Page 157 of Kissed By the Gods
Aishan spy to the Prime of Aish in Year 986 of the Eternal Wars, delivered via larkling
CHAPTER SIXTY
RYOT
“Don’t start a fight,”Thalric mutters at me under his breath. His gaze sweeps the elaborate banquet hall, taking in the wary Aishan Altor lining the room wall-to-wall, all of them on high alert. Not one of them are drinking, and they’re all armed.
“Agreed. This is not the place to get into a brawl over a girl,” Caius says. “I’d back you up any other time, but here …”
“Here, we’d get our asses handed to us on one of these silver platters,” Thalric finishes where Caius trailed off, fingering the fancy serving ware the food is brought out on.
He’s not wrong. We’re outnumbered 30 or 40 to 1.
“Well, I’d still back you up,” Nyrica adds with a wry grin. “But we’d lose.”
I scowl into my plate, refusing to look across the table at Leina, sitting next to Aruveth. The sound of her laughter floats around the room. It’s a sound I could easily pick out in any crowd, even one of this size, even with the dozens of other women who are laughing and giggling throughout the large space. Her laughter is normally a sound that somehow both soothes and excites in equal measure. Right now, as she talks to Aruveth, it burns.
I hunch my shoulders and stab viciously at the fish. It’s my only distraction, because I’ve also shoved my drink to the side. Surrounded by distinctly unfriendly Altor, with a Kher’zenn attack apparently imminent, is not the time to indulge. As much as I’d like to.
“Don’t call her a girl,” I mutter to Caius. She’d hate that. I hate that.
Thalric smirks, but he still keeps his eyes on the room. His gaze sweeps to the left and then to the right, and then to the left again, on a constant loop.
Nyrica, too, is on edge. Caius has his eyes on Faelon, even though the boy isn’t his ward anymore. Because Faelon is still a boy, in a way that has nothing to do with age. Even Leif, his junior in both age and rank, can be trusted to keep his godsdamn mouth shut. But not Faelon. Every time Faelon goes to open his mouth, Caius glares him down until he snaps it shut again. Every time Faelon’s eyes spark and land on one of the beautiful Aishan women sashaying around the room, Caius slaps the back of his head to make him look away. And every time Faelon tries to rise to chase after one of those pretty ladies, Caius shoves him back down with a firm hand on his shoulder.
None of us want him to offend our hosts.
Though, things certainly seem to be very different here in Aish. Altor and civilians mingle freely. Many of the Altor are paired up with civilian men and women, and they engage in an easy intimacy that looks like relationships. That suspicion is confirmed when I watch one of the men—the man who’d handled the larkling earlier today, Drennek—press his hand against the belly of a heavily pregnant woman and press a soft kiss to her lips.
I’m not the only one who notices. Nyrica is clenching his fork so hard his knuckles turn white. Thalric lays a calming hand onNyrica’s clenched fist. When Nyrica relaxes his hand, the fork is a mangled mess of metal.
Leif leans back in his chair, a puzzled look on his face. “Aishan Altor are allowed to have families?” he asks the question we’re all thinking, and not quietly. The question seems to ricochet around the room, making the hall go quiet.
Drennek, sitting directly across from us at the u-shaped table, turns his head toward us, as he links fingers with his woman. “You aren’t?” he asks, his own shocked curiosity answering Leif’s question.
Leif jerks his head to the side. “No.”
Leif is one of the few young ones bothered by the Synod’s prohibition on having families. Most of the wards—hells, even most of the sentinels, like Faelon—still feel like they’ve escaped a dreadful fate. They’re too turned on by the thrill of battle and the hedonistic lifestyle at the Crimson Feather to realize what they’ve given up. Most of them die before they ever know.
I don’t look at Leina. I don’t look at Drennek or the pregnant woman. I don’t look at Thalric and Nyrica. I blame the vicious ache in my chest on the too-rich dinner and shove my plate away. Without the fish to distract me, I look across to the other side of the room where a u-shaped table faces us.
Aruveth sits at the head—a position of honor for the elected leader of the Aishan Altor. They call him the Steward. The Elder sits to his right and Leina to his left.
At another u-shaped table opposite, Rissa sits with the Prime—the elected leader of the civilian Aishan government. I run my tongue over the words again—elected, prime, steward. They’re unfamiliar words. Everything is unfamiliar here. The food, the dress, the weather, the architecture. The people.
Faelon grins broadly and winks at one of the women walking past our table. She ignores him, unimpressed.
“You need to learn some self-control,” I say to Faelon.
He rolls his eyes at me with all the attitude of a teenager talking to his father. “You’re one to talk about self-control,” he mumbles back.
My shoulders stiffen, at the same time Aruveth rises from his seat in the middle of his u-shaped table, holding his drink in the air. The room quiets, the music coming to a stop.
“Brothers and sisters, warriors and citizens,” Aruveth begins. “Friends from near and far. Tonight, we stand together, not as strangers divided by borders, but as one people under the same sky, bound by honor and courage to fight the same war.” He pauses and turns to look down at Leina. He holds the cup toward her in a salute. “Tonight, we raise a toast. For tonight is the first time that Aishan, Faraengardian, and Selencian Altor have stood together—have feasted together, have strategized together—since the Faraengardian massacre of the Selencian Altor 986 years ago.”
