of Amarune. The walls of the fortress are curved in a way I haven’t seen, like it was built to bend with the wind, instead of stand against it. These faravars look like ours—large, black beasts with wide wings and fierce hooves, but the men riding them are subtly different. Instead of black leather, they wear loose tunics of different shades of brown that cover their entire bodies and wrap around their heads and their faces, shielding them fromthe sand and the sun. Eight of them fly straight for us—their numbers directly proportional to ours. Another 12, however, hang back.
They’re all armed to the teeth. The men coming to land in front of us are all holding the hilts of close-range weapons—swords, daggers, spears, whips, and absolutely terrifying-looking nets. The twelve men that landed further back are all archers. And they’re all at full draw, bows notched and ready to launch into the air. At us.
This is not a warm welcome. Faelon reaches for the bow he’s slung over his back, but the Elder gives a curt shake of his head.
After they land, an Aishan man nudges his beast forward. He quickly takes in our small cast, but his eyes—the only part of his face that I can see through the scarf that covers most of his face—linger on me before he directs his attention to the Elder. “You’re trespassing, Faraengardians.”
“We don’t seek conflict, Aruveth,” the Elder says. “We come with a warning.”
The man—Aruveth—inclines his head, listening. But his eyes have returned to me and Vaeloria. It’s not a malevolent stare. It’s not even one that makes me uncomfortable, exactly. It’s curious and considering. Even here, we’re unusual.
“The Kher’zenn will attack Aish. Soon,” the Elder announces and the Aishan men—both the men at the foreground and the archers further back—laugh.
I can’t see Aruveth’s mouth, but I can hear the amused disbelief in his voice. “Impossible. We maintain control over all strategic islands to the south. And it’s yet winter to the north.”
“Even so, they come,” the Elder replies. He gestures to me. “Our veilstrider has seen it.”
The tittering among the men stops. There’s a moment of quiet, and then an uneasy murmuring. Aruveth nudges his beasteven further still, coming abreast with the Elder, who is at the front of our staggered v-formation.
“If you come only to offer a warning, Elder, why fly with a cast?” He flicks a disdainful glance at Rissa. “And why bring Faraengardian royalty with you?”
Rissa sits straighter, as straight as she can while sitting in Ryot’s lap. “I—” she starts but Aruveth holds up a hand, cutting her off.
“I wasn’t speaking with you.” His tone is sharp. He doesn’t like her. I’ll admit, his reaction soothes my bruised ego and my wounded heart. The petty side of me derives visceral satisfaction from it. But I don’t understand it.
To Rissa’s credit, she snaps her mouth shut and doesn’t interject again.
“We come with the warning, Aruveth, and a desire to share assistance, to share knowledge,” the Elder replies.
Aruveth snorts. “Unlikely. We all know Faraengard cares only for its own—its own people, its own safety, its own power. And we all know the lengths to which the Faraengardian monarchy will go to maintain its hegemony.”
Ryot—who has been remarkably tense this entire time—somehow stiffens even more, his shoulders drawing back. I don’t disagree with Aruveth. I can’t. I’ve been the sacrificial lamb at the altar of Faraengard’s greed and self-interest. But I make a mental note to ask someone, maybe Thalric, what hegemony means. It’s not one my mother ever wrote in the sands of the riverbanks.
“We heed your warning, Elder, and we thank you for it. But we do not trust a Faraengardian offer to share anything,” Aruveth continues, and he starts to turn, angling his beast back toward Amarune.
Vaeloria shifts restlessly underneath me, and she whinnies softly.
“Wait!” I call out. Aruveth turns, so that he’s spun slightly around on his beast, facing me.
“Wait,” I say again, and Vaeloria walks forward. We pass Thalric and his beast, Oryndel; Nyrica and his beast, Caelthar; Faelon and Theryn; Caius and Ascarion; Leif and his beast, although we don’t know his name. Their bond isn’t strong enough for that kind of communication yet. I pass Ryot, Rissa and Einarr. Ryot looks furious. Rissa won’t quite look me in the eyes—she hasn’t since they returned from Selencia.
Vaeloria and I stop next to the Elder and Sigurd. My beast is tiny in comparison to the Elder’s massive faravar, and I think Aruveth is noting the ridiculousness of it, his eyes flicking between me and the Elder, between Vaeloria and Sigurd, before he turns his own beast to face me directly.
The scarf covering the lower half of his face shifts slightly with his breath, and it adds to the mystery, framing his eyes that seem to cut perfectly through the desert heat. Each tuck and fold of the long, layered robes he wears seems perfectly deliberate—practical yet elegant. He has a natural grace with his beast that speaks of years of experience, and his presence is commanding.
He unhooks the scarf from around his face. He’s beautiful, but not in a pretty way. Like so many of the Altor, he’s scarred, a shredwhip having slashed across his mouth, disfiguring his lips and chin. His dark skin is deep, rich. There are wrinkles that line his face, but nothing as deep and dramatic as the Elder’s.
“Veilstrider,” he greets me. He’s impressed, but hesitant. He’s surprised to see me—a female—but he’s not stunned. “Thank you for your warning. We will post additional men at further outposts and be on alert.”
I don’t think he believes me. Really, I’m not sure my own cast believes me. It seems too impossible for them.
But I don’t push Aruveth. I nod, searching for words. I know we need to be here. There are answers here that I need.
“You don’t trust the Faraengardian crown.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t treat it like one. He doesn’t reply.
“I don’t either,” I tell him. “Faraengard has wronged me deeply.”
