I was almost offended. Almost. It was a totally reasonable concern.
Either way, I was wildly grateful.
I traced the edge of the shard with my fingertips, watching a little sliver of my reflection.
“So this gives us Jesmine,” I said.
Raihn gave me a sidelong glance. “You trust her?”
A valid question to ask, in the wake of a coup. Raihn couldn’t trust his own nobles. And hell, I couldn’t trust many of mine, either—but for better or for worse, Jesmine had been nothing if not loyal. She never had to follow the orders of her king’s human daughter, who she’d never even liked much anyway. And yet, she had, without hesitation. That counted for something.
“I do,” I said.
But whatever Hiaj forces I might have were far away from Sivrinaj, now. And we didn’t have time to raise an army before we moved.
I looked across the room, to the pile of my belongings that had been strewn over the floor yesterday. I slid from the bed and stood. I was endlessly aware of Raihn’s stare running over my naked body. There was a strange kind of satisfaction in that, I had to admit. Strange kind of pleasure, too.
I rummaged around in the pile of bloody silk and pulled out the Taker of Hearts.
Even sheathed, I could feel its magic burrowing under my skin. Not long ago, that had been uncomfortable, almost painful, like my flesh was too weak for it. Now? I could sense power in that discomfort—heady and a little disorienting, like vampire wine.
I could feel, too, my father’s presence in it. Like he was standing right over my shoulder, silently critiquing my grip.
“And we have this,” I said.
A weapon that Vincent had used to kill hundreds—thousands, even—of incredible warriors over the years. A weapon powerful enough to defend a throne for two hundred years.
A weapon powerful enough to destroy one of the last true great Rishan cities.
My stomach turned at that thought. I lifted my gaze to meet Raihn’s. No more joking in it now. Not even desire. No, he was utterly serious, mouth set. I wondered if he was thinking about the same thing I was—the ashes of Salinae, and the role this weapon may have played in making them.
“Nothing to scoff at,” he said quietly.
The pride I’d once felt in being able to wield this weapon soured slightly.
No. Nothing to scoff at. I’d taken down dozens of Simon’s men with this thing—and that had been alone. With Raihn beside me? Hell, we could almost fight our way through that castle by ourselves.
Almost.
As if reading my mind, Raihn said, “If we were taking them by surprise, we might be able to do it by brute force. But not tonight, when we’re the most wanted people in the House of Night.”
I settled back at the edge of the bed. Raihn and I were silent, thinking.
He was right. Brute strength wouldn’t work. But I hadn’t won the Kejari by being the strongest, anyway. I’d won because I had spent my whole life learning how to survive in Obitraes despite what I was or wasn’t. Learning tricks that could get me farther with less.
Tricks like…
My lips curled slowly.
Even before I looked up, I could hear the smile in Raihn’s voice. “I think I recognize that face.”
I said, “We have one more thing. We have me.”
47
ORAYA
Vincent had taught me how to stay alive. That meant learning how to fight, yes, but it also meant learning how to flee.
My father had created a castle perfect for a man who knew, one day, his greatest threats could come from within his own house. The tunnels were extensive, confusing, and disjointed. Septimus was aware of some of them—my own foolishness had seen to that. But he couldn’t know all of them, let alone guard them.
The hard part would be making it there.
I was certain that Vincent had created multiple avenues into and out of the castle. Unfortunately, he hadn’t trusted me with any of them—in hindsight, it made sense that he didn’t want to give me ways to sneak away from him. Still, he’d given me instructions on one way out. One way that was so unpleasant, he could feel confident that I wouldn’t use it unless my life was in imminent danger.
Much had been written over the years about the Lituro River. Visitors had spun plenty of poetry about the way it wound through the dunes like a streak of silver paint beneath the moonlight. Some claimed it represented the lifeblood of Nyaxia herself.
I imagined that maybe, out there in the desert, it was indeed a thing of majestic beauty.
However, in the heart of Sivrinaj, it was as much piss as it was water.