I hadn’t moved, and he turned around to look at me. “Your mouth is open, Princess.”
“Yes,” I said, my mind still reeling. “I do. Over there.” I walked to the chest where they were folded on top and grabbed them from the pile. “I have riding clothes.”
“Then put them on.”
I stared at him. Did he expect me to dress in front of him?
He smirked. “Ah. Modesty. You royals.” He shook his head and turned around. “Hurry up about it.”
His back was to me, and Natiya’s knife was within reach under my mattress.
Not yet, a voice so deep and buried I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. It was the perfect time. His guard was down. He didn’t know I had a weapon.
Not yet.
Was this the gift, or was I just afraid of incurring a target on my own back? I would be a target. An easy one. A three-inch knife might make short work of an exposed jugular, but it couldn’t take on a whole army, and what good would I do Rafe if I was dead? But then thoughts of Walther and Greta pushed aside reason. Do it. My fingers trembled. No mistakes this time, Lia. Revenge and escape battled within me.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
Not yet. A whisper as strong as an iron door slamming shut.
“I’m hurrying.” I threw off my nightshirt and put on fresh underclothes, praying he wouldn’t turn around. Being seen naked should have been the least of my worries right then, and I had never been particularly modest, but I raced gazelle-swift to get them and my riding clothes on, fearful his patience would run out and mildly surprised he was showing any restraint at all.
“There,” I said, tucking my shirt into my trousers. He turned and watched as I slipped on my belt, the tether of bones that had lengthened considerably, and finally the long warm vest of many furs, again the revered symbol of the Meurasi.
He had bathed since last night. The mud of the road was gone, and the short sculpted beard once again meticulously groomed. He stepped closer. “Your hair,” he said. “Comb it. Do something with it. Don’t shame the vest you wear.”
I surmised he wasn’t taking me out to behead me if he cared about how my hair looked, but it seemed odd that he was even concerned how I looked at all. No, not odd, suspicious. It wasn’t about shaming the vest. He sat back in Kaden’s chair and watched every move as I brushed and braided it.
Studying me. Not in the lecherous way Malich had ogled me countless times, but in a cool, calculated way that made me guard my movements even more. He wanted something and was devising how to get it.
I tied off my braid, and he stood, grabbing my cloak from a hook. “You’ll need this,” he said, and he put it around my shoulders, taking his time as he fastened it at my neck. I bristled when his knuckle grazed my jaw.
“What did I do to deserve all these kind attentions?” I asked.
“Jezelia,” he said, shaking his head. “Always so suspicious.” He lifted my chin so I had to look in his eyes. “Come. Let me show you Venda.”
* * *
I was astonished that it felt good to be on a horse again. Even though we moved slowly through winding streets, every sway on the back of the horse held the promise of open spaces, meadows, and freedom—that is, if I ignored who rode next to me. He kept his horse close to mine, and I could feel his watchful eye, not just on me but on everyone we passed. Their inquisitive stares were plain. They had heard of the princess prisoner of Morrighan. “Push back your cloak a bit. Let them view your vest.” I looked at him uncertainly but did as he asked. He had seemed angry with Kaden about how his coin was spent, but now he seemed absorbed by it.
I was being paraded, though I was uncertain why. Only a little over a week ago, he had marched me through the Sanctum in front of his Council, barefoot and half naked in a burlap sack that could barely be called a dress. That I understood: demean the royal and take her power away. Now it was as though he was giving it back, but I felt in the deepest part of my gut that the Komizar never gave up even the smallest fistful of power.
You have been welcomed by the clan of Meurasi. Was a welcome something even the Komizar didn’t know how to navigate? Or maybe it was simply his intent to control it.
We meandered through the Brightmist quarter, which was at the northernmost part of the city. He seemed to be in particularly good spirits as we rode through the streets, calling out to shopkeepers, soldiers, or a patty clapper scooping up horse manure to be patted into fuel, because, as I had learned, even wood was not easy to come by in Venda and dried horse dung burned warmly.
He told me we were headed to a small hamlet about an hour away, but he didn’t tell me for what purpose. He was an imposing figure in the saddle, his dark hair ruffling in the breeze, his black riding leathers gleaming under a hazy sky. He had saved Kaden. I tried to imagine the person he had been, almost a boy himself when he had lifted a child to his horse and whisked him away to safety. Then he went back to butcher Kaden’s tormentors.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“A name?”
“One that you were born with. Given by your parents. Besides Komizar,” I clarified, though I thought my question was obvious. Apparently it wasn’t.
He thought for a moment and answered stiffly, “No. Only Komizar.”
We passed through an unguarded gate at the end of the lane. Sparse brown meadowlands spread out before us, and we left the crowded, smoky, mud-soaked avenues of the city behind us.