“Don’t scrunch up your eyebrows like that,” I scold, a little out of breath for no good reason. “You’ll give that pretty face wrinkles.”
He’s not pretty. He’s far too masculine for that, with his intense gray eyes and powerful body. A fresh scar cuts diagonally through his right eyebrow. Along with his wide mouth and hooked nose, it gives him a piratical look that does strange things to my insides.
When he swings his gaze back to me, I have no idea what to make of his expression. The auburn-haired man is turning red from trying to hold in a belly laugh, so I cringe again and cover my head with my hands.
“What are you doing?” The warlord sits again, resting his sword across his lap.
“The Gods might punish your gargantuan ego, O Scary One. I’m trying to avoid the lightning bolts.”
The ax-wielder guffaws and then takes a hasty step back.
“Is this how you treat all your customers?” the warlord asks.
My surprise must be obvious. “So far, no question has been asked, and no money has been exchanged. I wouldn’t call you a customer. You’re more of an eavesdropper and a bully.”
“Good Gods!” the ax-wielder booms. “She has bigger balls than I do.”
Humor flashes in the warlord’s silver-hued eyes. “Balls don’t necessarily come with brains.”
“Mine do.” If my smile were any more syrupy, my teeth would rot.
He arches a dark eyebrow, as if daring me to show him the goods. I’m not sure whether to laugh or run. In the face of indecision, I turn to the auburn-haired warrior. “Want your fortune read? Half price.”
“Sure.” He adjusts the ax on his shoulder, catching the torchlight and sending a sudden glare into my eyes.
I move to the side. Being blind is too much like being in the dark—never good.
“I have a question,” the warlord interrupts.
Curiosity sparks. “Finally.” I let out a beleaguered sigh and flop back into my chair. It’s probably safe to sit down again. While the warlord is far from harmless, I’m not getting the impression he’s out to harm me. “I was beginning to think we’d be here all night.”
He levels a flat stare at me that would wither a person who hadn’t been tortured, beaten within an inch of her life, and nearly murdered six times in her own bed before the age of fifteen.
“Around me, big mouths are attached to dead bodies,” he says.
I sigh, shaking my head. “What kind of person goes around threatening death?” And by that, I mean besides most of the people I grew up with.
He leans forward again, one eye closing in a quick and unexpected wink that takes the dangerous edge off his words. “The kind who can.”
Butterflies tickle my insides. “You either have an Olympian-sized sense of self-importance, or you’re overcompensating for a lack of confidence.”
The warlord’s gray eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips jump up for the briefest of smiles, taking his face from striking to far too appealing in less than a heartbeat.
“Peace?” he offers, his deep voice sincere.
I bite my lip, taming the reciprocal smile I can’t quite help, and pretend to think about it. “Fine. But don’t go releasing any white doves yet.”
He chuckles, the warm, appreciative sound sending a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with the southern climate. My words come out surprisingly husky when I ask for his question.
Sitting back, he indicates the four men around him. “Are my companions loyal to me?”
And just like that, I’m uncomfortable again. His question smacks of another life, one where people tortured me for truths.
“Soothsayers predict the future.” I force an even tone despite my suddenly thumping heart.
He rephrases the question, never taking his eyes off me. “Will my men remain loyal to me?”
I try not to squirm, not liking his revision much better.
The warlord frowns at my hesitation. “What’s more important than loyalty?” he asks.
There’s a hardness to his tone, and his question strikes a nerve. Have I been disloyal? Does running away make me a traitor, or smart?
Who cares? I’d rather be disloyal than dead.
My eyes dart to the men behind him. “All four?”
“All four.” He nods to his crew.
I swallow my misgivings. The warlord doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. “Four coppers then. One for each.”
He puts the coins on the table, and I pocket the money, turning to the ax-wielder first. “What’s more important? Your warlord’s life or your own?”
“My warlord’s.”
There’s no hesitation. No soul ripping.
“You have to choose between this savage”—I sink a lot of sneer into my voice just for the fun of it—“or your wife. Who do you choose?”
“I have no wife.”
“But if you did?”
“If I choose to marry, my wife and children will come first.”
No searing flames. No melting bones. No pelting truths to outweigh the lie.
I let my eyes glaze over and place my hands on my crystal ball, pretending to do soothsayer-like things for an appropriate amount of time. I should probably make up a chant, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Your man is loyal,” I finally announce. “But I don’t advise using his future family against him.”
“I’ll have a family?” The ax-wielder’s face splits into a wide grin.
Eh… “Yes. Lovely wife. Several strong children,” I lie. Or maybe I don’t. How in the Underworld should I know?
The warlord’s unwavering stare has me shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Step back, Flynn,” he commands. “Carver, you’re next.”
A dark-haired man approaches, moving forward with a confident stride. He’s about my age, lean and tall, and looks like he’d be mean in a fight. He’s the type of sinewy swordsman that can move like a shadow and strike before you blink. I know his kind. He’s the kind you want watching your back, not sneaking up on it. There’s a resemblance to the warlord in his facial features, black hair, and gray eyes, but the similarities end there. The warlord outweighs him by about sixty pounds and is probably ten years older.
The man—Carver—smiles at me. There’s a disarming, rather friendly gleam in his eyes, but I have no doubt his easy smile could turn sharp with menace.
“Is loyalty important to you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I point to the warlord. “Would you follow this man into a fight?”
Carver nods.
“Say it,” I prompt.
“I would. I have, and I would again.”
I glance at the warlord. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes feel like a Cyclops’s foot on my face. I ask for Carver’s hand, feeling awkward. Even if palm reading is a hoax, his rough skin still tells a story of battles and blood. “Would you die for this man and his cause?”
“Yes.” A simple, one-word, truthful answer.
I stare at Carver’s long, powerful, callused fingers. What is the warlord’s cause? From what I heard, the new royal family outlawed warring among the Sintan tribes. They’re all supposed to get along now that one of theirs has taken over.
I repress a smirk. Good luck with that.
“I would bleed for him. I would die for him.”
Carver’s truth is so strong that it carries a word—brother. Shocked, I drop his hand like a poisonous snake. I almost never hear an echo from truths.
The word still bouncing around inside me, I say, “Your brother is loyal, but I think you already knew that.”
“Hmm.”
I scowl at the warlord. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I never said he was my brother.”
Damn it! Who stole my fi
lters tonight? “You look the same.”
“Not that much.”
I wave my hands above my table. “Soothsayer, remember? I know stuff.”
He tilts his head, looking hard at my eyes. He keeps up his scrutiny until unease ripples through me, making me squirm.
The warlord breaks eye contact. “Basil,” he calls out flatly, motioning another man forward.
A blond man takes Carver’s place. He’s handsome without being remarkable, strong without being overwhelming. He blends in. I guess that’s what he’s good for. Warlord, Flynn, and the fifth man don’t blend. They’re too big, too powerful. They demand attention. Carver doesn’t blend, either. He’s lean and angular, with wily eyes. Basil is just…blah, as far as I can tell.
Basil moves to the right, away from the warlord and closer to the fifth warrior who has watchful blue eyes and a colossal mace that could probably crush three skulls at once. Basil’s movement is minute, and I only notice because I’ve trained myself to look for body language that will help me fool people into thinking I’m not a fraud.
Great. The warlord’s question suddenly makes sense. This is a party to out Basil. Too bad I’m invited.
“Basil, is it?” I ask even though I already know. I’m just stalling the inevitable.
The man nods.
I take a deep breath and lock my muscles, bracing for a false answer. “Where do your loyalties lie?”
Basil looks smug. Like most southerners, he has no idea of the power of magic and words. If he did, he’d be running away.
Fire explodes in me at his deceitful answer, agonizing. Bones fry. Organs roast. I try not to blanch as truths ignite along with his lie, scorching my insides like red-hot coals.
In a sudden burst of movement, the warlord disarms Basil and grabs him by the throat. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m loyal!” Basil squeaks, looking as stunned as I feel.
His lie blasts me again.
“I saw the look on her face.” The warlord squeezes Basil’s neck until the other man gasps for air. “You’re a liar.”
He saw my pain? I’m more worried about that than I am about anything else. I controlled my reaction. I always do. How does some Hoi Polloi warlord know what a little flinch means anyway?
Basil plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out a thin, glass vial filled with gray powder that glitters silvery in the torchlight and impresses the magic out of me. He draws back a gloved hand, ready to smash the poison into the warlord’s face.
I leap over the table, taking its black wool covering and my fake crystal ball with me, and latch on to Basil’s arm. It takes all my weight to keep his hand from moving.
“Back off,” I warn the warlord. “It’s Medusa’s Dust. It’ll turn you to stone.”
He uncurls his hand from around Basil’s neck and steps back, leaving me dangling like an idiot from the traitor’s wrist.
“How do you know that?” His question sharp, the warlord shifts his focus to me, and I think maybe I should have let him die.
“Poison expert.” Sort of. I blow a damp curl out of my eye. The only thing keeping Basil from shaking me off is Carver’s very long and very lethal sword at his back. We’re surrounded by big men with scary weapons, and no one’s doing anything. “Someone cut off his arm. Or kill him. If I let go, he’ll throw dust all over the place.”
Flynn hefts his ax. “That would be suicide.”
“Thank you, Flynn.” I roll my eyes in the auburn-haired man’s direction. “Do you really think he cares?”
Flynn shrugs. “He’s dead anyway.”
Exactly. So get on with it.
Before I can say as much, Basil twists his arm with me still holding on and somehow smashes the vial against my neck. My eyes shoot wide as Medusa’s Dust burrows deep into my skin, the powder as hungry as a swamp leech. The onslaught of magic shatters my equilibrium, and I stumble back against my table, gasping for air, giddy and slightly outside of myself.
His face turning terrible, the warlord roars and lunges for me.
“Don’t touch me!” I cry, evading. As soon as the magic works its way into my system, the poison will infect anyone who touches me. I don’t know how long that takes. It’s fast for a normal person. Longer for me.
My limbs get heavy quickly. More slowly, my skin hardens, turning gray. I’m not worried. Medusa’s Dust is magic-based. My body will chomp the poison like lamb steak for dinner. Force enough toxic berries down my throat or stick a few adders in my bed and I’ll die like anyone else, but magic won’t kill me.
The warlord watches my skin lose all color, his eyes somber, his jaw tight, and his hands clenched at his sides. Something in his gaze shocks me. I don’t ask why he cares, although I almost tell him that in a few minutes, I’ll be pink and soft and poison-free again, but that’s not something he needs to know.
I turn to Basil. He’s smirking, obviously glad he took that pesky soothsayer down with him.
“Thanks for the present.” I offer him a smile fit for the bloodthirsty maniac I was meant to be. “Here’s one for you.”
I grab his wrists with both hands, just above the gloves that protected him from the poison. Medusa’s Dust races up his arms. He hardens, freezing solid on a gasp, his mouth half-open and his eyes wide with terror.
I let go, disappointed. “That was fast.”
The warlord stares at me, his expression almost comically thunderstruck. “Why aren’t you dead?”
I throw him a saucy look. “You think I’m that easy to kill?”
Relief floods his face. He grins, and a tiny lightning bolt zings down my spine. “She’s the one,” he announces to his men. “I want her.”
Whoa. What?
Who? Me?
What for?
His warriors close in. I throw out my arms, creating a poisonous perimeter. “Back off or you’ll end up like Basil.”
“Is there a problem, Cat?” Aetos’s blue face towers above their heads. The warlord looks small in comparison, despite standing over six feet.
I shake my head. “Tell Selena we have a new gargoyle. She likes that kind of thing.” I slide a look toward Basil, trying to ignore his petrified expression and crooked teeth. His nostrils are flared, like he’s still trying to suck in air.
After sparing the human statue a quick glance, Aetos arches his eyebrows at me, picks it up, and then carries it away. Desma and he were right. I might accidentally kill someone tonight. Or not so accidentally.
Annoyance flits across the warlord’s face. “I’ve been trying to flush him out for days. Now I have no one to interrogate.”
“Some Tarvan woman wants your head in exchange for Basil’s brother’s life.” Shock vibrates through me. The words slipped out without my consent. I swear to the Gods I hadn’t even formed the thought before they were out there, hovering damningly between us. Who in the Underworld is in control of my mouth tonight, because it is not me!
The warlord’s lips part, not in surprise, but in some kind of satisfied expression I don’t understand and don’t like.
My gut clenching, I turn my hands palms up and shrug. “Soothsayer, remember?”
“You’re exactly what I think you are, aren’t you?”
The woman who divines the truth through falsehood? The most coveted diplomatic weapon in the realms? The Kingmaker?
I back my still-toxic self away, careful not to bump into anyone. I feel like the Gods are peeing on me from Mount Olympus. I was happy here. The circus was my family.
“There’s one of you every two hundred years.” The warlord stalks me through the crowd, his long strides devouring the space between us. “Kingdoms rise and fall for you. Because of you.”
His intense gray eyes are readable enough now. He’s thinking of ways to contain me, to catch and use me. He’ll expose me. He’ll put me in a cage and make
me sing like a siren.
Strike that. He’ll try to make me sing like a siren. “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”
His mouth flattens. “You could try.”
If it means getting away, I’ll expose another talent in front of all these people. It doesn’t come to that, thank the Gods. I slip backward through the performers’ gate, and Cerberus steps between us, blocking the warlord’s path and making him draw up short. The hound’s enormous fangs glint in the torchlight, drops of venomous saliva hissing when they hit the ground. Three low, ominous growls shiver through the dark passageway as I quickly exit the amphitheater. Hades has a thing for Selena, and his watchdog guards her circus instead of the gates to the Underworld. Cerberus will hold the warlord back. Too bad he’ll keep Jason and my berry ice away, too.
CHAPTER 3
I wish I didn’t have to move on. Thank you for taking me in. “Oikogeneia.”
I say the word for family out loud as I write it in the ancient language of the Gods, hoping someone in the circus can read it and knows the power and promise it holds. Aetos doesn’t have that kind of schooling. Desma and Selena might, and I trust them to use the magic only if they have to. Aetos would die for me. Desma would die for me. Vasili and Selena might, too, and probably a dozen others. If they call me, there isn’t a threat in the three realms that will keep me from coming back to them.
Before I came to the circus, there was only one person I wouldn’t have been willing to kill, if it came to that, or let die for me. Now there are more than I have fingers and toes, and it makes me weak.
Family.
It irks that a word so contaminated in my mind contains such power. I gave it power and gifted it to my friends. I would kill myself before letting it cross my lips for any of my remaining blood relations.
My few belongings are packed in the old brown satchel I stole off a sleeping merchant on the Fisan coastal road eight years ago. Some clothes and a pair of old boots, a cloak, three throwing daggers, a few hair ties, a comb, and my stage cosmetics—everything I possess. I strap the circus’s bedroll and blanket to the ties at the bottom of my bag. I don’t think Selena will mind. It’s hardly theft at this point.
A Promise of Fire Page 3
