“As Commander Rhaziel stated before, Archwood is a vital port,” Prince Thorne continued after a moment. “Seizing Archwood and then Primvera would cause a catastrophic ripple effect throughout the entire kingdom. It would give the Westlands an advantage in the form of leverage, and the King will not tolerate that. Archwood would then be considered a loss.”
The dining hall fell silent. All I could hear for several moments was the pounding of my heart.
It was Hymel who broke the silence. “You mean, Archwood would fall into the hands of the Westlands, therefore becoming a part of this open rebellion of lowborn and Hyhborn?”
My intuition told me no, that wasn’t the case, and then it went silent on me, and I knew what that meant. That the answer lay with the Hyhborn, which I could not see, but could guess.
The icy finger of unease pressed against the nape of my neck.
“You wish to speak.” The Prince’s attention was fixed on me. “Please do so.”
I stiffened, knowing it wasn’t my place to ask questions, at least not in such a public setting, and I was already pushing it with my thoughts on the whole king and queen business. It was the Baron’s place, or at the very most, Hymel’s. But neither did. No one did.
The Prince waited.
I cleared my throat. “If the Westlands or even the Iron Knights alone succeeded in seizing Archwood, what would happen?”
“The ports and trading posts would all be destroyed.” Prince Thorne’s eyes met mine, the colors frighteningly calm. “As would be the entire city.”
CHAPTER 22
The diamond-crusted plates and the platters of uneaten food had long since been removed from the table, and only a few trays of desserts remained. Hymel had left with Commander Rhaziel and Lord Bastian to discuss preparations for the arriving regiment— something that the Baron should be taking part in. However, a bottle of brandy had replaced the champagne and only the three of us were now in the dining hall.
By this time of the evening, the Baron would already be in either the solarium or the Great Chamber, surrounded by his paramours and cronies, but the Prince had shown no indication of preparing to leave the hall. Therefore, the Baron remained.
And so did I.
“Tell me something, Your Grace,” Claude began, and I briefly closed my eyes, having no idea what level of absurdity was going to come out of his mouth.
And there had been a lot of ridiculousness already, everything from Claude asking whether or not Prince Thorne believed the cold grain cereal often eaten upon waking could be considered a soup, which the Prince had answered only with a stare that was part confusion, part disbelief, to him regaling the Prince with tales of his time spent at the University of Urbane, just outside of Augustine.
Or attempting to.
Prince Thorne didn’t appear regaled by any of what the Baron was saying.
However, he did appear to be quite interested in where Claude’s free hand was. He’d tracked how the Baron’s fingers had first toyed with the string lacing between my breasts, and his stare had followed Claude’s eventual path down my stomach, to my hip. He was aware of the exact moment Claude’s wandering palm made it to my thigh, exposed by the high cut of the skirt. Tiny bursts of white had appeared in the Prince’s eyes.
Claude seemed not to realize what the Prince was so attentive to, but I was aware— too aware. The Baron’s touch was cool, but the burn of the Prince’s perusal scalded my flesh, creating warring sensations that made it impossible to ignore.
Honestly, I could’ve left at any point. I wasn’t even trying to read Prince Thorne. Claude might have been disappointed, but he wouldn’t have tried to stop me. I feared that if I left Claude alone with the Prince, he would get himself in trouble or worse.
Killed.
But was that the only reason?
My gaze briefly met the Prince’s, and my breath snagged.
“I’ve heard something utterly fascinating about Hyhborn that I’ve always been curious about but never got the chance to ask,” Claude went on, his fingers sweeping back and forth along the curve of my upper thigh. “I once heard that a Hyhborn could . . . regenerate severed limbs.”
I nearly choked on the champagne I’d been nursing.
“Is that true?” Claude asked.
Across from us, the Hyhborn prince sat as he had in my bed-chamber earlier. A short glass of whiskey in hand, his posture almost relaxed, almost lazy; but the coiled tension, the barely restrained power, was there.
“Depends,” Prince Thorne answered, tracing the rim of his glass, the amber-hued liquor nearly the same color as the hair resting against his jaw.