Page 109 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
“Your Majesty.”
Zarathos spun in surprise. Pithian stood, concealed in the shadows, the curtains of a small alcove hiding him mostly from view. Zarathos turned away, looking at an old painting along the wall as if studying it. “What do you prefer to be called?” he asked. “Pithian or Marbas?”
“Oh, uh, well…Marbas is my given name.”
Zarathos nodded. “From now on I will call you Marbas, except for when I must call you Pithian to protect your identity.”
Marbas appeared confused by the conversation. “Whatever you like, sir.”
“What do you have for me?”
“I’m sorry for the impromptu meeting, but I felt you should be informed. They are moving up the third trial.”
Zarathos shut his eyes, dreading the answer to his question. “To when?”
“Tonight.”
“Because of Aryana?”
“Yes. They aren’t happy, and they finally have what they need. Especially after your display at the dinner, they want her dead.”
Dread roiled through him. “What is it?”
“They are bringing in a chimera. Apparently, a demon on the council has been keeping one, and they have been itching to use it. They have a piece of her dress from the banquet. They are giving it her scent.”
Shit.Shit. First Sabious and now this. Everything was going to hell.
Zarathos should have pushed harder to get the potion sooner.
Unless he came up with something, Aryana wouldn’t survive the next trial.
Chapter 35
Aryana
Aryana sat at the vanity table of Zarathos’s room staring at the suggestion potion, her mind a jumble of thoughts. It had been that way ever since the banquet, and the only relief she’d found was in the arch king’s sanctuary working on her tapestry, the work needing her concentration enough to keep her anxieties from chasing after her. Finally feeling a bit better, she'd convinced herself to take a bath and put on a change of clothes. She reached behind her, trying to do up the impossible buttons on her dress, thinking of when Zarathos had helped her when she first arrived. Gods, that felt like an eternity ago.
The door opened so suddenly she jumped to her feet. The sun had already set. She knew he had kingly affairs to attend to, but he’d always taken the time to check on her. She didn’t know how to express her feelings. How to tell him she wanted him near despite what she was going through.
Without saying anything, he walked over and picked up the clear potion that he always ingested. His eyes met hers, the elixir clutched in his fist, halfway to his lips. Part of her longed to beg him not to take it—the potion that caused him such painful seizures—but knew by now that her opinion meant little to him in such matters.
So it took a full minute for her to comprehend it, even after he set the still-full vial on the vanity table and stepped away. He watched her with those golden ringed dark depths that shot through her like a spark of lightning. Something warm and hot burned in those eyes. Something Aryana desired.
He stopped right behind her, his gaze never leaving hers in the mirror.
“What is it, Zarathos?” she whispered, as if speaking too loud might break the spell. For some reason, she was unwilling to stop this, this way his eyes sparked, and the darkness gathered. Light and dark. That was Zarathos. She could never pin him down and in that moment, she didn’t want to.
He stepped closer until the heat from his body washed over her. Raising his hand, he swept her hair aside, and he ran his clawed nails over her skin. He leaned close, then paused, looking at her in the mirror. “May I?”
She nodded. His lips brushed her neck at the healed spot where Xaphoron’s teeth had sunk into her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
His mouth moved to her shoulder, his touch sending an electric current through her. “I’m sorry.”
He lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed the upside down crown painted there. “I’m sorry.”
Stepping even closer, he kissed his way down her spine, his hands stroking her flesh, each time murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
She breathed deeply, her breaths coming faster. “Why are you doing this?”
