by Gwynn White
Icy water seemed to flush through Lynx’s veins. “My watch? You destroyed it? It belonged to Heron. He gave it me to remember him.”
“How many times must I tell you, Princess? There is no room for other men in your life.” The she-witch scooped up Lynx’s pink slippers and thrust them into her hand. “We will arrive at Final Gate in half an hour. There, we will collect your father’s brother. Unlike the rest of you Norin, he seems to know how to behave. Don’t embarrass him with your wild behavior.” Mother Saskia picked up her skirt and sailed from the compartment.
Kestrel slumped onto her seat, fighting her bustle, which insisted on shooting up behind her. “Did you see what she did to my book?”
Lynx figured it was a rhetorical question, but she was still proud of her sister for trying to put one past the priestess. “Good for you.”
A strategy was needed for dealing with the she-witch, but first Lynx’s bustle had to go. She raised her dress high enough to expose the fastenings tying it to her corset. “Help me loosen this stupid thing, and then I’ll do yours. We can toss them out the window.”
Kestrel didn’t move as Lynx wriggled into position in front of her. “Do you think we should risk it?”
Lynx looked at Kestrel over her shoulder. “If you think I’m going to wear a bustle, then you’re as crazy as she is. Come, we don’t have much time before we pick up Uncle Bear.” She waggled her hips, making the bustle sway. “The last thing in the world I want is for him to see me dressed in this.”
“I don’t intend on getting fried.” Kestrel shoved Lynx away. “And I like my dress. Uncle Bear has lived in the palace for years. I bet he also dresses like they do.”
Lynx stumbled forward, gripping the wall for support. Kestrel’s uncharacteristic burst of bravery had fizzled out with her book. And of course she liked Chenayan clothing—it wasn’t Norin. That made discussing a strategy of rebellion with her moot.
“As Father’s emissary in Cian, Uncle Bear has to. That doesn’t mean he likes it.” Lynx fumbled with the ties, wishing she had her knife. It would have made short work of the lacings.
“Lynx, Wolf said I was to support you, so I’m telling you right now that this is a bad idea.”
“Submitting to their dress code is the first step in becoming like them. I am a Norin, and I’ll remain one until I die.”
“Then your life probably won’t be very long, given what that woman can do.”
“Oh, stop being so negative. She’s just the priestess. Lukan is the one whose opinion counts, and his mother was a Norin. He knows how we dress. This is a compromise he can make toward our marriage. It’s not as if he’s put himself out in any other way.”
Kestrel grabbed Lynx’s hands, pulling them away from her bustle. “Stop! I won’t let you put us both at risk like this. It’s stupid and reckless.”
Lynx’s instinctive reaction was to argue, but her father’s face, pleading for her to take care, flashed before her. It flushed her rebellion. She slumped down onto the bench. To hide her embarrassment, she poked her head out the window and looked up at the terrain ahead. “We’ve reached the land bridge.”
Kestrel shot to the window. But, Lynx noted with sadness, despite all that had happened, her sister’s eyes were not fixed on the south where Norin lay. It was to the Chenayan Heartland in the north that she looked with bright expectation.
Eager to escape from her, Lynx tugged open the door and stepped into the aisle. To her right, the passageway ended in a padlocked steel door. She turned left toward a door with an image of the Dragon etched into its glass panel. The hideous creature was clearly going to become a permanent fixture in her life.
Through the glass, she could see another car with an elegant sitting area. She took a couple of steps toward the door, but her unfamiliar dress knotted around her ankles. She grabbed an armful, pushed the door open, and stepped barefoot onto a highly polished hardwood floor.
Axel Avanov slouched in a plush armchair, one long, booted leg sprawled over the armrest. Although he had changed out of his torn, bloody trousers, she noted with some satisfaction that it was the leg she had sliced. She wondered if he would say anything about her attack. If he didn’t, she figured it would be better if she didn’t say anything, either.
A colonel—the one Kestrel had mentioned?—relaxed in a chair opposite him. They were playing dice. Three piles of mycek lay on the low table between them. From the size of the pile of notes in front of Axel Avanov, she guessed he was winning. He laughed at something the colonel said.
Across the expansive compartment, the she-witch’s white robes contrasted sharply against the opulent red, black, and gold furnishings. She knelt in apparent prayer at the foot of a black dragon effigy. The Dragon’s red eyes glared across the compartment, chilling the atmosphere, making Lynx feel as welcome as the she-witch’s shock treatment had.
She shivered and considered returning to Kestrel, but this sitting area was probably where she’d be spending most of her time until reaching Cian. She took a deep breath and straightened her back. No one would intimidate her.
Lynx dropped her dress so she could use her hands to defend herself, if necessary, and stepped purposefully into the room—only to trip over her skirt. She stumbled forward, bashing her knee on a table, rattling a candlestick.
“Winds!”
Every eye turned to her. Face as pink as her dress, Lynx found her balance and tried to glide gracefully to the closest chair. It happened to be at Avanov’s table. Her feet tangled again in the hated taffeta.
“Having some trouble, Princess?” Avanov asked.
Mother Saskia stood to face her. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t look amused—or sympathetic.
“No trouble at all, General.” She’d rot in hell before she’d call a Chenayan “my lord.” Quickly, she picked up the skirt, found a seam, and ripped it open to her thigh; Mother Saskia started to move, so she tugged the dress and petticoats to her side and tied them into a knot. “Now that I’ve solved the problem of the ridiculous clothing you all wear.”
Heart racing, feigning nonchalance, Lynx sauntered to Avanov’s table and dropped into a chair. As her bustle connected, the chair jerked out behind her, skittering across the wooden floor. She collapsed in a heap. Both Avanov and the colonel burst into laughter.
Avanov started to stand—to help her?—but she leaped up, grabbed the chair and pulled it back to the table before he was on his feet. He held the back of the confounded thing as she sat, this time with more care.
Humiliated beyond measure—a cushion on the floor would never have sabotaged her like that—she tried to draw attention from her flaming face by plunking her feet on the table. “So, General, are you going to invite me to play?”
He scorched her with his wicked smile. “If you’ve got the mycek, why not?”
Lynx resisted the urge to kick him. Norin was not overly supplied with paper money. They used ostrich feathers and hides to barter for what they needed, and he would know that. She tilted her chin up to reply just as Mother Saskia reached the table. Lynx braced herself for pain. She started to pull her skirt down when Axel surprised her by frowning at the priestess.
The priestess hesitated, her eyes locked on Lynx’s thighs. “But, my lord—”
“Go back to your prayers,” Axel commanded, waving dismissively at her. “Colonel Zarot and I happen to enjoy looking at the princess’s legs.”
Scowling, the she-witch retreated to her post at the Dragon’s feet.
He turned to the colonel. “Don’t we, Stefan?”
“It’s certainly not something we see every day.”
Lynx writhed as the colonel’s impassive face twitched with a grin. All she wanted was to slink away and never return, but she had as much right to be here as they had.
Flaunting her legs was a totally alien experience, but she couldn’t let these Chenayan scum know how much their mocking laughter rattled her. Now was not the time to be coy. She took a deep breath and stared at Avanov.
Dice was the only game of chance she had ever had any luck with, so as long as these weren’t loaded, she was confident she could win.
Avanov grunted. Or maybe it was a laugh. Then, his hand slipped into a pocket of his black breeches and pulled out a wad of notes. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he tossed a pair of thousand mycek bills onto the table.
Lynx tried, and failed, to stop her eyes from widening. That was more money than she would have seen in her whole life if she’d stayed in Norin.
The colonel must have agreed it was an outrageous amount because he was a tad slow in matching Axel’s bet.
Sudden, unexpected sympathy for the man flashed through Lynx. The Avanovs were the richest family in the empire, and two thousand mycek would probably be pocket change for the general. For the rest of the population—and, more specifically, the Norin tribe—it was life-changing money. Playing for that kind of cash called for some nervous hair twirling, but when her fingers reached for her favorite lock, she remembered the priestess had chopped it off.
Dice clenched at a fresh burst of anger, she called, “A six, a one, and a four.”
She didn’t get to roll the dice. The screeching of the train’s brakes told her they had reached the control point at Final Gate.
Avanov swept up his two notes, leaving the rest of the money on the table. “Sorry, Princess,” he said, “but duty calls.”
Both he and the colonel walked to a door at the opposite end of the compartment from where Lynx had entered.
Lynx’s face flamed; Avanov must have known they were seconds away from the checkpoint when he made his outrageous bid. Clearly, he had no intention of risking that much money for a view of her legs.
Why it mattered, she couldn’t say.
Chapter 10
Axel slouched in his chair in the salon and smiled at Bear, King Thorn’s brother and emissary in Cian. The man could not have looked less like his namesake if he tried. Tall, rangy, thin-lipped, and aquiline-faced, Bear would have been better named after some raptor. A bad-tempered one. But then, Axel figured, twenty years in Cian dealing with Mad Mott was enough to put anyone out of humor.
Still, the two princesses seemed pleased to see their uncle—Lynx particularly.
Wild Lynx sat on a small sofa next to Bear, her hand clasped in his. Kestrel perched on a second sofa next to Stefan. That completed their after-dinner drinks circle.
Given they were enemies joined by conquest and marriage, no one had much to offer in the way of conversation. Dinner had been stilted, too, with Bear the only one making any real effort. Now, even he seemed to have exhausted his supply of small talk.
The recent attack on the Norin camp probably wasn’t helping, either. But there was nothing Axel could do about that. If the Norin weren’t so bent on rebellion, it would not have been necessary.
So, Axel watched Lynx over the rim of his crystal goblet of chenna. Even though he preferred brunettes, he had to admit she was beautiful.
And bold. Very bold. As her antics with the machete attested.
He rubbed his bandaged thigh, marveling at how coolly she had jabbed him. It had caught him totally off guard. The women he knew didn’t carry weapons other than, perhaps, a small dagger tucked in a bodice or pocket, and they certainly didn’t attack members of the royal family.
It was refreshing.
Almost as enchanting as Lynx’s legs, in fact.
Sadly, the knot in her dress had come undone, and the hideous pink froth now hid her assets. Perhaps I should invite her for another round of dice. He smirked. He’d have given a lot—okay, two thousand mycek—to see her face if she’d won their little bet. No doubt she’d have found a way to brazen her way through that, too.
Her courage did more than just thrill him; he could use information like that. Perhaps Lynx was just the bargaining chip he needed in his upcoming negotiations with his father and his uncle about solving the war in Treven. The question was, would she be tough enough to endure the inevitable fallout if he played her?
He had seven days on a boring train to find out.
Bear placed his drink on the table. “Princess Lynx, I had a seamstress run up a few items for you. Some dresses to ease you into the new style before you reach the palace. Once there, I’m sure you will have a better idea of what to order from the royal seamstress.” Turning to Axel, he added, “Perhaps, my lord, you will arrange for one of your guardsmen to transfer the trunk to the princess’s compartment?”
Lynx jumped in before Axel could reply. “Clothes? For me? Where did you get that idea?”
“And where are mine?” Kestrel demanded.
Bear picked up a knife and sawed off a chunk of cheese on a board in front of him.
“Uncle Bear?” Lynx demanded.
Bear cleared his throat. “Er . . . your mother may have mentioned something in her last letter.” He gave Kestrel a thin smile. “She also said your wardrobe was complete.” When Kestrel scowled, he added, “And you do look quite lovely in that gown, my dear.”
Kestrel smoothed her skirt. “It is very fine silk, isn’t it? Are the dresses you’ve brought for Lynx as pretty?”
Axel rolled his eyes, then noticed Lynx’s hand dart to her hair, feeling for something. Probably her feathers and beads, cut off by that idiot Saskia.
For a raider, losing braids was probably the equivalent to ripping out his ruby. Painful in ways impossible to express. It intensified his dislike for the priestess. He glared over at her, kneeling below the Dragon.
Lynx’s fingers drumming her armrest called his attention back to her. Clearly, she liked the idea of her new Chenayan wardrobe as little as he did.
They would both have to put up with it.
Still, that didn’t mean Axel couldn’t have some fun with Lynx. It was payback for the wound that burned on his thigh. “Of course, Lord Emissary. Pity, though. The princess promised to stake her legs on a game of dice. That was after she impaled me with her machete.”
Axel suppressed a laugh as Bear’s thin lips almost disappeared into his mouth along with his cheese. The emissary coughed, looking aghast at Lynx. She ignored him, focusing her attention on Axel.
The intensity of her glare was almost enough to make him squirm. He straightened in his chair and accepted her unspoken challenge. For the first time in his life, he was the first to break eye contact.
Axel cracked a smile. “You win that round, Princess. But two against nil is a challenge I now cannot ignore.” He pulled the two thousand mycek out of his pocket and held them out to her.
Her face puckered at his offering, making it almost worth conceding defeat. Then a troubling thought struck—even if she was Lukan’s betrothed, displaying every emotion without censure was not a recipe for a long life in Cian. Like her defiant machete wielding, it would be sad to see her candor go, but go it must if she were to survive the Avanov palace. Maybe if she stopped glaring at him, he might take the trouble to clue her in.
He waggled the money at her. “Take it. We’re traveling on a military line, the most boring place to be if you aren’t heading off to conquer someone.”
Lynx’s eyes flashed. Coming so soon after the attack on the camp, Axel regretted his comment. Not that he would ever tell her that.
Her sister was not so reticent about accepting the cash. Kestrel smiled, holding out her hand. “I’ll have it, if she doesn’t want it.”
Axel threw a smile Kestrel’s way and then addressed Lynx. “Our only excitement will be dodging Mother Saskia and playing dice. The food’s not too bad, either,” he admitted as an afterthought. “As your uncle disapproves of using your legs as chips, you will need cash.”
Lynx’s face flushed. With a small swagger, she snatched the money and dropped it onto her lap. “I love a challenge. And don’t for a minute think I will let you
even that score, General.” A shimmer of a smile played on her perfect lips, pulling his eyes from her reddened cheeks. “So, anytime you’re ready.”
His stomach flipped unexpectedly. Startled, he brushed the sensation away by challenging, “A one, a six, and a four. That was your last call, if my memory serves.” He tossed three dice onto the table and followed up with a hundred mycek bill to start the bidding.
Lynx’s eyebrows shot up. “How typically Chenayan. You expect me to counter your measly hundred with one of my thousands?”
Axel ramped up his sardonic smile, ignoring her slight that Chenayans always took more than they gave. It was true, but he wasn’t getting into a political debate with a Norin. They were unwinnable. “It seems you have a problem, Princess. How’s that scoreboard looking now?”
“Unchanged, General.” Her voice was hard, leaving him in no doubt that Norin hatred of Chenayans ran deep in Lynx’s veins. “I don’t have problems. I have solutions.” She jerked her skirt to the side, bunching folds of hideous pink onto her lap. With a thunk, she hoicked a foot onto the table, exposing her thigh. “Care to raise me? Or would it be easier to get your priestess to ‘immobilize’ the problem? Fifteen guardsmen sent to my compartment while I’m sleeping might also work.”
Axel’s mouth dropped. She wasn’t exactly holding back, was she? He wondered if she was always this volatile. Something told him she was.
A glance at Bear. Even the emissary, trained to keep a straight face regardless of the circumstances, looked aggrieved at the mention of the Norin massacre. Axel sent up a silent curse at Mott for the ordering the attack just days before he had to spend a week on a train with three outraged Norin.
Still, it would not serve him to expose his niggling conscience that the attack had been wrong on so many levels. He tossed another hundred into the center.
Lynx responded by sliding her other foot onto the table. Her fair skin, golden in the lamplight, sent a shiver of desire shooting through him. For a moment, he toyed with raising the ante, but he didn’t trust Lynx.
