swim out a few strokes and casually tread in place.
Not water, but something
smoother, thicker. Not oil, but something purer, thinner. Like being wrapped in
warm silk. I was so busy savoring the tug of my fingers through the silvery
substance that I didn’t notice him until he was treading beside me.
“Who taught you to swim?” he asked, and dunked his head under the surface.
When he came up, he was grinning, sparkling streams of starlight running along
the contours of his mask.
I didn’t go under, didn’t quite know if he’d been joking about the water
making me mirthful if I drank it. “When I was twelve, I watched the village
children swimming at a pond and figured it out myself.”
It had been one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, and I’d
swallowed half the pond in the process, but I’d gotten the gist of it, managed to
conquer my blind panic and terror and trust myself. Knowing how to swim had
seemed like a vital ability—one that might someday mean the difference
between life and death. I’d never expected it would lead to this, though.
He went under again, and when he emerged, he ran a hand through his golden
hair. “How did your father lose his fortune?”
“How’d you know about that?”
Tamlin snorted. “I don’t think born peasants have your kind of diction.”
Some part of me wanted to come up with a comment about snobbery, but …
well, he was right, and I couldn’t blame him for being a skilled observer.
“My father was called the Prince of Merchants,” I said plainly, treading that
silky, strange water. I hardly had to put any effort into it—the water was so
warm, so light, that it felt as if I were floating in air, every ache in my body
oozing away into nothing. “But that title, which he’d inherited from his father,
and his father before that, was a lie. We were just a good name that masked three
generations of bad debts. My father had been trying to find a way to ease those
debts for years, and when he found an opportunity to pay them off, he took it,
regardless of the risks.” I swallowed. “Eight years ago, he amassed our wealth
on three ships to sail to Bharat for invaluable spices and cloth.”
Tamlin frowned. “Risky indeed. Those waters are a death trap, unless you go
the long way.”
“Well, he didn’t go the long way. It would have taken too much time, and our
creditors were breathing down his neck. So he risked sending the ships directly
to Bharat. They never reached Bharat’s shores.” I tipped my hair back in the
water, clearing the memory of my father’s face the day that news arrived of the
sinking. “When the ships sank, the creditors circled him like wolves. They
ripped him apart until there was nothing left of him but a broken name and a few
gold pieces to purchase that cottage. I was eleven. My father … he just stopped
trying after that.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention that final, ugly moment
when that other creditor had come with his cronies to wreck my father’s leg.
“That’s when you started hunting?”
“No; even though we moved to the cottage, it took almost three years for the
money to entirely run out,” I said. “I started hunting when I was fourteen.”
His eyes twinkled—no trace of the warrior forced to accept a High Lord’s
burden. “And here you are. What else did you figure out for yourself?”
Maybe it was the enchanted pool, or maybe it was the genuine interest behind
the question, but I smiled and told him about those years in the woods.
Tired but surprisingly content from a few hours of swimming and eating and
lounging in the glen, I eyed Lucien as we rode back to the manor that afternoon.
We were crossing a broad meadow of new spring grass when he caught me
glancing at him for the tenth time, and I braced myself as he fell back from
Tamlin’s side.
The metal eye narrowed on me while the other remained wary, unimpressed.
“Yes?”
That was enough to persuade me not to say anything about his past. I would
hate pity, too. And he didn’t know me—not well enough to warrant anything but
resentment if I brought it up, even if it weighed on me to know it, to grieve for
him.
I waited until Tamlin was far enough ahead that even his High Fae hearing
might not pick up on my words. “I never got to thank you for your advice with
the Suriel.”
Lucien tensed. “Oh?”
I looked ahead at the easy way Tamlin rode, the horse utterly unbothered by
his mighty rider. “If you still want me dead,” I said, “you might have to try a bit
harder.”
Lucien loosed a breath. “That’s not what I intended.” I gave him a long look.
“I wouldn’t shed any tears,” he amended. I knew it was true. “But what
happened to you—”
“I was joking,” I said, and gave him a little smile.
“You can’t possibly forgive me that easily for sending you into danger.”
“No. And part of me would like nothing more than to wallop you for your
lack of warning about the Suriel. But I understand: I’m a human who killed your
friend, who now lives in your house, and you have to deal with me. I
understand,” I said again.
He was quiet for long enough that I thought he wouldn’t reply. Just as I was
about to move ahead, he spoke. “Tam told me that your first shot was to save the
Suriel’s life. Not your own.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.”
The look he gave me was more contemplative than any he’d given me before.
“I know far too many High Fae and lesser faeries who wouldn’t have seen it that
way—or bothered.” He reached for something at his side and tossed it to me. I
had to fight to stay in the saddle as I fumbled for it—a jeweled hunting knife.
“I heard you scream,” he said as I examined the blade in my hands. I’d never
held one so finely crafted, so perfectly balanced. “And I hesitated. Not long, but
I hesitated before I came running. Even though Tam got there in time, I still
broke my word in those seconds I waited.” He jerked his chin at the knife. “It’s
yours. Don’t bury it in my back, please.”
