Siren's Fury Read online

  I shut my mouth as Rasha asks Sir Gowon, “Where is everyone?”

  He doesn’t answer. Just smiles tightly and walks us down the center aisle between the rows of stark, smooth-lined metal tables and handcrafted silver seats to those nearest the head table.

  With his hand, he indicates chair assignments for each of us. “Please sit.”

  Lord Wellimton slides into a seat closest to the king’s table while Rasha stares hard at our host. The other delegates stand awkwardly with expressions probably mimicking my own. Be seated for what? My nerves go from taut to churning knots. I should say something to Sir Gowon. I should tell him now what Eogan said. But my feet are rooted to the cool floor.

  “Sir Gowon, will others be joining us soon?” Lady Gwen’s tone wavers.

  “They’ll be along shortly.”

  Rasha releases her stare on the old man and tips her head at us. “From what I can tell it’s fine.”

  It doesn’t ease the tension, but I follow her example and take my assigned spot next to her, all the while studying Sir Gowon and attempting to find the right words to say. Because somehow “Oh, by the way, Eogan has become Draewulf” doesn’t have quite the air of authority it needs.

  After a moment, Lady Gwen sits next to me, then Lord Percival, with Myles stealing the end closest the door. Our Faelen and Cashlin bodyguards take up watch against the wall with a heightened air among them.

  “I’m sure this is normal,” Lady Gwen murmurs in my direction. “I mean, I’m sure seating their guests before anyone else is merely part of their culture.”

  I force a smile. “I’m sure it is.”

  Her responding grin is grateful. “That’s what I thought. I doubt they’d invite us here just to, well, I’m certain this is the decor they were stuck with on such short notice of us coming here.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  She nods, but after a second she says, “Although, would you mind asking Princess Rasha if her Luminescent abilities are picking up on anything?”

  Rasha bends in front of me to pat Gwen’s hand. “You have nothing to fear, Lady Gwen. It will all be fine.”

  “Of course, I knew that. But still, it’s good to know. However . . .” She looks back to me. “If anything was to go wrong . . .” She smiles and peers up at my white hair and at my blue eyes, as if comforting herself with the fact that she and the other delegates have brought security with them.

  “Lord Percival,” I say, to distract her. “What would your wife say to all this?”

  He frowns. “My wife? She’d be thrilled with the warm water and demand we hire their decorator.” His forehead creases in a manner that makes me think he’s rather glad she’s not here. I smirk.

  He turns to Lady Gwen. “Of course if anything went wrong, Nym would take care of things. But nothing’s going to happen. We’ll be fine.”

  My shoulders harden. I glance away, fidgeting under the weight of their gazes that feels like an ill-fitting coat. I slide my hand beneath the table to feel out both knives on my ankles. How long is this banquet going to last?

  “Please just tell me this isn’t going to be a trial and execution.” Lady Gwen is praying.

  Princess Rasha’s brown locks catch the light when she tips her head as if to reply but stops as her gaze stalls on me. As if trying to assess something. I promptly dip my head away. Kracken.

  I’m saved by a set of double doors bursting open at the far end of the room, and men and women and children come filing in, their voices low. My fingers slip from my knives as a gasp escapes Rasha’s lips.

  They’re dressed beautifully, if not austerely, in black, silver, or red suits that wrap around their bodies like second skin and appear to be made of stretching material. The clothing hugs the men’s broad shoulders and etched waistlines and the women’s curved hips and chests. Each outfit is decorated differently, with metal loops and symbols here, and silver fabric plumes woven there. Nothing extravagant like Adora’s wardrobe, but elegant in their total simplicity.

  “How lovely,” Rasha breathes, pointing discreetly to the ladies’ hair, which is pulled back from their foreheads and twisted into various knots that curve and swirl in intricate patterns.

  I nod. The designs are stunning and regal, especially set off by the men’s short-cropped hair. I wonder if Eogan’s longer hair and jagged bangs were a sign of independence during his four years away or simply his effort to keep from being recognized as Odion’s twin. Not that anyone in Faelen had ever seen Odion. I recall Eogan telling me once that his brother preferred hiding behind Bron’s generals and war rooms rather than showing up on the battlefield or negotiation chamber.

  Until the battle at the Keep apparently.

  Lord Percival makes a sound in his throat, drawing my gaze up to discover that the people are openly staring at us, taking their seats at the rows of tables. I look for intention in their expressions but am met by stony reserve.

  “Anyone got a splash of hard ale?” Myles says.

  “Will you please shut up?” Lord Wellimton snarls.

  The doors near our end of the map-covered room open and my chest first leaps, then crashes as Draewulf-posing-as-Eogan steps in, flanked by guards on each side and an assortment of other eminent-looking people. Generals by the looks of their red surcoats. As they get closer, I recognize two of them as among the Bron generals who spoke to Eogan at the Keep. After he’d been taken over already by Draewulf . . . I narrow my eyes and switch my focus to searching him for any sign that he’s absorbed more of his host’s body.

  Not that I can tell.

  Draewulf’s gaze flicks around the room with something akin to boredom as he steps into position at his table and the crowd falls silent. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Assembly, thank you for joining us this evening.” His voice rings out clear and rich and so normal that, for a second, my hopes rise.

  Sir Gowon hobbles over to whisper at him. Draewulf nods and replies before turning to bestow the biggest, falsest smile on us. My wish flails.

  “May the festivities commence,” he declares.

  A ripple of cheering goes through the room, but it’s dull, muted. I peek around to find most of the adult Assembly watching him as Draewulf takes a seat and his entourage follows suit.

  The citizens pick up their talking and hardly glance back when the double doors open again and a host of young boys stride in carrying silver trays covered in various foods that make my mouth water and my anxious stomach twist at the savory smell.

  The large platters are placed two to a table beginning with Eogan’s, followed by ours, and then on down the rows. I watch Sir Gowon for a minute before turning to eye the people across from us dipping the chewy bread substance into bowls of black porridge. I force myself to follow suit if only not to draw the attention of Rasha, whose red-lit gaze hasn’t stopped darting around the room since the Assembly walked in. How hard must it be to single out individual intentions amid a sea of noise and moods and heartpulses.

  Next come trays of drinks, most of which are foaming and smell fermented. I stick with a simple tin cup of water and try an assortment of thin food ribbons that taste like rabbit cheese.

  “It’s good,” Lord Wellimton grunts, and suddenly the other delegates are agreeing and the tension among them easing. Soon they’re chatting with each other while furtively sizing up the Bron citizens.

  “How young some of the boys are,” Lady Gwen says.

  Lord Wellimton leans over and nods as if approving. “Sir Gowon said they train them starting at age five. Smart and economical.”

  If any of the Bron people overhear us, they give no evidence of caring. Although I notice with the continued partaking of the food and drink, the Assembly’s reserved expressions begin to slip a bit, revealing what appears to be a genuine affection for each other and an enhanced coolness toward us. A few times I even catch some of them looking my direction with what I swear is outright resentment. And when a group of younger boys takes up pointing at me, it’s with traces o
f malice in their gazes.

  I keep my expression clear and sift quickly through them for Kel, but he’s not there. Then go back to my food. How can I blame them?

  Another ten, fifteen, twenty minutes slide by before Rasha tips toward my ear. “I believe I’ve focused in on a few members who might hold information we can use, if I can get them in a quieter room. Those generals surrounding Eogan have been here for years, and if he dies they will send this land into a civil war in their fight to succeed him. One of them being Sir Gowon.”

  My hand pauses holding a spoonful of food halfway between my plate and mouth. “Sir Gowon wants Eogan’s throne?”

  “No, but from what I saw in him when we first arrived, his commitment is even stronger to Bron than who sits on its throne. If Eogan dies, he’s willing to do what needs to be done to keep order. However, seeing as he’s known Eogan and served this kingdom since Eogan’s childhood, I believe he can be valuable to us.”

  I don’t look at her. Instead I flutter a glance at Eogan, who’s immersed in conversation with the generals at his table, and hesitate before asking, “Valuable regarding saving Eogan?”

  She frowns in confusion. “No. Helpful regarding knowledge of Draewulf’s plans in the past as well as any old agreements Bron made with him,” she says slowly, staring at me. Abruptly her eyes flare faintly, but we’re interrupted by two Cashlin guards slipping up behind us. One bends down to whisper in Rasha’s ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but her countenance falls. She pushes back from the table with a hurried, “Excuse me, I have to go,” tossed in Wellimton’s direction. She turns me a worried glare, which she extends over to Myles, before being hustled from the room by her men.

  I rise to go after her, but the expressions of both the Bron and Faelen guards make it clear I’m to stay. “It’s a private matter, miss,” one of them says.

  Private. Yet he looks worried too.

  I purse my lips and turn back, only to notice a number of the boys openly glaring at me. I smile at them, which seems to rattle their gazes until suddenly they’re looking to the king’s table where Eogan-who-is-Draewulf is standing and clanking his metal goblet against his plate.

  “My Bron family and Faelen friends, I trust you have enjoyed your feast as richly as I have.”

  There’s that muted cheer again.

  “I’d like to believe that the flavors and generosity with which our feast was prepared tonight will be a foretaste of the conversations that lie ahead. During the past week I’ve spent in Faelen, King Sedric and I developed and signed a peace treaty. At tomorrow’s meetings we will talk in greater detail about the specific policies and requirements surrounding that treaty. However, for now, let us continue to celebrate by way of traditional Bron entertainment!”

  A little more approval for Eogan is shown this time in the voices and clapping.

  I look at Sir Gowon. Does he notice any difference in the man before him? I glance behind me for Rasha, who’s not returned yet, and note the host of guards still blocking the door. My spine squeezes. What happened to make her leave like that?

  I look at Gwen and my guard. “I’m going to sit by Myles.”

  He nods and allows me to take the seat on the other side of the lord protectorate.

  “How much longer is this?” I growl.

  “What’s the commotion with Rasha?”

  “I’ve no idea, but considering she left, we can too.”

  “She will have a believable explanation, and she is not Eogan’s favorite Elemental at the moment. So no, we can’t. Now tell me what Rasha’s guardsss said to her.”

  “I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was she looked worried.” I peer around for a time gauge on the wall. “And I think she might have caught on to our plans.”

  He utters a curse word. “Remind me never to rely on you for information.”

  “Information? Eogan is dying right now.”

  Myles’s expression turns sickly humored. “Yes, and I have to admit I’m rather enjoying watching you squirm. Almost as much as seeing how much that group of boys seems to hate you.”

  “And you wonder why people aren’t more enamored with your charming personali—”

  A commotion of doors creaking open cuts me off. Two men dressed in thin, full-bodied pantsuits enter and stride down the center aisle to the middle of the room. One is lithe and carrying a sword, the other is of a monstrous size and holding an ax. By the look of their muscles and hardened faces, they’re soldiers. Good ones.

  If the cheering of the crowd before was feeble, it’s now loud and authentic sounding and apparently serves to commence the start of the two men engaging in hand-to-hand combat.

  The first ax thrusts by the larger man swing wide.

  I bite my tongue when the third connects with the smaller man’s shoulder. He falls back with a grunt, and the man brings his ax down again.

  It crashes into the floor as the small man rolls out of the way before twisting to bring his sword up under the larger opponent’s arm.

  This is entertainment? A blood sport?

  Blood is already spilling on the floor when he pulls it back. He turns and, with another thrust of the sword, swipes at the giant’s neck.

  My gut leaps into my chest and my mouth turns sour. If the large man hadn’t spun away in time, he’d be dead. I look around. This is what the vent boy was talking about—a community earned through power rather than differences.

  Eogan, the real Eogan, would never have allowed something like this. At least not in recent weeks. But no one other than myself and Gwen appears to find it disturbing.

  On and on the soldiers fight while my discomfort builds and I try to look away.

  Parrying. Sparring. Until blood is coating every inch of their bodies and the floor in a circular pattern as they move. It’s even spattered on some of the onlookers.

  The cutting and blood continue until the smaller, faster of the two men lands a jab near the other’s heart and drops him to his knees. I hold my breath. The victor stands over him, sword raised, and looks to Eogan.

  I start to rise but Myles stops me. “Oh my dear, please keep your seat if not your head. This is their culture, not ours. You’ll only cause trouble for usss.”

  “He’s going to kill him,” I hiss. I look down the table at the other delegates. They look odd sitting there, backs straight, faces stiff. Is this part of their job—not to react in political settings, or do they just assume it will be fine? Myles catches my eye and with his gaze indicates I should look up at Eogan. When I do, my chest unclenches. Eogan waves a hand and the fighter lowers his weapon. He bows to the king, then to the Assembly, and stays standing there as his defeated foe is escorted from the room.

  I ease back in my seat but set my hand on my knives. It’s only when I peer up again at Draewulf that I realize he caught my reaction.

  He tips his head at me and sneers in that hideous, wolfish style and, without looking away, twitches his hand to beckon one of the guards. He says something to the man before he moves his gaze from me back to the room.

  A moment later, the doors open again. And what looks like a mound of furs is standing there. My tapping leg stops moving.

  The woman beneath them begins peeling each one off, like the rind of rich fruit, and dropping them to the floor as she strides in. Almost exactly like she did two weeks ago when she was at Adora’s party.

  And just like then, her entrance is met with an audible gasp across the room.

  “What’s she doing here?” someone in the Assembly murmurs.

  “How long has it been—six months—since Odion last summoned her?”

  “I thought she betrayed us to Faelen!”

  “It was a ruse to get her father, Draewulf, close to their king and ours. She betrayed us both!”

  “Is Isobel still betrothed to King Ezeoha?”

  The comments float through the room making the smile on Isobel’s face that much wider as she strolls down the center aisle toward her father, who inhabits the b
ody of the man she’s the same age as and was once engaged to.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Draewulf announces, staring right at me. “May I present to you Lady Isobel.”

  CHAPTER 16

  BY THE TIME DRAEWULF’S DAUGHTER IS DOWN THE aisle and standing in the bloodied makeshift arena next to the victor in front of us, she’s stripped down to nothing more than a tight, glistening pantsuit made to hug every curve of her seductive, tall frame. A quarter of the Assembly is standing, and another third is grumbling. I’m silently cursing. She tosses a smile in my direction and that old jealousy flares along with the recollection of our last meeting when she tried to wrap her body around Eogan’s neck.

  Myles slicks the sides of his hair and lets out a low whistle of enjoyment.

  I slide one of my knives out beneath the table and prick his leg.

  He jerks and says something uncouth, but I’m already looking past him to Draewulf, whose mocking, proud, fatherlike expression contorts the slightest bit. I freeze. The black in his eyes retracts into what appears to be pain and I swear his body jerks.

  The next second, he’s smiling and nodding to Isobel.

  I turn on Myles. “Did you see that?”

  “If you’re referring to anything besides Lady Isobel’s superior curvesss flexing in front of me, then no, I didn’t.”

  It’s an impressive feat of self-control that I refrain from jabbing Myles in his family heirlooms just as Draewulf tips his hand in Isobel’s direction. She grins and strides the last two feet to the victor of the blood sport and, in one swift movement, presses her hand over the man’s chest and mutters a chant. His face sags. His black skin yellows. He stiffens and falls in a heap on the floor.

  Every member at our table gasps, and Gwen, Lord Percival, and I are all immediately standing. What the hulls?