CHAPTER 38

Witt

The plate in front of me is empty, my belly full. The glass I drink from is refilled the moment I empty it, and wine flows freely to all who sit around me at the table. The capture of the Indiri has raised the spirits of everyone who shares my evening meal, and their mood is high. Once the king of Stille knows she is ours, his army will come—and be crushed.

“What little training they have will do them no good,” Hadduk says, spearing a bite of fish on his plate. “They are poor soldiers to begin with, who will be drawn out from their own lands and tired from travel. We’ll make quick work of them.”

There’s a murmur of agreement among those gathered, the Pietran Elders and a small group of Feneen, one of whom has three eyes and avails himself of all of them while eating, two rolling in their sockets to take in whoever is speaking, and one with an eye on his food. I look away, remembering Pravin’s advice about taking a Feneen wife to secure our bond with the outcasts. My former Mason had argued for Nilana as a mate, saying that even if I chose not to bed her, I’d at least have a wife I could sit across from at table and still stomach a meal.

I can’t help but think that Pravin had a point, as my eyes drift to another Feneen, whose mouth is in his chest and not his face. The man eats cleanly, with no mess down his front. But seeing food and drink disappear into the tooth-lined hole makes the wine I drank shift uncomfortably, so my gaze wanders to a nicer sight.

Nilana laughs at something Hadduk whispers into her ear, tossing her head back so that the servant who feeds her has to sidestep out of the way. Not for the first time, I feel a twinge of regret that I did not take Nilana up on her straightforward offer to warm my bed. I reach for another drink, to wash away the weaknesses that make me an unfit Lithos.

“There is no doubt that our soldiers can best them, be they Pietra or Feneen,” an Elder says, raising a glass to the trio of Feneen who share the table. “But what of their queen? Shall we draw them from their beaches only to have her bring our own waters down upon our heads?”

The question prompts renewed muttering, side conversations born all around the table that create a hum in the air, one that doesn’t rest well on my ears. Pravin—or even Ank—would have stopped the talk with a strong word, but my tongue is heavy with wine and my Mason more interested in Nilana than the proceedings of the room.

The Keeper leans over my shoulder to refill my cup. It is full before I think to cover it with a hand to stop her.

“This queen,” a Feneen asks. “What do we know of her? Who is she that she can command water?”

A fresh wave of voices crests, and I close my eyes against the arguments that meet in midair: that she is a Seer of particular strength, a Feneen raised in the walls of Stille as a weapon, an unspotted Indiri.

“The Indiri have only earth magic. They hold no power over the sea,” says a loud voice that stops all others. I open my eyes to discover I am the one who spoke, and all have turned to me.

“Paid a visit to the dungeon, have you?” Hadduk asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way I do not like.

“No,” I say curtly. “I opened a history. You might try it sometime, as opposed to a woman’s thighs.”

Raucous laughter bursts out, Hadduk’s among them.

“Ah, but there’s much to be learned in both places,” the Mason rejoins, to renewed laughter.

“What has the Indiri said?” an Elder asks.

“Nothing in the common tongue,” I answer.

“If she is close to the king, surely she speaks it,” the Elder continues. “And knows much that could be of use to us.”

“Surely,” I agree. “Yet as she came to us nearly dead, I thought it wise to allow the girl time to heal. I cannot entice the Stillean king to march his army into a losing battle only to recover a corpse.”

“Truth,” agrees the three-eyed Feneen, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth.

“There are ways to make her talk and yet live,” another Elder says.

“Who do you think you speak to?” Hadduk’s voice rises along with his color, his temper closer to the surface the more wine he drinks. “The Lithos can make the girl not only talk but sing, and in tongues none of you have heard before, should he choose.”

“Bide, Mason,” I say calmly, and Hadduk glowers into his cup.

“I don’t doubt the Lithos can create songs of pain,” says the three-eyed Feneen. “But I have met the Indiri, and I do not think her voice will join his choir.”

Silence settles at this, and all look to me. Many thoughts are at odds in my head, wild horses that bump against one another to careen off cliffs.

“I could make the Indiri talk, should I choose,” I say carefully. “But there is little to be gained from that. What do we need to know of Stille? That they are poor soldiers, and we stronger? That dragging them from their city will be like pulling a lazy worm from a hole, to chop into bits at our leisure? We know this. I’ll take skin from her to send to Stille, and if she chooses to say a thing or two while my knife works, I’ll listen.”

“She won’t,” the Feneen says. “And I’d keep a steady hand on that knife.”

“The Lithos knows how to wield a blade, Feneen,” Hadduk growls, and Nilana catches my eye.

“Enough talk of the Indiri,” I say, taking another drink to settle my nerves. “Is this a gathering of Pietra, that one girl raises strife between us?”

“It is not only Pietra here,” an Elder says. “What world is this that a Feneen has set eyes upon a weapon my Lithos would wield, and yet I have not?”

Many cups rise at the comment, all of them held by Elder hands. Hadduk grips his fork so that his knuckles whiten, wine making anyone a target for his anger, be they Pietra or Feneen. I lift my palm for silence and tilt my head back toward the Keeper, the motion making it feel as if the horses in my head had all fallen into a tangle of legs and teeth.

“The girl could be brought up,” the Keeper says quietly into my ear. “The poison is mostly leeched from her, but her bones are not yet mended.”

“See to it,” I say to her, and she is gone in a rustle of skirts.

“The Indiri will come among you,” I tell the people gathered at my table, and I can’t help but notice that the three-eyed Feneen pulls his dagger from its sheath in preparation.