Welcomed by the clan of Meurasi.
I knew I should be afraid. The welcome was also going to spark wrath, and further inflaming the Council’s hatred toward me was one thing I couldn’t afford.
But I had been welcomed. And I felt it. I couldn’t turn my back on that either. I felt it with every stitch and scrap of leather that covered me. A strange wholeness. Little Yvet said Effiera had liked my name. Was it possible that outside of the Sanctum walls, there were Vendans who had heard the name Jezelia before, not just in passing but in a forgotten song handed down among families?
I wondered if Calantha was overstating the ire of the Council for her own purposes. I had seen her last night, just as focused on Rafe as the Komizar had been, but surely for very different reasons.
“Go on.” Calantha poked at my back, pushing me forward.
I walked into Sanctum Hall. It was noisy and crowded, and I thought I might slip through unnoticed, but then a governor saw me and stopped, choking on his ale, spray flying from his mouth. A chievdar cursed under his breath.
My arrival ran through the hall like a loose squealing pig. A ragged path opened up as others caught sight of me. Then, when a group of soldiers stepped aside, Kaden and Rafe saw me. They were at the other end of the hall, seated at the table, but slowly stood as I approached. They both appeared to be confused and cautious, as if something wild had been unleashed in front of them. Rafe couldn’t know what this scrap of dress meant, and I wondered why he was looking at me that way too.
I kept moving forward, the soft leather snug against my skin. There were whispers about the kavah on my shoulder, and a few vulgar sounds of approval. I wasn’t the filthy royal beast they had seen last night. Now I was something recognizable, someone who looked almost like one of them. I was a piece of their own history that reached back to the oldest clan of Venda.
“Jabavé!” Malich and two other Rahtan stepped into my path. “What does the Morrighese bitch wear?” Their knives were curiously drawn as if they intended to cut the dress from me. Or simply cut me.
I steeled my gaze. “Aren’t you brave?” I said. “You must approach me with a drawn knife now?” I let my eyes slowly graze Malich’s striped face, the trails of my nails still visible across it. “But I suppose your fear is understandable. Considering.”
He stepped toward me, but Kaden was suddenly there, pushing him aside. “She wears what the Komizar ordered her to wear—suitable clothes. You question his orders?”
Malich’s knife was tight in his hands, his knuckles white. Orders or no orders, revenge was taut in his eyes. As long as his face was marked by my hand, it would be. The two other Rahtan beside him exchanged a glance with Kaden and sheathed their weapons. Malich reluctantly did too, and Kaden pulled me away toward the table.
“You’ll never learn, will you?” he whispered between gritted teeth.
“I hope not,” I answered.
“What do you think you’re wearing?”
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
“It’s not what we bought today.”
“But it’s what Effiera sent.”
“For the sake of the gods, sit down and be quiet.”
And he, apparently, would never learn either.
I sat on Kaden’s left. Rafe was adjacent to him on his right, close enough for Kaden to keep an eye on him, but not close enough for Rafe and me to share even the smallest word without Kaden overhearing. It didn’t seem to matter. Rafe’s eyes briefly skimmed my Vendan attire, then he looked away and seemed to avoid my gaze thereafter. I should have been glad for his cold dismissal. If Griz could perceive our connection by peering into my eyes, others might too. It was best that we not look at each other at all, but the pull was still there, and the more I avoided him, the more the burn grew in me. All I wanted to do was turn and watch him.
I looked down the length of the table instead. It seated close to sixty, so only half of those present were the Sanctum Council. I guessed the rest were favored soldiers or other guests of the Council.
Kaden spoke with Governor Faiwell of Dorava Province, who sat adjacent to me, and Chievdar Stavik in the next seat, who had slain my brother’s platoon in the valley. Just down from them were Griz and Eben. I wanted to thank Eben for my boots, but with the scowling chievdar within earshot, I didn’t dare.
Servants began bringing in stacks of hammered plates; trays of salted pork snouts, ears, and feet; platters of dark meat that I guessed to be venison; bowls of thick gruel; and pitchers to refill empty tankards. The energy in the hall was different tonight. Maybe it was because the Komizar was gone, or maybe it was just I who was different. I noticed the servants whispering more among themselves. One of them approached me, a spare girl, tall and wispy. She hesitated, then offered a short, awkward curtsy. “Princess, if the ale isn’t to your liking—”
Stavik roared, and the poor girl fell back several steps. “Watch your tongue, maid!” he yelled. “There’s no royalty in Venda, and she’ll sure as hell drink what the rest of us do or not drink at all.”
A rumble ran down the table, a growing discord that echoed the chievdar’s contempt. The unexpected welcome was being challenged as swiftly as a lash to the back. I felt Kaden’s hand on my thigh. A warning. And I realized, even as Assassin, he was feeling the edge of what he could control.
I returned the chievdar’s glare, then spoke to the girl, who was still trembling several steps away. “As Chievdar Stavik so wisely said, I’ll drink whatever you serve and be glad for it.”
Kaden’s hand slid from my thigh. The discord was replaced with uneasy chatter. Baskets of bread were brought to the table. For all their wretched and coarse ways, no one partook prematurely. They all waited for Calantha to offer the acknowledgment of sacrifice.
The same girl who had cowered before the raging chievdar just moments earlier now came forward, the platter of bones rattling in her frightened hands as she set it before Calantha.
Everyone waited.
Calantha looked at me, her lone eye narrowing, and then she nodded. The air in the room shifted. I knew what she was going to do before she ever moved. My temples throbbed. Not now. This might be the move that killed me. The timing was all wrong. Not now. But it was all already in motion. Calantha stood and shoved the platter across the table at me. “Our prisoner will give the acknowledgment tonight.”
I didn’t wait for dissent, nor for a sword to be drawn. I stood. And before Stavik could utter a word, before Kaden could pull me back to my seat, I sang the Vendan acknowledgment of sacrifice and more. E cristav unter quiannad.
The words poured out, hot and urgent, like my chest had been laid open. Meunter ijotande. And then more flowed out languid and slow, a wordless language, like that day in the valley, remembrances known only to the gods. I lifted the platter over my head, Yaveen hal an ziadre.
I lowered the bones to the table once again and offered the final paviamma.
The room was swept silent. No response came back to me.
Seconds ticked as centuries, and then finally a faint paviamma echoed back from Eben. The slight tear in the silence opened wider, and more paviammas rolled down the table and back again, the brethren looking at their laps. The meal began, food was passed, talk resumed. Kaden breathed an audible sigh and leaned back in his seat. Finally, Rafe looked at me too, but the expression in his eyes wasn’t what I wanted to see. He looked at me as if I were a stranger.
I shoved the platter toward him. “Take a bone, Emissary,” I snapped. “Or are you not grateful?”
He glared at me, his lip lifted in disgust. He grabbed a long femur and turned back to Calantha without a second glance.
“It seems that if the Komizar doesn’t kill them, they might kill each other,” Governor Faiwell quipped to Stavik.
“The worst enemy is one that you’ve slept with,” Stavik answered.
They both laughed as if they knew this from experience.
This was our plan, I told myself.
A performance. That was all.
The kind of performance that could rip out a heart a piece at a time. Rafe didn’t look at me again for the rest of the night.