A Game of Sin
Sample Chapters
Chapter 1
Evelyn Vhodes was a proper lady, and all proper ladies had a demonic horse.
As she rode uphill, the sinsteed responded to her cues with perfect obedience. Every move was of her choosing, from the way it carried itself to the length of its strides. Such promising results nourished her confidence; she was on her way to a sinsteed championship, and if she made a mistake, her family would know. They trailed after her further down the line, among the light cavalry that protected them. Anything less than excellence would be unbecoming of her. Unbecoming of House Vhodes.
Eve tugged at the collar of her tight doublet. For fashion, a skirt wrapped over her loose breeches, and for protection, leather strips spiralled her calves; both trapped the heat and had her cooking inside. She couldn’t afford to slip away to the relief of fresh air. Every spare moment was to be spent practicing for the upcoming championship, not dallying on the way there.
The guards fared no better. Thigh-length armour flattened their airy gambesons; a veil of chainmail hung from baking helmets and covered their faces; and metal shields were strapped to their arms, freeing their hands to steer their mortal horses. All that gear had to be suffocating by itself, but they also wore tabards with the house colours: blue for the ocean, because coastal lords had no imagination, and purple for pearls, because their forefathers were colourblind. Not that House Vhodes had any pearl harvesting anymore.
Behind her, the cavalry parted ranks for her mother. Cecelise Vhodes walked so gallantly, it was as if she had no choice; her long legs carried her just so, whether she liked it or not. Mother’s figure might have been taller, more elongated than her daughter’s petite form, but beauty fashioned itself in different ways. A voluminous mane of magenta and red stripes framed Mother’s bronze face. In contrast, Eve’s straight cyan-dyed hair bladed past her shoulders.
‘Your brother is worried,’ Mother said when she caught up with Eve.
She snorted. ‘Thrilled, more like. I’d rather wager on the number of bets he’s placed on me than place one myself.’
Two months ago, Pit had given her the sinsteed for her ascension to womanhood. But in his world, there was no such thing as gifts. Only investments. Incidentally, the winnings were higher for the sinsteed class at the championship.
When they cleared the top of the hill, the watchers on the walled city before her no doubt spotted them. Eve imagined their view. Framed by reddish cliffs scattered with sun-paled brush, her sinsteed, Ember, stood out from the light cavalry around her. A bejewelled carapace shielded his war-horse chest and haunches like natural armour. He had polished ram horns in place of ears. Protecting the bridge of his nose, a scale triangulated above his forehead and boasted an embedded orange topaz that sparkled in bright light. The mark of Satan’s Wrath.
Sinsteeds were summoned from Hell. The more they symbolised the demon prince who blessed them, the more valuable. Given that Ember was so embellished, it was surprising Pit had the means to pay for him. Perhaps it was the steed’s so-so conformation. Although his shoulders and balanced hindquarters were favourable, his neck was awful; the front muscle bulged outwards. That may have knocked the price down. Either that, or a miracle from the demon princes.The inauspicious investment may have explained why Mother walked with her. There was something about her attitude. She was on the cusp of serious tidings. ‘I discussed with him yesterday about a few suitors he has in mind.’
Mother, like Pit, had her own ideas of what constituted an acceptable suitor: name, wealth and looks, in that order. They lacked ambition. Eve would only settle for the perfect trifecta.
Her mother continued, ‘They’re nothing of note, merely some of his friends.’
Eve scoffed. What happened to his ideas of marrying her upwards? Had his friends catered to his greed? Ember’s hooves clopped against the cobbled limestone road. His scaly brown neck shimmered in the sun, in tandem with the rise and fall of his powerful motions. Why else would Pit invest so much in a sinsteed if not to attract worthy suitors? Even if she won the championship, it wouldn’t cover the expense. ‘Did you suggest someone else?’
Mother raised her chin. ‘I insisted we could do better, in both name and wealth. He was stubborn about it.’
She’d been vague. Deliberately. Eve would have to poke at her pride. Eve tossed her a sideways glance, a teasing smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘Have you lost your touch?’
‘No, of course not. The conditions call for…more wealth. Fast. That’s why I’m saying he must be worried. Otherwise, he’d be more malleable. I’ve attempted reason; now it’s your turn. Something more subtle.’
Conditions? What was she talking about? Mother was quick to divert and to distract her with a task. What was she hiding – their declining wealth in general? It would be easier to draw the truth out of Pit, who rode further back in the line. Mother was too aware of her tactics.
Eve said, ‘I’ll convince him once we’ve reached the city.’
The city, Lucielle, was nestled between two green-topped mountains. A narrow canal cut through it and bound the ocean on the north side to a great lake on the south. While the west side of the canal awarded a breathtaking view of stone houses and temples, the east side outmatched it; above the city, a plateau jutted out of the mountain and housed the grey-white palace. Enclosed within multiple battlements, the ensemble of domed roofs and spires was as much a fortress as a home. Turquoise-and-gold banners draped towers and billowed from poles, and even from where they rode in the valley proper towards the city gates, Eve could make out the sigil of the royal house repeating itself on choice banners: a pair of wings – one feathery, one leathery.
They neared the crenellated walls. Towers broke the monotony of the barricade, and metal spiked their foundations, which would repel sinsteeds like Ember from ramming into their hollow interiors. Though sinsteeds lived eternally, any fatal wound would banish them to Hell.
As soon as they entered the gates, she signalled the cavalry to part for her and laid her weight into the saddle. Ember halted. Mother nodded reassuringly at Eve, then left to rejoin her wife at the rear of their group.
Another noble and his retinue were on their way out of the city. He acknowledged them as they passed with a nod to Eve’s sinsteed. No longer was House Vhodes shut out from the trend. This was different; last year a stranger would not make note of them. It was also plain in the bearing of the commoners, who offered a wide berth for them in respect. They quietened, too, returning to their indistinct chatter and bustle once the group had passed. Diverse smells broadcasted their wares: fresh meat, salted fish, intense spices. Eve had known a sinsteed would elevate their status, but it was pleasing nonetheless to see such explicit effects.
Pit caught up on a black gelding, and he’d pulled up the sleeves of his fine shirt to display the tattoos that would make Father’s hair curl. With good reason. Tattoos were how commoners who couldn’t afford jewels or proper dyes expressed themselves. On one arm, gambling cards spiralled up lean muscle; on the other, thorns encircled a leaping tiger. It clawed at his fingers.
‘Eve, will you ride with me?’ His soothing voice was perfect for lullabies. Or drug dens.
She nodded, and they steered their mounts deeper into the city. His horse, not trained for combat, had spent the last week learning to tolerate Ember’s presence. Still, the gelding whisked his tail and danced to the side, hooves clacking on stone. Pit’s heavy-handed riding forced him towards Ember – until the gelding found another opening to trick him. Lucielle’s narrow streets were not built for skittish horses, and the looming limestone houses did nothing for his temperament.
‘Do you feel ready? Any setbacks I should know about?’ Already, he aligned the conversation to his goals.
‘Ready as can be. I’ve ironed out most of my concerns. He hollows his back, though, and I’m still acclimating.’ She was about to delve into more detail, but Pit’s face reminded her of how little it interested him. He only had two expressions: grumpy or indifferent, depending on who you asked. She nodded curtly. ‘Thank you again, Brother.’ Her gratitude felt detached. Off. Once upon a time, she would’ve ruffled his hair. That had been a long time ago, before he became Lord Vhodes. No longer did they raid the kitchen for honeyed crusts and scurry off in shared fear of their father, who owned their concept of ‘the world’. Pit owned it now; she, among its assets.
‘I invited an extra guest for dinner tonight,’ he said, as if on cue. ‘I think you’ve met him before. Terrek Ciarti.’
‘Oh please, you invited one of your chums? Tell me, do you really think he is worthy of me, or are you doing this as a favour?’
‘It’s no favour.’ His lips twitched. ‘We don’t have time to weigh all the options. Terrek is reasonable.’
Time? Ah. So Terrek had catered to her brother’s impatience. Or rather, sloth. Dangle one coin in front of Pit, and he couldn’t see the pile at the top of the hill. ‘Reasonable.’ She exaggerated her display of disappointment. Terrek’s boring demeanour wouldn’t look good on her arm. ‘You would give up at the first bidder? Do you want to win the first round, or do you want to claim the sweepstakes?’ A seagull flew overhead and let out its distinct, shrieking laughter, agreeing with her.
‘He is the sweepstakes. His father died a fortnight ago.’
Come again? Why hadn’t she heard of this? Pit must’ve waited to tell her, aimed to shake her up by ambushing her with the topic. Wait – this still wasn’t relevant. ‘I thought he was second in line?’
Pit shook his head. ‘His brother was found guilty of murder.’
A dreadful tightness clogged her chest, one that wasn’t eased by the thought of wealth. Terrek was a gentleman, who, as far as she could remember, was boring as all hells, a slave to fitting in: Bland in attire and in conversation. He was so unmemorable she couldn’t recall what they’d ever talked about. The thought of spending the rest of her life with him made her cringe.
Although, if Terrek was the heir, then his position was the same as Pit’s: a petty lord. The least she accepted. Was that all Pit reached for?
If she was arguing with Mother, she’d point out that Terrek was the brother of a murderer, enough to put any household in scandal. Pit, however…he’d only care if it affected them directly. Affected him directly. Berating him wouldn’t take Eve any further, either, because he’d know she didn’t mean it. Terrek wasn’t so terrible she could play outraged.
‘My apologies, you’re right, Terrek is a safe choice,’ she said, knowing full well that the word safe would prod the rebel in him to fluster, to scream at him to tear it down. She knew he writhed inside, though he sat as nonchalantly as ever, casually sinking into the bobbing saddle. They rode upwards – because in Lucielle everything was always upwards – away from the bustle of the main streets. The quiet was relieving.
Ahead, a bridge linked two steep cliffs. They would have to pass underneath. ‘Consider this.’ She flashed her palm. ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour when our guests arrive tonight. If things go sour, Terrek will be our backup. Let Mother take it from there. I think we can aim for a provincial lord at least.’
The concrete goal made his eyes jitter with dreams of the future. Bitter longing was visible in the crack of his smile. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’
‘No, but you have what it takes to get me a few invitations. Mother knows how to work this. Trust in her. Let us do the rounds, maximise the auction. Patience will garner a fortune.’
He was suddenly more interested in his hands. A shadow of pain crossed his features. It was brief, and Eve nearly didn’t catch it. ‘There is still time,’ he said, like he was convincing himself.
What aren’t you telling me? she wondered.
His attention perked at a row of swordsmen in royal livery. They formed a blockade under the bridge. It was unclear whether the Vhodes retinue had the right to pass.
‘Fine,’ Pit said to her. He signalled for the Vhodes guards to halt. In dismounting, he forgot to unhinge his foot from the stirrup. It lodged itself when he dropped off, and he hopped on one foot while untangling himself. It hurt to watch.
Eve slid off her sinsteed in a single motion.
Pit lifted the reins over his horse’s head and looped his hand through them into his pocket. ‘You’ve convinced me – so long as you consider Terrek a feasible backup. He doesn’t wish to associate with his brother, or his father for that matter. Don’t let scandal hold you back.’
‘I’m no fool.’
‘I know you’re not.’ He pulled out a medallion. ‘Here.’
She cupped her hands to accept it. Smooth and unexpectedly heavy in her palm, the polished topaz glimmered in the sun when she rolled it around. Ember’s mindglyph. It was worth as much as the animal himself. A sinsteed obeyed any command from the mindglyph’s bearer, no questions asked. However, it had to be in direct contact with skin. If she wanted to be disqualified from the championship, all she had to do was use it. Pit had withheld it to ensure she didn’t form bad habits during training.
‘I have faith in you. You will win,’ Pit said.
His voice pulled her back to the task at hand. Faith, yes, that she’d cheat if need be. Never. Such a risky, idiotic tactic. Eve expected no less of him, but what gleamed through his demeanour when she looked up at him wasn’t greed alone. It was desperation.
As if she was his only chance.
She pretended not to see it. He wasn’t one for emotions and would fumble in embarrassment if she pointed it out. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ she said, and tried to fill herself with the joy she’d built all week. Beaming, she gave him a hug. He needed one, even though he’d never say so, and hopefully, some of her joy would rub off on him too.
He rewarded her with a faint smile. While he strolled to speak with the royal guards, she couldn’t unsee his expression. A kernel of unease swam about. Was it money? Was he brushing a heretofore-unknown, dire situation under the carpet, trapping her and Mother in an illusion of bliss? If only she could calm herself as easily as she had Pit. The weight of the mindglyph around her neck did little to settle her worries. Could the sinsteed have something to do with it? Maybe that was why Pit wanted to settle her with Terrek – he needed quick coin to repay the expense. She wouldn’t put it past him to drown them in debt for the demonic horse. And what would Pit do when in need of assets? Gamble.
Pit strolled all the way up to her before he relayed, ‘They won’t let us pass.’
She narrowed her eyes, gauging the truth from what lay within. ‘Pit.’ Eve couldn’t help but pour disappointment into the name. ‘What kind of bets have you placed? You haven’t overreached, have you?’
‘I’m making the most of our time.’ He leaned on one foot, looking bored. At least he’d managed to brush off the uncharacteristic worry.
‘We’ve had the sinsteed no more than a couple months,’ she argued.
‘You won second place last year.’
‘On a mortal horse. The sinsteed class is different.’ An understatement. The obstacles were designed to showcase a sinsteed’s strengths. Since Ember was a rammer, she had to tear through walls unscathed and speed across smouldering coals.
He shrugged. ‘Makes for bigger payouts.’
She was losing her patience with him. His nonchalance was an act. He needed money, and he needed it now. Eve breathed deeply, easing the air from her lungs and the tension from her shoulders. She softened her expression, imploring honesty, and mellowed her voice. ‘What happens if I lose tomorrow?’
He parted his lips. They dipped at the corners. No reply, not unlike him, but it said so much more than if he’d filled the space with drivel. Eve cut the eye contact. Whether he was in debt for the sinsteed or had risked too much on the event tomorrow, the outcome was the same. Father wouldn’t have made such mistakes. Actually, Father wouldn’t have steered our income into such a mess in the first place. A bitter thought. Were he alive, buying the sinsteed wouldn’t have been about combatting image but just another day in the Vhodes household. She didn’t say as much. It ate Pit up on the inside.
He grimaced. ‘I don’t have a dowry for you.’
There it was. The secret she’d dug so ferociously to unearth. No wonder Mother was distraught. There was only one reason Pit wouldn’t have a dowry for her: House Vhodes was going bankrupt.
Her grip tightened around Ember’s reins, and the leather gnawed into her skin. It was worse than she’d imagined. First place in the championship was just the beginning of what they needed. She wished she could bury that secret whence it came. ‘Why haven’t you said anything?’
‘It’s my responsibility,’ Pit said.
‘If I’d known, I’d never have asked for a sinsteed.’
‘It was a good thing you did. Without it, you couldn’t attend the championship.’
‘You speak as though I’ve won already.’
‘You have. You are our marketing. When you are out there with our sinsteed’ – he gestured in the direction of the arena – ‘our name will form a place on their map. The higher nobility will contact me. Think, Eve. If I can get into their exclusive events, I’ll have the opportunity to join in their business ventures. That’s what will save us.’ His unusual passion calmed itself. ‘Ride well, and I promise the winnings will go towards a dowry. The rest is up to me.’
He sounded so sure. If it were anyone but him, she’d believe it. Pit, though, Pit never doubted. He’d probably thrown together that plan after buying the sinsteed, to justify his mistake. His conviction was his curse. If only he used it to convince businessmen to buy miracle cures instead of gambling at every opportunity. They wouldn’t be in this mess, that was for sure.
As much as she felt like arguing against him, his ideas were tempting. Last time they visited Lucielle, they were anonymous to anyone of note. Already, Ember had slaked her thirst for attention. More would want to meet this up-and-coming lord, if they didn’t suspect he was down-and-falling. She sighed but relaxed her posture. ‘Fine.’
He looked down the line of Vhodes guards. ‘Don’t tell Mother about it. She has no need to worry.’
Eve nodded, then shook her head, all in one dead gesture. Tomorrow’s championship was supposed to be a bonus, not a solution. Already, cold sweat formed in her palms. A hundred silver crowns for first place. If she won, it was his achievement. If she lost, her fault. They’d have no choice but to accept Terrek Ciarti’s charity engagement. It may have been Pit’s responsibility, but it was on her delicate shoulders.
Looking at his expression of worry, it dawned on her what she’d just consented to. If Mother didn’t know the particulars of their declining economy, then…what was her secret.
Chapter 2
For most, it was difficult to notice that the matron of House Vhodes harboured a secret, but as Mother glided through the cavalry and settled her eyes on the royal guards beneath the bridge, Eve discerned she wasn’t quite present. Mother’s face may have been detached, strict, even, but her hands fidgeted at either side of her ramrod back. Whatever her thoughts, they weren’t pleasant.
Jenine trailed after her. Her gaunt face smiled close-lipped at Eve while she dutifully followed her wife’s footsteps. Jenine would never dare do Eve any unkindness. It would shatter the thin sheet of glass she’d built between them after the wedding. Among the nobility, no one cared whom you dallied with, whom you remarried, so long as you’d done your duty and produced an heir, but Jenine hadn’t waited a second to pounce after Father died. Eve had been kind in tolerating her.
Mother halted wordlessly in front of the royal guards. She stood rigid, a queen waiting for the world to shape itself to her wishes. The guards parted and beckoned for the Vhodes retinue to pass. Well, that’s one way to solve a problem. Eve had inherited her mother’s grace, not her commanding aura. Which only bolstered Eve’s charm.
Pit and Eve remounted and led the group. When they rode under the bridge, a sandstone arena entered their left-hand view: the competition site.
At the bottom of the hill, down by the arena, the unmistakable, rapid snort of a horse caught her attention. A winged white horse. Bat-like, leathery wings. Eve caught herself gaping, then snapped her jaw shut.
Fliers were exceptionally rare. Of the three types of sinsteed, they were the most equine in appearance. This one was a flashy cream-coloured courser, designed for speed and little else. Fleshy pink tinted its muzzle, as well as the skin underneath its blood-red eyes. Like something from a demon’s verse. True to its ominous visage, it refused the commands of its handlers and fought against the yanks on its harness. It speared its bone-hued hooves into the crevices of the cobblestones.
Eve was about to shake her head at the handlers’ incompetence when she noticed what was going on: One of them brandished the flier’s mindglyph at the demonic horse, like an unholy symbol warding against overzealous, angelic justice. Yet the flier disobeyed.
While Ember walked beneath her in complete obedience, reacting to the mindglyph that warmed Eve’s chest, the flier tossed its head and balked against the force of the woman pulling, the lead taut as can be. It didn’t make any sense. Two other handlers shepherded it with threatening body language and bellows. One resorted to the whip. Like mortal horses, it didn’t voice its pain, but its pinned ears and tense facial muscles said enough. It whisked its tail and flapped its wings as if to swat away the displeasure.
Since Ember was a rammer, characterised by horns and carapace, maybe he reacted to his mindglyph differently than the flier? What was the point of the mindglyph, though, if it didn’t instil obedience?
Pit’s horse pattered agitatedly ahead. ‘What’s wrong with that sinsteed?’ Pit asked as he wrangled his gelding.
‘It’s possessed by the deities,’ Eve said. There was no other explanation. Satan, the Demon Prince of Wrath, must’ve blessed it. Eve mimed pulling a rope with both hands, as if for an invisible bell: the sign of the demons. Then, she cupped her hands towards the sky, acknowledging the angels.
While three handlers wrangled the sinsteed below, the royal guards by the bridge watched with bored complacency. As if this was commonplace. She squeezed her leg to guide Ember sideways to them. It was obvious, now, why they had closed off the area.
‘Sir Knight,’ she said to the closest, ‘will that sinsteed be among the contestants tomorrow?’
‘It’s the least of your worries, my lady.’ He stood taller and thrust his chest out. ‘The prince is competing this year.’
Just what she needed. They’d received the list of contestants last week. No prince was anywhere on it.
Their kingdom, Caelum, had three princes. When the current King Hedric died, the princes would compete in a series of trials to determine the heir. It was a miracle they hadn’t offed each other already. Caelum had a history of princes falling off cliffs, drowning, and dying of mysterious diseases – incidentally the fates of King Hedric’s brothers.
‘Which prince?’ she asked, even as her mouth went dry. She chanced a look over her shoulder. The winged horse was still at it, and its whinny roiled through her chest.
The guard laughed derisively. ‘Which prince? Hah!’ Rarely did anyone have the status to mock her blatantly, but a royal knight was among them.
Some of the other guards joined in. While witnessing the sinsteed below refuse its handlers and ignore its mindglyph, they laughed at her. Shouldn’t they help the handlers? The horse hadn’t gone on the offence, but with such a big, demonic animal, accidents could happen. Was she the one overreacting? She couldn’t help tossing another look in its direction. A man raced to the scene with a bouquet of purple flowers, and at once, the sinsteed calmed. The man lured it to the tying post. A quick fix; the problem would bite them in the back tomorrow.
Maybe such sinsteeds were common in the city. They thought her a country bumpkin for acting so astonished. Eve reddened and pretended the unruly flier was of no novelty to her.
It hadn’t been the only reason the guards had laughed. She’d never met any of the princes in person, but from the guards’ reaction, it could be none other than the warrior prince. ‘Prince Aster,’ she said while the knight sobered.
Aster’s feats during the war had named him the Demon Knight. From the back of his sinsteed, he’d defeated the mountain raiders by sword and dagger. The king hadn’t called on his vassals but simply marched south with the royal armies and dealt with it on his own, assuring victory with the Demon Knight at his side. That was her kind of king. Her kind of prince? It was certainly a prince who could easily win this event.
Eve couldn’t back down, not with all that on the line. Who knew, maybe she could defeat him? Now that was an accomplishment she’d like to go home with. The fame would earn her more qualified suitors. Maybe even recognition from one of the three princes of Caelum.
As if reading her thoughts, the royal guard said, ‘He doesn’t like to lose.’
Eve frowned. ‘I should let him win?’
He shrugged and cocked his head as if to say, If you know what’s good for you.
What did he imply? If she won, he’d accuse her of cheating? That could damage their reputation and, by proxy, Pit’s business. She bit her tongue. From start to finish, this competition was against her. She was of half a mind to check the reward for second place.
Eve left the royal knights and peered downhill at the flier. It was worth fortunes. If it wasn’t Prince Aster’s, it could still be property of royalty, or a provincial lord. It was ominous enough when it had calmed, with its staring red eyes. Surely a sign from the demons. A premonition of what was to come.
She began a silent prayer to the angels for patience and diligence. But as she progressed through the poems, she felt no such virtue. Her father was watching her from Hell, from his level of choosing. He’d had no belief in her passion for horsemanship, never thought she could accomplish much. He wanted her to pursue the knowledge of the deities, devote herself to a temple and, in doing so, bring honour to the Vhodes name.
Oh, and a sizeable tax reduction.
It meant an unappealing, quiet life in isolation. No husband, no children, no horses. They’d argued about it while they were out riding. Moments before he died.
They were on their way through the woods, her on a jumper, him on a smooth-gaited riding horse. An idyllic spring day when the sun was warming, not scalding like today. Eve had been in a sour mood, but her father had brought up her future anyway. She’d lost her temper and taken off at a gallop. An orchard rose beyond a fence up ahead, overwrought with olive trees twisting in an endless gripe for territory. Her jumper cleared the fence with ease. Father tried to pursue. She remembered it so vividly: The way he called after her, repeated her name, a dirge to this day. The way her mount dodged the trees on the other side. The sun in her eyes. The sickening crunch of her father’s neck.
It took two years to shed the guilt. During that time, she honoured his wishes and studied the texts. Attempted to, anyway. She was never quite present, never properly passionate. The demons guided her to pursue her own path, and she abandoned the endeavour. Pit supported her choice. Without a dowry, though, surrendering herself to a temple might be her only alternative. Either a dull life of silence and solitude, or a dull life of Terrek Ciarti.
Screw Prince Aster’s pride. Tomorrow, she would give her all to win.
***
The day of the championship was exceptionally hot. The saddle rubbed uncomfortably, and her sports leathers were suffocating. On such days, Ember smelled of woodsmoke, invoking memories of summer nights at the beach. He scraped the sparsely sanded floor of the underground hall, the sound grinding her ears. She petted his neck, promising him treats if they did well: burnt bread crusts. While fliers had the sensitive stomach of a horse, rammers loved the residue of fire and could subsist on a steady diet of charcoal.
A woman stood by the gate to the arena. She had to be either lucky or well connected to receive an exclusive view from the inside. Simple white robes formed a feminine silhouette, and the hood obscured her face. ‘I haven’t attended one of these before. Would you mind explaining the rules?’ she asked Eve, her voice a drawl.
It sounded like she was here more for the prince than for his riding. Eve pointed at a giant water clock glimpsed between the bars. ‘The rules are simple: Ride the course in the shortest amount of time. Any failed obstacle adds time to the final count.’ To the untrained eye, the obstacles seemed randomly placed on the sandy underlay. She optimised her time by memorising the obstacles once more. The jumps. A massive block of bricks. A strip of smouldering coal. Perfect to showcase a rammer’s strength and immunity to fire.
The commentator’s deep female voice rose above the cheering: ‘Now for the first contender. The prince of blades; master swordsman and victor of the Winged War: Prince Aster Crucielle!’
The excitement in the air proved that the crowd cheered on their feet. Eve bent to see them but only found the inner arena wall, and the prince, riding…a shredder? Not a rammer? Shredders, the third and final type of sinsteed, were more demon than horse: lithe, sinewy creatures not at all suited for competing in the rammer course. Their heads split into giant maws, their feet splayed permanent claws, and their whiplike tails protected their backs. This had to be Bane, the deep-red shredder that Aster rode into war. Disadvantageous, but there were no rules against it, she supposed.
From the distance, she couldn’t make out the prince’s features, but he was evidently in top shape, shoulders broader than the hips. His cropped white hair was the heritage of Crucielle, founder of their religion. Only the children of the reigning king had such colour, and should they have children of their own, the children’s hair would only blanch once their father became king.
Prince Aster formed no expression. Nor did he wave to the bystanders or acknowledge them in any manner, even though the crowd roared for his success.
The shredder loped towards the first jump, the rhythmic movement – the beat – at one with Eve’s pulse. She felt the action in her, knew how the anticipation built towards the jump…until—
The rise in the saddle, the brief suspension.
‘His sinsteed is in good condition,’ she said to the woman, and envied Bane’s speed, Aster’s skill, except… ‘His leg bid it move faster, but his seat asks for slower. See how it collected its gait.’ The sinsteed jumped haphazardly and way too early. A claw glanced the bar. ‘That’s what happens with mixed signals.’
‘Sounds like Prince Aster treats his horses like he treats his women,’ the woman said from her spot in the shade.
A terrible curiosity snaked into Eve. Such secrets were not meant for ears beyond the royal family. Dangerous, thrilling gossip. If she responded and someone overheard them, she risked sounding like a traitor. She cleared her throat to subtly inform this woman that she trod on dangerous ground.
‘It’s only the truth. Everyone knows it. The last one had bruises on her wrists, her neck. Said she fell down the stairs.’
Although Eve couldn’t undo the woman’s voice repeating in her head, it was good to know whom not to pursue.
Aster neared their gate. A battle-hardened face; faint scars sliced his eyebrow under a heavy-set forehead – Eve didn’t doubt the stories. She met his eyes, and the world slowed down. Her heart sizzled in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she reopened them, Aster was gone. He’d headed for the next obstacle – a solid brick for a rammer to smash.
He showed no sign of slowing down. The shredder was going to hit the wall! Eve gaped.
Bane scaled it with two thrusts of his hind legs. What? The duo clambered down with apparent ease and headed for the embers. At breakneck speed. Was Aster out of his mind? He was supposed to clear it as quickly as possible without scattering the coal beyond the lines in the sand. At this speed… Eve sucked in a breath, again bracing herself on his behalf. Burning rocks were about to fly, in his face, on the mount…
The shredder leapt clear of the coals. The entire strip.
Now that was cheating. It shouldn’t be allowed! This was the rammer course, for Seven’s sake.
The commentator reported the prince’s time. No penalties. How in hell was she supposed to beat that?
***
‘Please welcome entry number two. Lady Evelyn Vhodes!’ A rotund woman spread her hands from a pedestal. Under her bombastic voice, Eve paraded into the arena of the sandstone amphitheatre. Enthused clapping and raised cheers met her. She smiled and waved delicately, focusing on the nobility in their isolated boxes in the shade. She scanned the lower ones for her family. In the closest, a pair of gentlemen shared a stoppered yellow decanter of (ugh) banana liqueur. Her nose stung just at the thought of its sticky-sweet smell. Above them, Jenine and Pit paid attention mirthlessly.
In the stands, well over a horse’s height above the arena, the commoners left no bench unseated and no railing unattended. Merchants and craftsmen in a variety of colours stood out from a sea of white, beige and muted blues. She couldn’t remember seeing this many before. Lucielle must’ve emptied. To be fair, their prince was competing. She swallowed and forced her chin up to check the royal balcony, so far above.
There was someone there. More than one.
The confidence she’d built through prayer that morning evaporated, like it had never been there to begin with. Her nerves didn’t settle with a deep breath either. You’ll be fine, she tried to tell herself. Suuure. All she had to do was complete the obstacles in the right order, in the shortest amount of time, without any penalties, and pray the prince didn’t accuse her of cheating. Oh, and hope the king wasn’t among the royals on the balcony. That would be just her luck.
Eve bid Ember canter and made for the first obstacle: a log-planked jump. She lost herself in the beat, the flow, the strength. Ember propelled her forward. Her pulse thrummed with him. Counting his strides, gauging the distance, she pushed for an extra stride. Apprehension built as he closed in. One…two…
She rose in the saddle, and her stomach lurched with excitement. Eve leaned back as her mount’s hooves met ground, the force reverberating through her. She aimed for the next challenge: a solid brick wall framed by purple flowers. Ember throttled, lowered his head and punched straight through. Bricks flung aside. The power of a rammer. The impact threw her off-balance, and she worked to regain composure. At least that was faster than the prince.
Target the next. The strip of smouldering coal – what she’d practised the most over the last two months, though without the heat of real fire. The coals couldn’t be scattered across the lines on either side, but she couldn’t jump over like Prince Aster had done. Eve collected Ember, slowing his gait. Now, the other half of the challenge: He was tempted to eat the coals. Eve knew just how to—
A horse intercepted them.
White fur, red eyes, pinned ears, veins popping. There was no time to think, much less act. Ember rammed into it. Flesh met flesh and Eve was thrust off.
Pain slammed down her back. Coarse sand piled into her mouth, and she coughed for slivers of ragged breath.
Pummelling hooves closed in. Tremors wracked the ground.
She jolted to the side – Ember thundered where she’d lain moments before. A rush of blood surged through her, rising with the gasp that tore through the crowd. Seven, she could’ve been crushed. Or burned by the coals that now lay scattered all over.
Eve scrambled to her feet and tried to make sense of things. The flier trotted by, its wings tucked in. The same as yesterday. What was it doing here? It wore a saddle and armour, dented where Ember had crashed into it, but no bridle. Clearly something had gone wrong while tacking it.
She’d better not be disqualified for something this absurd.
Ember continued from the point of her latest command; he cantered stalwartly towards the arena wall, right under the box where the two gentlemen sipped their liqueur, chatting.
She seized Ember’s mindglyph from her pocket. ‘Halt!’ It was too late. Momentum carried him on. Her stomach dropped. While he stuttered towards a halt, his horns tore into the canvas stands. He smashed into the cloth and wooden framework like they were sticks. Seven hells!
The gentlemen above scrambled for higher ground. They made it to safety just as their balcony crumbled. Ember stood in the remains, tail swishing. The commoners in the stands roared with delight at the spectacle below. Sure, it’s fun for them. For them it was safe.
She, on the other hand, had the other demon horse to contend with. The silvery-white flier roamed among the obstacles, as if looking for something. Then it caught sight of its prey: the purple flowers from the brick wall they’d cleared moments ago. While the horse traversed between obstacles to reach it, a stirrup got caught on a decoration. A ribbon-decked jump crashed down. The horse’s wing got stuck in the boards. It bucked and kicked as it barrelled onwards but couldn’t shake them off. Panic danced through the animal. The boards snapped off, but it lost itself to instincts and bolted along the arena.
It could hurt itself! Eve spun and chased after it, hoping to herd it into the open.
Six guards in leather breastplates poured into the arena, wielding batons for protecting against humans, not rampaging demonic beasts that didn’t obey their mindglyphs. Two detached from the main group and ran towards her. ‘My lady, this way!’ they shouted. They’d probably take her away by force if need be.
The four others charged at the horse. It slid to a stop and wheeled away from them, but with another group of guards heading from the other direction, it was backed up to the wall. It reared, thrashed its legs and beat its wings. It felt threatened – couldn’t they tell? Obviously not: They surrounded the beast, cornering it. The horse, frightened to death, trampled through their squad. Two men collapsed, spurring thunderous reactions from the crowd. No man could stop that juggernaut. Idiots. As with an ox, if you tried to compete with its strength, you’d lose.
‘Herd it towards an exit!’ Eve called to them, but they ignored her as they chased the horse. The two guards who approached her were closing in. She bolted. She had to save the sinsteed. The guards pursued her, and the spectators responded with riled-up cheers. Her calves burned, thrusting her forwards on open ground.
Why run when you can ride? Eve made for Ember, touched the mindglyph and bellowed the recall. Her demonic horse pranced into motion. His hind legs thrusted a cart’s weight of muscle and bone. She rushed him head-on and leapt into the saddle while he was still throttling the gallop. Finally, she had speed.
The guards didn’t stand a chance. By a light touch, Ember took off. She had him canter along the arena’s edge. The wind buffeted her face, and a strand of hair whipped her cheek. The crowd of spectators were on their feet to cheer on her cause. Triumph swelled from her core.
The flier was on the opposite side, tearing through the sands, while the guards were a long way off. She steered Ember towards the flier. Their target didn’t falter. Instead, it arrowed towards them. Perfect. Everything hung on a few heartbeats. She counted her mount’s strides: One…two…
She dropped to the ground. Ran two steps. Flung herself onto the other horse. Momentum yanked her, but prepared, she clung on.
The horse’s barrel was a narrow, unfamiliar frame between her thighs, and its skinny neck jostled as it kept on going. She clung to the leather saddle and slipped her toes into the stirrups. Its head bent forwards. Oh no. She leaned back as it bucked. It levelled. Then she was thrown sideways.
Her ankle stuck in the stirrup. Her body unravelled as gravity took her, and pain shot through her leg. Pulled a muscle. The crowd responded with a unified, sympathetic oooh. She hopped to keep up, grabbed its cream-coloured mane and swung into the saddle again.
The spooked horse was still crazed for safety. Jumping onto its back hadn’t made things better. But it was a chance to control it. While it tore down the arena, she found the stirrups again. Once she felt one with the movement, with the rise and fall of its motions, she used her legs to force it into circles. Circles would slow it down.
Through gulps of air, she spoke to it in a soothing voice. ‘It’s over now. Relax.’ An ever-shrinking spiral reduced it to a trot. The movement pulled up dust, searing her eyes.
Problem was, the guards were catching up. She signalled for them to stop, not wishing to raise her voice while on this sensitive beast. They listened.
The flier shied away from them.
Fair enough, so would I. ‘There, easy now.’
It shifted through the trot to a powerful walk. Relief relaxed her shoulders and made it easier to be gentle. Her face burned with the exertion. When they finally managed to halt, she dismounted, and her pulse throbbed through every inch of her body.
The world stood still. Every pair of eyes was fixed on her and the flier. Eve focused on breathing. Everything may have been quiet, frozen, but her heart drummed loudly in her ears. While she tried to settle those last remnants of the fight-or-flight rush, she peered at the judges.
The row of old men murmured, and shortly, the commentator walked to the podium with a questioning face and an awkward posture. Her voice cut through the sea of silence. ‘Entry number two, Evelyn Vhodes, is disqualified for using a mindglyph.
Chapter 3
Disqualified.
She’d heard wrong. She must’ve.
‘We came for entertainment. The Seven provided,’ said a male voice from the royal balcony. From the belly of the arena, beside the skittish demon horse, Eve could barely make out who stood at the balustrade. A glimpse of white hair – the mark of royalty. Someone other than Prince Aster, who was cooling down his mount. ‘Continue the event.’
As if nothing had happened. As if, moments ago, there hadn’t been a rampaging demonic horse laying waste to the arena and overpowering every guard who arrived at the scene.
Disqualified. This time the word sank in. The judges hadn’t questioned the rules, hadn’t given any thought to how they applied to this situation. It didn’t make any sense. She’d been a hero. The guards riled up that sinsteed to the point of desperation. Who knew what it would’ve done to defend itself, to free itself? She’d prevented a disaster, and unlike the guards, she hadn’t harmed the animal. It was safe. They were safe. She was being punished for doing what was right.
A spooked sinsteed had nothing to do with her performance. There was no way she was leaving without talking to the judges. She called Ember to her. The chitin on his chest barely moved while he trotted, a solid plate that could repel the slash of a blade. A prize feature on most days, but today, she wished her rammer hadn’t torn down a balcony. Thank goodness no one was hurt in the process.
She was about to mount when a man in muted turquoise approached. She glared at him.
Unaffected, he said, ‘Lady Evelyn, the prince summons you.’
‘Which prince?’
The man, likely a servant, raised a brow like she was stupid. What did he expect? It wasn’t like she was on first-name terms with the royal family. Why did everyone in the city look at her like it was so obvious?
‘Never mind! I know who it is,’ she lied. Eve tossed a glance at the judges talking at their table in the shade. Her hand tightened on the reins, and she rubbed her thumb along the curl of leather at the end. It was the worst timing. She wouldn’t reject the prince, of course, but asking royalty for favours incurred a hell of a lot more risk than reasoning with judges. She punched her own thigh. ‘Did he say what for?’
The man’s chest rose with an impatient sigh. ‘No.’
To deliver some platitudes, likely. A personal thanks for attending the event or some other nonsense. In return, she’d lost her one chance to speak to the judges, who were now waving impatiently for her to leave. Fate left her with only one choice. She must convince the prince to overrule them. She frowned. Not a good chance by any means, and she had no other weapon but flattery and smiles.
After handing Ember off to a stable hand, the man led her out of the arena, into the cool air of the halls upstairs. It did her sweaty skin good, but she simmered underneath, and her strides echoed in the quiet, empty passages of dust. If she just had the chance to explain… She focused on her breathing. A prince didn’t invite her to listen to her rant and fill the conversation with excuses. Eve had to be patient; she couldn’t just blurt out the injustice of it all. She’d take her time. Form a plan. Her father’s advice came to mind: Anyone can be convinced. Watch what fuels their fire, and become that fuel.
The servant halted martially and gestured towards an entrance. ‘We will notify your family. We’ve arranged a bath. I encourage you to be quick – he is waiting.’
Thank the demons. No one wanted to be plucked straight from the riding arena – all sweaty and stinky and tangled hair – to meet a prince. Did the servants offer this for anyone who met royalty, or had the prince asked for this specifically? If he had, it implied a lengthy conversation, not quite the quick platitudes she’d assumed.
These orders left clues as to which prince had summoned her. Since it couldn’t have been Aster, that left Leander and Sinclair. Notably, all three princes had yet to wed. One could wonder, with a safe dash of scepticism, why the king hadn’t arranged anything for them so far, but it didn’t matter. Reputable. Rich. Probably ravishing. Like…Prince Leander, the eye-catching scholar, famous for the line of women at his heel. So many, in fact, that it would be difficult for Eve, the sister of a petty lord, to compete. Her goal wasn’t to romance him now either. Asking for favours could be futile if he derailed the topic and kept trying to seduce her.
Sinclair, though, she knew less about. Once, he’d held a speech close to her hometown. A memorable one. As far as accomplishments, he’d convinced the Erebinthian Isles to join Caelum. That was all she could think of. Perhaps her best bet lay with Leander after all. At least she knew his wants and weaknesses.
Whoever he was, he was a prince the servants heeded; as she yielded to the pitiful tub of stale water, they scrubbed her down fast and harsh. You’d think demon whips were at their backs. After the bath, the servants lent her a white dress streaked with sky blue. When she put it on, she nearly asked for her riding gear back; the dress was too broad in the shoulders, then it fit snugly all the way down to her knees. Designed for someone else. It further truncated her short legs and called attention to how robust her thighs were compared to her slender arms. On top of that, it was too daring for a casual setting. As if someone had arranged it. Leander, that rake.
She was in no mood to let a man dictate how scantly she ought to dress. The prince had undoubtedly forced women into dresses before. If Eve’s reaction differed from the others, it could showcase her confidence and set her apart from the crowd. Although standing out was the hallmark of charisma, it came with certain risks. A novel response could be entertaining, yes, but it could also be a breach of his hospitality.
She took the gamble. Eve asked the servants for scissors, and they had a pair for tailoring. Exactly what she needed. She made a split in the skirt on either side – now it was a tabard, not a dress. Then she put on her riding breeches. This outfit looked much better. Revealing on her terms, and it went well with her pearl stud earrings.
The royal servant led her upstairs, past city guards, and further up, where royal guards in plated armour, gold accents and turquoise cloaks wordlessly let them by. At the top, an open doorway revealed a blue sky beyond another pair of stoic guards. The servant bid her wait.
In the meantime, she worked to douse the irritation that smouldered after the judges disqualified her, a mood that no doubt soured her expression. This was not an opportunity she’d squander. The longer she waited, though, the more her irritation morphed into something cold and prickling. Hooks of unease lodged themselves in her. More lay at stake if she made a fool of herself than merely walking away without favours. House Vhodes depended on her behaviour. Pit might be indebted to the royals, directly or through another lord. Oh, Pit. Dearly she hoped that wasn’t the case.
Eve inhaled deeply. As Mother would say, no matter the situation, posture and countenance couldn’t make it worse. If you aren’t confident, do yourself the favour of looking like you are.
The servant announced her. She walked onto the spacious balcony. It was put to good use by lounging chairs, patterned carpets and end tables overrun with bowls of oranges, grapes and figs. The fresh smell of citrus cleansed the simmering air. Canvas provided shade, though it wasn’t Leander but Sinclair who sat by the table beneath it.
She recognised him from the speech two years ago. Since then, his handsome face had matured to adulthood, and he’d put on weight: not fat (yet), but the buttons of his cotton shirt strained around a burgeoning middle. Otherwise, he carried the slim, unathletic body of a man exempt from labour. He spoke with a bespectacled man holding a pad of parchment, their low voices indiscernible through an announcement from the commentator. Sinclair’s thick hair sprouted out like a pot of white grass over peridot eyes that exuded his annoyance, and he waved the man off with an unvoiced threat.
Not Prince Leander then. She didn’t let it deflate her; it was a prince after all, mountains better than Terrek Ciarti, if she ever had a shot at anything. Should she align the conversation right, word could spread towards more viable suitors. For her current goals of interceding on the judges’ decision, however, Sinclair posed a problem. Her arguments could sink into the uncharted waters of his preferences and agenda. She would have to make careful assessments based on his actions.
She stepped boldly forwards, bowed her head and curtsied.
He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he watched a servant pour wine from a decanter. He swivelled the goblet and sniffed at its contents. Eve became uncertain. Had he missed her announcement?
‘It is—’
Sinclair raised his hand. She clamped her mouth shut. It seemed she wasn’t here for praise or thanks. The scattered chatter and cheers of the crowd below erased the silence. She watched, frustrated, as he tested three wines and made his selection. Only then did he meet her eyes and say, ‘You may speak.’
Eve showed obeisance again. For propriety’s sake, it wasn’t necessary, but it seemed this one basked in his power. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Prince Sinclair.’
‘It had better be after the havoc you caused. Two people injured. Destruction of property, with historical value no less. Repairs will take months. At a cost that taints my budgets like a corked wine taints a negotiation.’ He sat more heavily, though rigidly, and tapped the table. ‘And my lunch is delayed.’
Injuries? What was he talking about? ‘I don’t understand.’
‘When your sinsteed barrelled into the stands, two good citizens of Lucielle were on their way down the stairs. They suffered because you couldn’t resist playing hero. You should’ve let the guards perform their tasks in peace.’
A flame of anger fountained inside her. Playing hero? What kind of accusations were these? It wasn’t like she did it on purpose; he had it all wrong. She dug her nails into her palms, quashing the flames that sizzled below the surface. Humility and concern were the bread and butter of diplomats. ‘I was unseated from my sinsteed, Your Highness, and as soon as I had my bearings, I tried to stop him. I thought no one got hurt… It pains me to hear I was wrong. I wish them the swiftest recovery.’
His expression darkened. ‘What happened in that arena was precisely how I saw it happen.’ His eyes met hers, and they lingered. It was difficult to refrain from swallowing, looking away, showing any sign that she was growing worried. His intimidating tactics were working. ‘My memory can serve you poorly. It can also serve you well. Do you have any arguments for why I should bother to reconsider the events?’
She assessed his expectant posture. His overt threats made it quite clear what kind of negotiation this was. Unless she provided something of value, he’d tell his connections – lords and merchants – what happened here, and it would be reason enough to end business with House Vhodes. Her brother couldn’t afford another blow to his trade. On the other hand, Sinclair would name her a hero for the right price. Tempting, but at this point, she had no assets to relinquish. There was Ember. Perhaps Pit had something, and it made her question: Why did Sinclair ask this of her and not of Pit? Had the prince spoken with innuendo?
The bath, and the body-clinging dress, suddenly acquired new meaning. The thought made her ill.
‘Well?’
Why was he doing this – other than to take advantage of her? He clearly considered House Vhodes inconsequential; he didn’t fear losing their loyalty with his exploits, though he also thrived on his power-hold on her. To change this from ultimatum to negotiation, she had to change the air of the conversation from antagonistic to friendly.
She cocked her head. ‘I once heard a story of three princes. Three brothers, if you will.’ Her pause provided him opportunity to object.
He watched, listening.
She continued, ‘One, the oldest, grew strong as a demon. He mastered the sword, the shield, and the brutalities of war.
‘The second had no chance to compete at arms. With his brilliant mind, though, he had no need to. He could count the treasury before he could walk. By the time he was ten, the kingdom’s history was on the tip of his tongue.
‘The third, though, he was nothing, as far as anyone could tell. The minstrels omitted him; the palace forgot him. Until he came of age,’ Eve said, ‘one could wonder if he hid his potential on purpose.’
Sinclair hadn’t touched his wine since she started. ‘Continue.’
‘The oldest went to war. Alongside the king, no less.’ She took a step forwards. Since he didn’t object, she moved slowly around the table. Standing over him would be a mistake – displays of dominance would only aggravate him. She sat down adjacent, so they were at eye level. No longer was she portrayed as a victim. ‘They called him the Demon Knight. From the back of his shredder, he struck with the silence of succubi and the bloodthirst of fiends.
‘The second son never set foot on the battlefield. Safe within the walls of the palace, he invented new ways of farming. They tripled the yield of the latest harvest and fed the soldiers through the winter. The war was in the mountains, see, where water froze to ice.’
He knew where the story headed. It was pleasing to watch how he hinged on her words, eagerly awaiting his victory. What an inflated ego. To her benefit, it made him more malleable.
‘They came home with glory. They came home with spoils. It was nothing compared to the wealth that awaited them.’ Eve gesticulated. ‘Gold and jewels, silk and spices. Rich wine overtook the river and flowed into the streets. While the two brothers campaigned across the mountains against barbarians with nary a boot between them, the third had other plans. He acquired five bountiful islands in the western oceans.’ With a deliberate display of teeth and tongue, she slowly enunciated the final line: ‘All without shedding a single drop of blood.’
The story was delivered with theatrical exaggeration, but he seemed pleased with himself. Now that his mood had improved, he might let her off the hook.
Sinclair studied her. Irritation no longer marred his face, and now that she was up close, she was surprised at how ordinary he looked. Not that he wasn’t handsome, but she’d expected something more grandiose from royalty – inhuman perfection. He could’ve been any noble without the white hair. She also caught a whiff of tobacco, which all men seemed to smell of nowadays.
‘You’re from Crucios, correct?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Famous for figs and fish.’
‘And beautiful women.’
‘Who smell of fish.’
‘Why do you think I sent you to a bath?’
‘To imagine me undressed.’ Her heart quickened with her bold reply.
His eyes licked down her body. ‘Quite difficult, now, with the changes you’ve made to that dress. Was it not good enough for you?’
With her eyebrows skewed with apology like a puppy and her hands folded in her lap with dovelike grace, Eve perfected the polite lady. ‘I was told to wear it. I tried to, but it didn’t fit. I wished so dearly to obey His Highness, so I made it fit.’
He sipped his wine. The cup almost hid his smile, but she caught it as he clacked the goblet back onto the table. He slid a finger along the ridges of the cup’s base, his eyes tracing the movement. An iron ring formed a prominent figure on his hand, with the horned crocodilian head of Beelzebub, Demon Prince of Gluttony. Though its eyes sparkled with peridots, not rubies. How inappropriate. ‘Who told you it was my orders?’
Hmph. He feigned ignorance. When royal servants entered with rules and demands, who else? They would never dare dictate her behaviour without his backing. ‘Your servants said I must wear it.’
He returned his attention to her. ‘They go to great lengths to please me.’ He tightened his lower eyelids. ‘You have not shown me the same courtesy. I am done with indulgence. Answer the question for which I summoned you: What incentives keep me from naming you a villain?’
That sly bastard. Mammon, Demon Prince of Avarice, had blessed him this day. Either that, or Asmodeus, of Lust. Why couldn’t he say which; why insist on ambiguity? She almost said so outright, but she wasn’t about to blame him for…well, for anything. ‘Your Highness. I am confused, and I hope I do not come across as dim-witted, because I don’t understand what you desire of me.’
He flicked his eyes to either side of her face. ‘From what I recall, Crucios was once known for pearls.’
Ah, he’d noticed her earrings. ‘A sharp memory, Your Highness. Not since my grandfather was head of House Vhodes have we seen their beauty. Though my brother knows such details better than I. Why not ask him?’
‘You are exceedingly more entertaining than Lord Vhodes.’ He settled into his chair, relaxed, and clutched the goblet’s base as though his hand lived there.
Compliments and flirting. Were they genuine? Eve leaned forwards, as if divulging a secret, and touched his cuffed wrist to put him off guard. ‘So you have met him. Quite the bore, isn’t he?’ She let go.
He looked at his wrist like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. Indeed, strangers rarely touched princes.
She rested on her elbows, chin in her palms. Normally she would lean back. Staying forwards showed interest, but doing so too long showed subjugation, which most found unpleasant. Emphasis on most. Know when to break the rules. She twisted a lock of her blue hair. ‘I think it’s in the nature of siblings to disappoint one another. I’m surprised he hasn’t told me about your interaction. I’d assumed he’d brag for weeks if he’d been graced with your presence. I know I would.’
He smiled like the devil was caught stealing pastries. Quite telling that he had, indeed, never met Pit. While grinning, he shook his head. ‘If I wanted to see your brother, I would’ve sent for him.’
Sinclair desired House Vhodes’s assets, but not from Pit, and flirted like he wanted more from her, yet didn’t press the matter in any uncomfortable manner. Here she’d thought Prince Aster was the one infamous for mixed signals. Could she risk Pit losing his business prospects because she found no way around this? The obvious solution made her sick to her stomach. She felt cold, even though sweat slicked her palms. If only she could appease him without reaching for anything untoward… How about a charming little plea for mercy?
‘Well then.’ Eve reached for her ear. She unclipped a pearl stud and slid her hand across the table to drop it into his territory. ‘Take this as a token from House Vhodes. May my grandmother’s earring lessen the taint on your budgets.’ They weren’t her grandmother’s, but sentimental value implied sacrifice. And while valuable, they were not nearly enough to compensate for any damage to the arena. The gesture demonstrated her willingness to please, while highlighting the handcuffs he had locked on her – if she could do more, she would.
Unless he insisted on other favours.
Dear Asmodeus, Lord of Lust, let him be more gentlemanly than that.
Sinclair picked up the earring and studied it. He side-eyed her. ‘Cute.’
The earrings, or her behaviour?
While appraising the pearl, he held out his palm, expectant. Bloody greedy, this bastard. She unfastened her other stud and laid it into his hand. Please, let this be enough.
He pinched it, held it up and evaluated it, placed it next to its twin, then turned his attention to the view and sipped his wine, carefree and content. From here, only the azure sky was visible. To see the sport, they’d have to move closer to the balustrade. The commentator made announcements, and the crowd roiled against an unfair judgement, but it didn’t entice his curiosity at all. His shift in focus to their surroundings was intentional: to make her wait.
Her exterior may have been calm, but inside, her nerves fired in chaotic waves. If the gesture didn’t placate him, maybe she could…beg? Don’t be ridiculous. No, then maybe she could share the truth: That their house neared ruin. And expose their weakness? Hells no. Her mind tore through ideas, but one after another seemed less and less likely to work.
If he didn’t accept this, that was it. Pit’s businesses would tank, he’d never replace her dowry, and she’d be stuck with Terrek Ciarti or the solitary life of a temple Poet. All she could do now was pray. Pray for the blessing of a prince’s mercy.