“Keir,” calls a voice, startling me out of my misery. “Is this the lovely young woman you were telling me about the other night?”
The Lord of Mistmark appears, crisp in a dark blue coat with gleaming gold epaulets on his shoulders. A red cloak falls from one shoulder, the golden chain crossing his chest. His ever-present gloves are in place.
I nearly choke on a scallop.
Curse Keir. The last thing I need right now is distraction, and yet, clearly, I lost track of the mark.
“Merisel, my love,” Keir says, leaning back in his chair, his expression as genuinely warm as I’ve ever seen it, “allow me to introduce my friend, Alaric of Mistmark.”
Mistmark drags out a chair opposite us, and it’s only then that I realize Falion is on his heels like a well-trained dog. Clad in a silvery-green tunic with patterns that shift in the light, he’s somehow ridiculously hard to notice. Catching my eye, he arches a well-chiseled brow as if to demand to know what I’m looking at.
I am sitting at a table with my sister’s maybe-true-love, maybe-merely-a-conquest.
And his assassin.
Who is an unknown entity, considering I’m fairly certain he can Sift.
Somehow I manage to spit the half-chewed scallop into my napkin before I gag on it again.
“And this is my friend, Falion,” Mistmark says, noticing the edged looks we’re both sharing.
Sweeping his cloak back, Falion kicks out a chair and slides into it with effortless grace. I blink the second the cloak retreats. There’s some sort of magic in the fabric, I think. One that makes it difficult to look at him when he’s wearing it.
“Well-met,” Keir says. “Merisel and I were just discussing the hunt this afternoon.”
We were?
I need to get my head in the game for wordplay, before I give the entire game away.
Mistmark grimaces. “I heard there’s a white hart. I wonder if Malechus has had the creature imported in from the northern fens just for the occasion.”
“It’s exorbitant,” Keir replies, “so presumably, the answer is yes.”
It’s an auspicious sighting for the wedding. The White Hart is a messenger from the goddess; often a good omen. If you capture it and steal a lock of hair from its hide, it may grant you the answer to a question.
But it’s said that if a hunter manages to bring it down and eats its heart, then he—or she—will be able to see directly through the goddess’s mists, which will grant them the ability to divine the future itself.
“I heard rumor the ladies are actually invited to ride today,” I murmur. “I wasn’t sure if he was going to set us free from our embroidery for the afternoon.”
Mistmark shoots me a conspiratorial smile. “Don’t take it personally. Malechus is a little old-fashioned. Maybe he’s worried you’ll beat him to the mark.”
Falion makes a snorting noise under his breath, though his attention is riveted upon the platter of sweetmeats, dried figs and cheeses in front of him.
Did he just… snort? As if he found the idea inconceivable?
My stare grows a little more piercing.
“Careful,” Mistmark says in a stage whisper. “I think you just roused the ire of Keir’s bride.”
“I have a name.” It’s not entirely Mistmark’s fault my voice comes out cutting, but it does draw the attention of all three of them. Lunging forward with my knife, I steal the fig Falion’s reaching for from the platter, and pop it in my mouth. “‘Bride’ is such an antiquated term I have to confess I’m starting to wonder if there’s any difference between the three of you and Malechus.”
Mistmark winces. “My apologies, my lady. That was ill-spoken of me. I meant no offense.”
Falion’s arched brow holds entire shades of condescension. Clearly, he doesn’t share his friend’s smooth tongue—or intentions.
I stare back. And chew a little obnoxiously.
Delicious fig.
Falion smirks, and then slowly reaches out and chooses another.
“Is this some kind of territorial marking of assassins?” Keir muses in my mind. “Are the two of you going to start throwing knives in a moment? Or urinating on the ground? I’m not sure how this works.”
“Knives could be arranged,” say my eyes as I glance sideways.
But he merely laughs under his breath.
Keir’s arm stretches along the back of my chair. “It seems your appearance is a fortuitous one, indeed. You’ve spared me my lady’s ire for a few minutes.”
“This mood looks good on you,” Mistmark admits, his eyes darting between us. “I did wonder what sort of woman would catch your eye.”
“Only a challenging one.”
“The best,” Mistmark demurs.
I wonder if he’s thinking of Soraya? There’s no hint of emotional disturbance on his face. Mistmark wields a smile like a mask, I think.
“Forgive me.” I pour myself another goblet of wine. “But how do the two of you know each other so well? I was under the impression Keir locked his court away from the world for several thousand years so he could twiddle his thumbs and write melancholy poetry. And yet, you seem to share a certain familial ease….”
They share a look.
“Keir is a collector of rare books,” Mistmark finally says. “And I am the custodian of the Library of Arrenhahl. He might have been in self-imposed exile, my lady, but that didn’t mean he didn’t simply come and go from the world as he pleased. He merely didn’t bother to announce his presence. Every now and then I turn around in my library, and there he is with his feet kicked up on the sofa, and a glass of my good brandy in his hand.”
“Bottle,” Keir corrects. “You have excellent taste in reading material and fine liquors.”
“Yes,” Mistmark says in some exasperation, “but most of my acquaintances ask first.”
He’d said he was friends with Mistmark—Alaric, he’d called him—but it’s the first time I think I’ve seen him treating another male as if they stood on even footing.
“It drives Falion mad,” Mistmark says to me. “My castle
