Tyreste Penhallow held his breath when the keeper of his heart stepped into his modest bedchamber for the first time.
Modest was the hopeful word his mind’s narration had chosen on their long, wordless walk from the safety of their forest escape beyond Parth. If modest was optimistic—and how could it not be, in a broom closet shared with two of his six siblings?—optimism was a trait she had imbued him with. The threads of enchantment Rhiainach Skylark had woven through his short life had formed many patterns.
All led him to this moment, with her.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Tyr.” Rhiain chided him with a soft cluck of her tongue that left him weak. She twisted her dark-red hair over her shoulders, letting it fall over the front of her sapphire gown, which cost more than his parents earned in a month. “You’re even more of an artist than you wanted me to know.”
He shrugged with one shoulder. Even that was a chore with the way his heart was betraying him, sending the full spectrum of his inconvenient emotions into his hot cheeks. “I thought you already knew.”
“I only know what you want me to know.” She closed the door, fingering the space above the knob and frowning at the absence of a lock. “How long have we known each other? How many times have I been in the tavern and you have only today invited me into your room?”
“It’s not much of a room. And I didn’t invite you.” He feared the sudden shift in himself, in her—in whatever existed between them—at having brought her here. At why she’d been so demanding about it when she’d never so much as mentioned it before. “You insisted. Remember?”
Rhiain’s attention traveled the story of their friendship, pausing on each drawing long enough to recall careful specifics of the memory that had inspired it. He assumed that was what she was doing. Her mind was often so sealed away from him, disguised with her playful selection of words, leaving him guessing at her true intentions.
He offered no more than a passing thought to his own contribution to the changes in her these past few years.
The past was the past.
“Those aren’t my best work,” Tyr lied, twisting in discomfort as the unexpected examination continued. The truths in these pictures would be invisible to a passing glance, but if she lingered long enough, would she see them?
He deserved the inevitable fallout that would drape his life.
“A man hangs his best work, not his worst,” Rhiain said with a half glance his way, which melted him into a puddle. “Why would you want me to think these aren’t wonderful? Because they are wonderful. They’re perfect. It hurts that you didn’t want me to see them. Is this not the story of us?”
Tyreste’s mouth betrayed him into silence.
She came to scenes more recent. He fought against stopping her, plying her with some distraction that might turn her keen eyes from witnessing how his artistic representation of her had evolved, along with his feelings.
How it had all started, and when.
Why.
“Can I?” Rhiain cast her cerulean eyes over her shoulder, one hand on a drawing.
Tyr nodded, his mouth tight.
Rhiain lifted it off the wall. The tender wood creaked when she dropped onto his thin cot. She didn’t scowl at how small and hard his meager bed was. Strangely, she’d always seemed as at home at the tavern as she did where her family lived, at the dazzling, dizzying Riverhelm Citadel. “This was just last week.”
“Yes.”
“And you...” Rhiain moved her fingers over the art, tracing the air above the paper. Tyr couldn’t see what she was touching, but it didn’t matter because all of it, every splash of color or curve of his charcoal, was evidence of his love for her.
And more.
Was she seeing the careful detail he’d taken in the flecks of gold that hit her eyes as the sun was setting? The snarls of her otherwise perfect hair, held together in perfect plaits? Worse would be if she was examining the way he’d drawn himself, for anyone with eyes could see how the Tyr of this drawing wore his heart upon every inch of him, flesh and fabric alike.
Rhiain held the drawing out to the side but kept her back toward him.
“What is it?” Tyr’s heart arrested. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you remember what I told you, right after the moment in this picture?”
Tyr didn’t answer, though of course he remembered. It was all he’d thought about every day since. One more reminder that no matter what he’d done to keep her in his life, he was powerless in her world and, in many ways, so was she.
Rhiain set the drawing on the log Tyr used for a bed table, next to where she’d laid the gold clasp from her cloak. She turned on the cot, enough for him to behold the dewy glint of one of her eyes. “My father has gone to Rushwood to draw up the agreement.”
Tyr backed into the wall with a crash. He bartered for air, but there was none to be found in the suffocating closet room. “So soon?”
“He says it will take months to come to an accord, and then there’s the planning and—”
“You’re too young!” Heat coursed from his hands to his shoulders, flushing his neck.
“I won’t be, by the time I actually wed him—whoever he is. No one even bothered to tell me which Sylvaine brother I’ll be marrying. And I’m exactly the age my mother was when she married my father, Tyr. It’s different for girls.”
“Does that make it right?” The squeak in his words made him feel small, smaller than he ever had before. We were supposed to have more time, more time, more time.
“Nothing makes this right.” She lifted her legs onto the cot and fell back onto his straw pillow. “He said he wouldn’t sell me away until I was nineteen. I don’t know why I expect a man like my father to deliver on a promise when there’s greater gain for him not to.” Derision edged her words, pinning them to his chest.
“There has to be a way—” Tyr suffocated on his defenselessness.
“What am I going to do for Jesstin if this goes through?” Rhiain’s eyes glittered with unspilled tears. “Father is so cold to him, Tyr. It’s only gotten worse. He’s always blamed Jess for my mother’s death, but Emrys and I protected him. We were there to shield him from the worst. But now Emrys has left to start his own family, and I’ll be...”
Tyr’s mouth flapped, utterly useless.
After everything he had done to keep her in the safe and careful box he’d crafted especially for her, it had come down to this?
“He’ll never let me take him with me,” she whispered through choked, stuttered inhalations, laced with splinters of sobs. “I can’t leave him, Tyr. I can’t do it.”
“You...” Tyr groaned in place of words. In place of power.
“Come here.”
“There’s not room for both of us.” But how he wished there was. How he’d dreamed there was.
“There is if you crawl into my arms.”
Tyr’s objections to such a loaded invitation were no competition for how badly he wanted—now, then, always—to be close to her. Close enough for the privilege of hearing her heart beat, to inhale the delicate, flowery scent he’d come to know her by—a hard contrast to the damp, earthy aroma of his small life in Parth.
Close enough to earn the borrowed flutter in his heart that belonged only to her, no matter how unrequited.
You’re like a brother to me, Tyr. More. More than that. You’re something without words.
Tyr checked the door and carefully climbed onto the cot with the person he loved best in the world.
“I don’t understand what love is, what it should look like, but I know I love you, as much or more than my own kin. For all we’ve been through, the trust we’ve reflected onto each other… I’ve told you things I’ve told no one else. Confided things I should never confide in another. I trust you more than anyone. You do know that?”
Tyr said nothing. Unaddressed guilt replaced his response.
“If I’ve never said these exact words, it’s because... It’s because words are rather meaningless, are they not? In most cases, that is, except, perhaps the one we find ourselves in now.”
Tyr pressed his forehead to the side of her neck, trying yet failing to control the erratic breaths tearing through him, destroying everything he’d worked for, crafted, over the past three years. “Why are we here, Rhiain?”
She buried her lips in his hair, inhaling. He braced for her disgust, but it didn’t come. It never came. The same things he loved in her, she loved in him. What a gift it would be to see himself through her eyes. It was almost enough to feel it.
“There is one way, Tyr. One way we could stop it.”
Tyr’s heart palpitated so hard it left him dizzy. Was it the change in her voice… lower, huskier? Or one of her hands, which fell atop his trousers and lingered at his hip, awaiting permission to climb? “Stop your betrothal?”
Rhiain’s mouth parted when her lips brushed against his scalp. “I won’t have a choice once the deal is made, once my entire life is signed away to a Sylvaine of Rushwood, to a boy whose name I’ve never been told and whose face I’ll see for the first time on our wedding day.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” His fingers drew a line up her arm and paused on her shoulder. “I don’t know why we are. Why you want to. Even after all these years, I can almost never read you.”
Rhiainach adjusted so she was looking down at him. “Do you not desire me, Tyr?”
Tyr stiffened. There was only one answer to this if he was honest with her, but what answer did she want?
He decided to be honest with himself.
Tyr’s words at first caught in his throat. “If desire were a currency, I’d have more than enough gold to make you my wife.”
Rhiainach crushed him in her arms. She flipped them over so she was on top, her hair falling down and all around him. “What if I told you...” She kissed his chin. “You didn’t need gold?”
“Stop playing with me. You know how I feel. I don’t have to say it. You know—”
Rhiainach locked her mouth atop his. Tongue slid against tongue, and he forgot everything else he’d planned to say.
She broke away, exhaling. “I can’t leave my little brother with that man, Tyr. And I can’t leave you. But if I’ve been free with my associations, my father cannot marry me off. The Sylvaines wouldn’t want me for their son if I didn’t come to him a maiden.”
“You’re not... You’re not suggesting...” Tyr’s head fell back with a groan when she cupped her hand between his legs. “Rhiain, I have never wanted anything... It’s been all I’ve wanted for so...” His hands palmed her ass, rolling over the soft hills he’d only traveled in his dreams. “They’ll kill me if they find out. You know they will.”
“Not if we leave.” She ground herself against him.
“Leave?”
“Do you love me?” Rhiain shook her head to clear the question. “Do you trust me?”
Tyr ran his hands up her back until they were tangled in her hair. “You know this answer already.”
“For more years than I remember, I’ve known you. I’ve trusted you. I’ve loved you.” Rhiain peeled back to look at him through glossy eyes. “As much as I love my little brother. And if it means spending the rest of our days angling for space on your little cot in your warm tavern that feels more like home to me than my own, then I will accept it all, with gladness in my heart.”
“Rhiain...” he whispered. “It would never be like that for us.” The ache in his chest, as the terrible words spilled forth—as he lay in the truth of them—almost stopped his heart. Why could they not go back to simpler times? Before she’d come of age and her future had been decided? When he could simply keep her for himself without the fear of losing her altogether?
When the need to define their love was irrelevant—and there were no suitors lining up for the privilege of marrying Rhiainach Skylark.
Why couldn’t moments like the one she was inviting live in his imagination, untainted by reality?
Her warm breath burned his ear. “They’d never know it was you who put an end to my marriageability.”
“How could they not know? Everyone saw you come in here. You’re telling me you didn’t feel those eyes following us back here? Didn’t notice every last patron cease their conversation to make sense of the steward’s daughter going into a closed room with a tavern boy? Or are you just so used to the attention you don’t even notice anymore?”
“Then we run away! We grab Jesstin, and we go. I have gold... enough that we could find a place for the three of us, something simple. We wouldn’t need much, would we?”
Tyr’s voice cracked. His heart broke. “I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t, Rhiain. I love you, but it would never be the way you think it would. Your father would chase you and Jesstin to every edge and corner of the kingdom, and...” Tyr inhaled his pain to mine the rest of his words. To shove truth and lie alike down into the chasm where his regrets lived. I’m a coward. A damnable coward, refusing the only thing I’ve ever wanted. “Can we not... Can’t we just go back to how it was, before today? For what little time we have left to us?”
A powerful, chaotic shift took abrupt hold of Rhiain. She coiled back in a snap, then eased her feet off the cot with decisive precision. She directed her attention to searching for her cloak the moment she had solid footing.
“Please don’t be angry.”
“Angry?” Rhiain cried silently, her face turned away. She regarded his art once more, sounding a soft moan of anguish, and secured her cloak. As if an afterthought, she stole the drawing off the log and thrust it under the thick fabric and reached for the door. “You’re only being realistic is all. Jesstin is my concern, and I’ll find another way to make this right. Forgive me, Tyr. It’s my nerves speaking for me today. I know better.”
She ripped the door open and fled before he could make it to his feet.
Rhiain released the gold clasp at her neck and let her cloak catch the wind of her pace. It landed in a heap on the stones of the citadel behind her, but she didn’t stop running.
“Mistress! Are you quite all right?” a woman yelled, a servant whose name Rhiain knew but couldn’t remember in her anguish. Probably wondering why Mistress Rhiain was discarding her clothing in the middle of the central hall. Were they not used to her dark moods by now? No doubt they whispered among themselves about the spoiled, vexing, only daughter of the steward, so why feign concern they didn’t feel?
Rhiain rounded one corner and then another. There were plenty of others around, as always, roving the halls in work and conversation and even laughter, but the only sounds ringing in her ears were the slam of her boots and the heavy pant of her labored breathing, which she’d earned on her flushed ride back to Riverhelm Citadel.
Fool! You are such a fool!
When she reached the corridor housing the Skylark apartments, Rhiain pressed herself to the wall, squeezing her eyes shut to expel the embarrassing tears she wanted nothing to do with. She wanted them even less than the pity she’d received from Tyr.
You pour your dreams into your pictures, but you lack the spine to see them to reality. That’s what she should have said. What she wished she’d said. She was offering Tyr Penhallow everything he’d ever wanted but had been too afraid to ask for, and all he had to do was accept.
Rhiain imagined his reaction to that with hollow glee as she wiped snot and tears on her satin sleeve.
She was still thinking when first one and then two more servants passed by her with hasty curtsies. One carried the discarded cloak. Another pulled a wagon of warm water for her bath. The third had a carefully curated board of cheese and fruit, all her favorites. She watched them with a dazed look as they streamed into her apartments to set everything up.
Rhiain coiled her neck back and tossed her hair behind her. She rolled her shoulders, wiped her tears, and followed the melee of staff waiting to serve her.
Tyr rushed in and out of the back room of the Tavern at the Middle of the World with his sister Pernilla and his brother Evert, carrying the last of the evening’s mugs and bowls for washing after supper rush. His mother didn’t need to point the others, Rikard and Agnes, toward their tasks, as one dutifully swept and the other stacked chairs on tables Adeline had just wiped down with her rag.
Tyr’s father poured a round of ales. It wasn’t what they served the patrons at the tavern; it was the runoff, the sludge that dwelled at the bottom of the casks. It could not be sold, but the Penhallows were used to it. They didn’t wince when the dense grain and yeast washed down their crumbling breads and dried meats. If Tyr drank it with a tuber stew, the flavor blended in so closely as to be unrecognizable. He preferred water, but the freshwater stream was several miles away, and their cistern wagon had two broken axles. Another year like this one though, and they might have the gold to fix it.
“Tyreste!”
Tyr nearly dropped the mountain of bowls at the sound of his name. He pressed his back to the door, the stack teetering, and set them near the rest of the dishes—to an offended you could at least stack them right from Pernilla—and slipped back out and behind the bar.
“Father?” Tyr panted. He passed his hand along his sweaty brow.
“Come with me outside a moment.” Olov Penhallow thumbed the three pitchers and set them upon the family table, then unlatched the door and gestured for his son to go first.
Tyr grabbed a scarf on his way out. It wasn’t his. Few things were. They all shared what they could.
He shivered in the cool evening air. Parth was empty at this hour. No paths connected the town to the rest of the kingdom. Only those who needed the reprieve of the isolated tavern came their way, weaving through forest trails.
Traders, trappers, mercenaries. The Penhallows saw all kinds in the Tavern at the Middle of the World, which was one of few businesses still operating in Parth, and certainly the most patronized. They rarely saw the same patrons more than once in the same month, and it was still busier than the taverns in the cities.
Olov puffed at his pipe, letting white rings billow into the clear night. He wore even less protection than Tyr but seemed unbothered by the cold or the erratic winds passing through, rolling off the Seven Sisters of the West.
“What’s going on?” Tyr asked, with a longing glance toward the warm light inside the tavern.
“Still your legs, boy. The stew still needs to be rewarmed.” Olov reclined against a splintered fence post. He’d been talking about tearing the whole thing down and using the scraps for firewood. They had no use for it anymore, with the cows and goats gone and no money for more. Tyr suspected his father hesitated on the destructive task because he dreamed of better days ahead.
Tyr waited in growing impatience for his father to speak. He shifted from one leg to the other, blowing warm air into his gathered fists.
“I saw the Skylark girl go into your room today.” Olov took another puff, aiming the resulting wispy plume upward. “The whole of Parth did, for that matter. Might as well be all the kingdom, as our patrons come from every corner.”
“Parth is a relic. Any who saw have passed through and don’t care about the Skylarks. They don’t concern themselves with the troubles of highborns.”
“You question my concern?”
Tyr lowered his eyes. “No, sir.”
“Then I expect an answer.”
Tyr ignored the laughter and friendly shouting from inside as his mother and siblings finalized supper preparations. Agnes said the other day that there was fresh boar coming, but she had to have been lying. They hadn’t eaten fresh meat in over a year, when they’d slaughtered the last cow, and what a letdown that had been, for she’d been a dairy beast, thin to the bone. But even his sister’s hopeful words were enough to make his belly curl and his mouth water.
“She insisted,” Tyr said, bracing for his father’s inevitable reaction.
“The Skylark girl? Insisted on you taking her back into your closet and... what, Tyr? What could you possibly do there, other than bring shame to us, and to her?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tyr muttered. He kicked at the edge of a stack of milk crates. “Nothing happened.”
“Doesn’t matter? If even one of those tongues wag—”
“She’s marrying soon, Father. She won’t be back. That’s what she wanted to tell me.”
Olov inhaled through his nose. As he exhaled, he was noticeably calmer. “Ah, well that was inevitable, son. Only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
“I wish I’d never met her.” He didn’t mean it. Every breath of his belonged to her.
Olov chuckled and drew more smoke from his pipe. “All men experience one great heartbreak of their lives, Tyreste. Yours is now behind you.”
“Should that make me feel better?”
“Perhaps not.” Olov cast his eyes toward the dark, abandoned main road of Parth. “But where a Skylark will marry for advantage, you’ll marry for love. You’ll choose your wife. There is freedom in this, Tyr. From freedom, you can know happiness.”
I chose mine years ago. But she was never mine to choose. “Rhiain doesn’t want to marry. She doesn’t want to be forced into a union with a man she doesn’t even know. She’s miserable about leaving Jesstin.” And me, he almost added. His choice not to was less that he didn’t believe it and more that he didn’t deserve it.
“Yet she will.” Olov set his pipe atop the fence. “You won’t have to see it, anyway. She’ll be sent away to her husband’s keep and won’t be joining her father on his rent and tax collections anymore. That’s some consolation, eh?”
Tyr bit down on his tongue. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Olov nodded. “Not why I brought you out here, anyway. There’s been word, from Oldcastle.”
“Oldcastle?”
“Your attentions are always so scattered, boy. Is it the drawings?”
“What?”
“The scholarship!” Olov exclaimed. He shook his head. “You’ve been accepted into the universities. You’ll leave at the turn of springtide.”
Tyr stumbled into the crate pile. He did remember now, his father and mother conspiring to have the highborns pay for his education. He was too smart to languish in Parth, they’d said, never understanding that he’d never wanted to be smart. He wanted to stay, with them, helping in the tavern when needed and drawing in his room when he wasn’t.
He scrunched his face in disgust. “I don’t want it. We don’t take handouts. We’re Penhallows.”
“You’re right, son. We work hard. We earn what we have.”
“Exactly! So why—”
“And you have earned this. Our reputation with the highborns of Valleybrooke, Streamstowne, and Riverchapel has earned us more than coin and prestige.”
“Prestige.” Tyr snorted. “What prestige? They still wipe the shit from their boots on our floors and laugh behind our backs.”
“That mouth will be your curse.”
“Tell me where I’m wrong, Father.”
“You will go,” Olov asserted. “And one day, you’ll understand why you went.”
“It was Steward Skylark, wasn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“Who offered the scholarship? You mentioned Valleybrooke and Streamstowne too, but it was Riverchapel, wasn’t it? He wants me far from his daughter.”
“And why would he want that when you’ve only been childhood mates? If he knew what happened today, he’d have you sent to the Wastelands for a lifetime of labor, not to the university, to make something of yourself.”
“Nothing happened today!”
“Olov! Tyr! You coming?” Tyr’s mother called from beyond the door.
“On our way,” Olov answered. To Tyr, he said, “You started this day a boy, and you’ll end it a man. So don’t tell me nothing happened. Isn’t sex that changes us, Tyr. It’s the realizations we make along the way that tell us who we are. Today, you learned you can’t have what you want, but if you swallow your pride? What you need awaits you.” He grabbed his pipe and nodded at the door. “Now, go on. Tonight’s the last night we eat dried meat for a while.”
Tyr’s eyes widened. “Agnes wasn’t lying about the boar?”
“No,” Olov said with a faraway grin. “Nor will it be the last time we sup on fresh meat, son. The Guardians have recognized our sacrifices, and the tide of good fortune is turning in our favor. It’s time we learn to embrace it.”
Rhiain trained her eyes on the obscene spread covering the dining table. There were at least a half dozen different meat dishes, and every vegetable that grew in the Easterlands appeared to be represented. Enough food for a fete, when they were only serving three.
The milling actions of staff and family—delivering food, settling into chairs, sliding their cups to be filled—happened without more than her passing notice. The sounds of conversations exchanged were all around her, but the specifics evaded her. They could be talking about war or weather. Nothing was enough to snap her back to the moment.
I can’t.
Two words. They were all it had taken to shatter her last hope. What did he mean, I can’t? Can’t love her? Can’t find the courage, the mettle, the testicles to rise for her and join her? If she could give up all of this, why could he not give up a closet bedroom in a ramshackle tavern that was one dreadful storm away from permanent defeat?
“Princess?”
Rhiain registered her father’s rough timbre, the soft up-tilt at the end reserved for her.
How dare he use it now, freshly returned from the trip that had ruined everything?
“Darling?”
“Mistress, you should answer when Steward Skylark is speaking to you,” said a bold servant.
Rhiain rolled her head back to let the young woman know this was between her and her father, but her father made a quieting gesture with his hands and directed an apologetic head shake at the servant.
Now he was apologizing for her? What did she have to be sorry for? For not falling in line so neatly and easily as he wanted? For trying to keep her little brother safe from his cool neglect?
“I’m aware,” Rhiain answered, looking straight at her father.
Mathias Skylark, still dressed in his dark-blue traveling wear, looked stricken. “You’re in such a mood, darling. Were you given spoiled berries again?”
“Spoiled berries?” Rhiain gaped at him. But something inside her shifted at the lock of their eyes. As furious as she was, she still loved him so, and she feared leading him toward any cause to question it. “No, Father. I was not served spoiled berries.”
“After the sound thrashing the gardeners received for that, I should hope not.” Mathias Skylark leaned back as two young men crammed his plate full of food. They piled on item after item, turning his meal into a gluttonous indulgence enough for five men. “Are you going to tell me, or will this be a game we play tonight? I’ve had a long journey, and I’m tired, princess.”
Rhiain crossed her arms. “You tell me. How was your trip with the Sylvaines?”
Mathias brightened as he sipped his wine. “Ahh! Quite well. I had to throw in another year on your dowry, but it will be the eldest son, Damian, and not his brother, as we’d been concerned about.”
“That you’ve been concerned about.”
“I should think we both were, princess, as you’re the one who almost had to show your face in Rushwood as the wife of a second son and not a steward.”
“The end result is the same, is it not? I’ll still be expected to open my legs just as often.”
Jesstin made an amused gagging sound from her left.
Mathias curled his upper lip at the corner. “We’ve talked about your way with words. You still have work to do before you’ll make a proper wife. I shouldn’t have indulged you as I have, but you’re old enough now to make better decisions.”
Rhiain stabbed at the peas and carrots on her plate. She caught the edge of a carrot and sent it sailing over her father’s head and into the wall behind him. His incredulous gaze followed the carnage as the vegetable slid to the stone floor of the Steward’s Hall.
He raised a brow. “What is it, princess? Are you really so determined to make me guess?”
“She enjoys being difficult.” Jesstin tossed a quick, devious grin at Rhiain. “You could tell her the sky is blue, and she’d roll her eyes if she was in the mood for a good pout.”
“That is one of her skills.” Mathias tried to smile at his daughter. “Of which you have many, princess. But if you do not marry, you’ll soon add assassin in training to the list, and I don’t think any of us want that future for you.”
“I want to be an assassin,” Jesstin muttered.
“Not working for Father, you don’t,” Rhiain answered, but her eyes never left their father.
“Highborns are meant for bigger things. Better things,” Mathias said. To Rhiain, he added, “I do love you in blue, darling. It brings out your eyes and gives your cheeks the perfect flush. Damian will rightly go mad for it.”
Rhiain swelled with the compliment, fighting with herself for caving easily to something obviously meant to subdue her. “Thank you. I wore it for you.”
“A blessed man I am, that you are my daughter,” Mathias said, lowering his eyes to meet hers. “You will make a beautiful bride, Rhiain. Damian Sylvaine will be the luckiest man in the Easterlands. In the whole kingdom.”
Rhiain shoved her plate away to draw attention from the tears stinging her eyes. Mathias Skylark had a saying about tears, that they were reserved exclusively for the misfortunates not born as Skylarks. “I’m feeling unwell, that’s all. Can I be excused?”
Mathias’s forehead knitted in worry. “Not feeling well? It’s not the flux, is it?”
“Guardians, Father.” She recoiled at his casual mention.
“You haven’t been sleeping full nights for a while.”
“How would you know that?” Before he could answer, she bristled in defense. “I’m too old for bedchamber attendants, and now you have them spying on me?”
“There is no in between a maid and a woman. You’ll make your own choices when you are the Stewardess Sylvaine. I daresay when you have a daughter of your own, you’ll be just as protective.” His gaze fell on her hands. She slid them away, but not fast enough. “There’s dirt under your nails. Have you been playing in the forest again? With the Penhallow boy?” His eyes narrowed. “When you were supposed to be collecting rent?”
Rhiain was spared from answering when two of her father’s guard, wearing the Skylark royal blue and silver, rushed in without awaiting permission. One of them leaned in to whisper in his ear. Mathias’s weary look at their familiarness was swiftly replaced by wide-eyed rage.
He turned it on Rhiain.
“Rhiainach Adynara Skylark.” His voice thundered, and his fists came down on either side of his plate. Both Rhiain and Jesstin pushed back from the table at the terrifying sight of their father’s wild burst of sudden, violent emotion. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
“What isn’t true?” Rhiain cowered, drawing herself farther from the table, from him. She put distance between herself and Jesstin as well, the closest she could come to protecting him from whatever hurricane was headed her way. Mathias hadn’t hit her in years, but she recognized his look and knew better than to wait for his hands to rise, because it would already be too late.
“Father, please don’t!” Jesstin screamed, searching for his own safety.
Rhiain scooted her chair farther back and scrambled to her feet as her father’s shadow loomed over her. His curved jawline, only moments ago drawn into a soft smile, was now as sharp as a dagger’s edge. His deep-blue eyes—the same ones she saw in her own reflection—glowed in fury.
“Tell me. It. Isn’t. True.”
Rhiain couldn’t pretend anymore. There could be only one thing terrible enough to stoke such wrath in him. Tyr had been right to worry. Someone had talked, and that someone had told someone else, and now her father knew she’d gone into Tyr’s bedroom with him, alone. Guardians only knew what the story had grown into by the time it had reached him.
“Nothing happened,” she insisted.
Jesstin bowed his head. It was the wrong answer. Anything but a well-crafted lie was the wrong answer when Mathias Skylark was taken by his rage.
“Nothing happened?” His voice dropped into a more placid tone. “You just decided to go into his room, with him, close the door, and what, Rhiain? Talk?”
“Yes, talk!”
Mathias rolled his head with laughter. “You beautiful fool. You stupid, insipid, ignorant girl.”
“Father, I swear to you, nothing happened. I went to tell him about... about the Sylvaine boy, and he wanted to show me his drawings—”
“His drawings.”
“He’s a good artist, Father,” Jesstin whispered, but Mathias either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
“It’s true,” she pleaded. “I went to... to say goodbye, and we did, and that was that. I wasn’t in there more than ten minutes, if that.”
“Ten minutes is more than enough.” Mathias started closing in. His heavy steps sent shivers into her heart. “Ten minutes is the difference between people coming to me and people paying no mind. Ten minutes is the difference between you leaving at springtide to marry Damian Sylvaine and word getting back to his father that you’ve been compromised.”
“But I haven’t!”
“No one will believe it.”
Rhiain spread her arms against the wall behind her, trying to reach her father’s heart with her eyes. “Don’t you believe me?”
Mathias rolled his jaw. “Doesn’t matter. No one else will. No one else will—” He noted the guards still there, awaiting address, and he buried his fist into his palm, grinding. “You’ve really done it this time, girl.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“When are you going to get it through your pretty little skull that reality is what others say it is? It’s what they think, and when enough of them think it, it replaces the truth.”
“That’s unfair.” Rhiain shook her head. The same tears she’d struggled to keep from him swam unabated in her eyes, blinding her. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You will pay for that nothing, just the same.” Mathias’s neck flexed. He closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose. “Take her to her room.”
“What? Why? Father—”
“Drag her by her hair if you have to, just get her out of my sight!”
“You’ll have to take me too!” Jesstin wailed, and Rhiain launched forward to shield him when one of the guards snagged her braids and tugged, sending her feet flying.
“Jess, go,” she snarled through her tears, more afraid for him than for herself. She turned her agony back on her father to distract him. “You know me. You know I didn’t do what they’re saying!”
“I said get her out of my sight.” Mathias turned away, hand to his mouth. “I have to figure out some way to salvage this.”
Rhiainach screamed, thrashing against the guards dragging her away.
Download The Altruist and the Assassin and discover the terrible consequences of Rhiain’s fateful decision to visit Tyr in his room that day.