It had all been a test. Oh, Sovran Daakun’s situation seemed suitably dire, assuming the man was still alive, but Naasut had been testing them, playing at barbarian. Perhaps to expose the spymaster, but clearly, she had been expecting them to join her in a meal all along.
Balam’s confidence surged, his mind already spinning with the possibilities.
“You know,” Tuun said, “I think she was flirting with me at the end.”
“You think everyone is flirting with you,” Balam observed dryly.
“Aren’t they?”
“Spearmaidens are married to war, and war only. I do not think they flirt.”
“Nonsense. All beings flirt. Except you, apparently.”
“You offend me, Lord Tuun. Although I suggest you keep your eye on Queen Mahina.”
She huffed a laugh. “Self-styled queens do not concern me.”
“Whose spy is he?” Pech shouted loudly enough that they all stopped to stare. He looked sweaty, his eyes too wide.
Shock, Balam thought. And he’s not handling it well.
“Balam,” he cried, “is he yours? Tuun? Whatever game you are playing, you are to stop it now, before you get us killed!”
Balam’s smile was all concern. “None of ours, I assure you. No doubt, Golden Eagle seek to gain advantage. Or perhaps he belongs to Carrion Crow. All the more reason we must ally.”
Pech made a sound like a strangled dog, and Balam almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Do not concern yourself, Pech,” he said over his shoulder, as they entered the palace. “I have this entirely under control.”
CHAPTER 28
THE MERIDIAN GRASSLANDS
YEAR 1 OF THE CROW
Beware the woman who would drown her own daughters.
—Teek saying
Xiala followed Ziha and Iktan through the doors of the tavern to find Nuuma Golden Eagle sitting at the far end of a long table, eating soup. The room itself was unusually dark, and Xiala felt her eyes change to accommodate the low light. The ceiling, soot-stained and heavy, felt uncomfortably low, and she was sure that if she simply lifted her hands over her head, her fingertips would scrape the roof. The walls were similarly tight, and Xiala felt the itch of close quarters tickle the skin between her shoulders.
There were two lanterns, one on each side of the room, but Nuuma seemed to suck all the light toward her. She wore a uniform so white it glowed. Xiala recognized it as identical to her daughter’s, down to the fur-collared deerskin cloak and the golden spray of feathers at the shoulder, and she did not have to wonder who was copying whom. Nuuma’s tawny hair was tangled and wild, but her eyes as she glanced up at her second daughter and her companions were hard stone, as bleak and uncompromising as the tall mountains around them.
Ziha hurried forward to prostrate herself at her mother’s feet, arms outstretched. Nuuma looked down at her, expression unreadable, until her lip curled slightly in what was clearly distaste. She had paused with her bowl halfway to her mouth when they came in, but now she began to eat again. The room was silent save the sound of slow slurping.
The moment stretched.
The girl commander on the floor. The matron noisily draining her soup bowl.
Xiala tried to catch Iktan’s attention, but xir face was lost in the folds of xir cowl, only the tip of xir narrow nose visible.
More seconds passed, and still Ziha didn’t rise.
And still Nuuma ate.
Xiala’s nerves were starting to itch, worse even than the claustrophobic tickle at her back. Cruel mother, humiliated daughter, no one intervening. It was all a bit too familiar.
She exhaled, telling herself she would likely regret what came next, but it couldn’t be any worse than standing there watching Ziha debase herself for someone who clearly enjoyed seeing her suffer. She channeled some of the bravado she employed as a sea captain, squared her shoulders, and sauntered over to the table. She pulled out the side bench. It groaned and scraped across the floor. She swung a leg over and dropped her weight, equally loud.
Xiala banged a hand against the table. Heads swiveled, and the Shield shifted their attention to her. Nuuma lowered her bowl, stone eyes glowing like hot ash.
Nervous sweat dampened Xiala’s collar, but her righteous outrage overwhelmed any fear. She reached for her Song, a precaution, but as before, it felt as if someone had built a fence between her and her power. Seven hells, what was she doing provoking this woman? She caught a glimpse of the back of Ziha’s head, face still kissing the ground, and that was all the reminder she needed.
“Soup!” Xiala shouted. “Where can I get some damned soup?”