Page 31 of White Horse Black Nights

Jocki’s nerves finally got the better of him, and he shut down the fight. That night, guards came to the old stables and dragged me out of the stall I shared with four other boys. I was certain this was the moment I’d be thrown in a dungeon for daring to win against the son of Duren’s high lord, but instead, the guards took me to the Valveres’ private soldier barracks. They shoved stew and bread in my hands. They gave me a cot and blanket. Clean clothes, too.

Basic necessities, and yet to me they were unthinkable luxuries.

I spent the next year with the Golden Sentinels, learning to soldier, and serving as Rian’s personal sparring partner. Day after day, fight after fight, we came to know one another like brothers. Rian introduced me to the Sin Streets that his family oversaw, ribbing me good-naturedly when I drank my first ale and lost my first hand of Basel and fucked for the first time. He taught me how to stay out of his father’s notice. Lord Berolt was—is—a devil in every sense of the word. Cruel, greedy, merciless, decadent. And eerily obsessed with godkissed. The Valvere vice houses are filled with godkissed fighters and whores. They employ godkissed servants in Sorsha Hall. Berolt likes to test them, display them, pull their strings to prove to the world that even though he isn’t godkissed, his power is greater than magic itself.

To me, Rian will always be that thirteen-year-old boy who took me under his wing, despite the fact that I belted him daily in the ring. And, yeah, it’s true that he’s changed over the years. Like a tree pruned to climb along a garden wall, there was only one path Rian would ever be allowed to grow into: A Valvere.

I’d bet my last coin that Sabine’s ride was Lord Berolt’s idea.

High atop Myst, Sabine nudges me in the shoulder with her toe. She nods toward a gaggle of market women lining the road. Their eyes fix more on me than on Sabine as they giggle to one another.

“You’re getting your fair share of attention,” Sabine points out wryly.

I could care less if some village women like the way I look. I know the effect I have on women. What interests me more is the little pinch of jealousy that puckers Sabine’s lips.

Despite my better judgment, I grin. It feels fucking incredible to see Sabine Darrow jealous.

“Imagine how they’d drool ifIwas naked,” I say, needling her further. “Maybe we should take a break in this town. I’ll disappear behind a shed with one or two of those girls for an hour.”

She lets out a huff and rolls her eyes. “By the Immortals, the end of this ride can’t come fast enough.”

I’m still smirking when a small group of red-robed men steps into the street, blocking our path.

The smile melts off my face.

Sabine signals Myst to halt.

The men wear the gold-trimmed, crimson robes of the Order of Immortal Woudix, God of Death. Cutlasses hang from straps over their shoulders. Their faces are stiff. One of them clutches a gilded copy of the Book of the Immortals like a shield.

Fuck. Goddamn judgmental priests. This is the last thing we need.

“By the authority of the Immortal Woudix,” the one in front intones. “The village of Charmont disaffirms the presence of this vulgar spectacle.”

He wears a tall, peaked red hat with silken fringe, marking him as the Patron—the head priest. The gold-studded fringe brushes his dark eyebrows almost like a crown across his brow. Fitting, as the Red Church believes they’re as mighty as kings.

I groan inwardly down to my bones. “If it offends you,” I seethe, “then step aside and we’ll be out of your way.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

The crowd begins to buzz. Tension gathers over the village center like morning mist. These priests worship Immortal Woudix, the God of Death, which means they know how to use those cutlasses at their sides. They’re as militant as priests come, and we’ve walked right into their town.

Except thisisn’ttheir town.

Charmont worships Immortal Meric—not Woudix—which means these red-robed acolytes traveled here specifically to intercept us. That would explain how sweaty they are beneath their miter hats. We changed course, so they were probably waiting to confront us back on the road to Middleford, and rode here when word spread of the new route.

Immortal Woudix, as depraved as the rest of the fae court, wouldn’t give a fuck about a naked girl. Hell, he’d love it.

So why have these militant assholes really come?

I have a strong suspicion that it has nothing to do with Sabine’s state of undress, and everything to do with how the Grand Cleric who oversees the Red Church resents the Valveres’ influence in Astagnon.

“Arrest this whore at once!” the Patron commands, signaling to his brethren. “She will be made to answer for spreading such depravity! Pull her down from that horse.”

The four heavyset priests behind him stalk toward Myst and Sabine.

My thoughts come slamming to a halt.

Did he just call Sabine awhore?

---