I spin to face him. “Phoenix . . .?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Swear to me that you won’t mention Fadil’s claims about the Leymak to any of the Narcos. I know nothing can come of it—but still. There’s no reason to announce this, as it will only cause a divide among the races, as well as the guardians and their masters.”
His features twist into a wounded expression. “Star, I would never do such a thing.”
“I know,” I rush to assure him. “I just need to hear it, as things seem so muddled lately.”
He nods. “I swear. I will keep my fat mouth shut.”
I smile. “It really will be all right once the queen returns.”
“I believe you.” He steps ahead of me, saying over his shoulder, “I probably just need a good romp.”
The theatre is dark. The candelabras’ flames dance along the sides, licking black smudges against the walls. The stone tiered benches wrap around the semicircular enclosure, the sky open along the far side, cloaked by night.
Julius Caesar commissioned the theatre before his demise. It’s traditional Roman style, but hieroglyphs carved on the free-standing columns stringing a heavy red curtain, and Greek writings sewn on tapestries hung against the walls, make it another colossal greatness of Alexandria.
I spy Xarion’s crowned head in the top, center row. Lunia and Nuri—another Narco Guardian of the royal children—sit on either side of the twins, and little Delphus rests in his nurse’s lap. Xarion reaches over and tickles Selene. She beams, her features exultant, her laughter bouncing through the theatre. These are not masters and pharaohs and humans that command us—they are family. They’re my family, and I would protect them against Octavian or any other enemy whether or not the ink on my neck demanded it of me.
I raise my head and look over the citizens seating themselves, their voices carrying through the dark, as Phoenix and I move up the tiers. Fadil is not here, not that he ever leaves the palace, but I’m especially thankful of that tonight. I’m boiling over with rage about what he told Phoenix, and I wonder who else he’s spoken this sacrilege to. He could ignite a rebellion. Not much of one, because the Kythan could never fight their masters. But what if they tried?
We would all be destroyed—executed for treason.
Blinking the frightening image away, I find a seat beside Xarion. “I have their gifts back at the palace,” I whisper. “Should I have brought them?” The talk with Phoenix upset me so, I forgot to grab them.
He shakes his head, a faint smile lighting his face in the darkness. “I’m not giving them mine until after dinner.”
I nod and look out over the platform. A group of Narcos linger off to the side of the curtain while props are arranged on the forestage. A hand slips into mine, and my heart jumps. I look down as Xarion’s fingers thread through mine, our hands hidden beneath his cape and the dark. For just this moment, I try to forget our arguments and strained friendship and tighten my fingers around his, our palms anchored together, welcoming the spike of adrenaline at his touch.
Low drumming fills the theatre, and the candelabras are covered with fumed glass, dousing the light. A spark of Flame ignites in the center of the stage as the curtains are pulled back. A Shythe guardian dressed as Helen of Troy glides across the boarded stage, her thin linen tunic sheer and ruffling behind her like mist in the breeze. Her arms illume blue, and she raises her hands to the heavens, calling a crack of thunder from the sky—her Charge electrifying the air above her.
Steam devices pump in the background. An automaton powered by Flame creates a mist that coats the floor. A statue of Shu stands off to the side, his lips parting and closing as fog spills from his mechanical mouth. Its smoky tendrils waft upward, turning the scene into a haunted recreation of the Mediterranean, dark and beautiful, as the actors push a carved ship hull across the length of the stage.
I glance at Selene and Helios. This is their favorite play, and it’s being performed in honor of their birthday. My chest swells with affection for them as their excited features are bathed in light from the Flame and Charge. A loud boom sounds, and I look back to the performance in time to see one of the Shythe actors demonstrating Zeus’s powerful thunderbolt. He’s Achilles, and he’s being blessed by the god to fight the Trojans.
Lost in the play, I barely feel Xarion’s hand grip mine tighter. But I pull myself away and peek at him as he inches toward my ear. “Come with me.”
A tingle prickles my back, zinging up my spine. I take shallow breaths, then nod slightly. I rise and move past Phoenix, ignoring his curious glare, as Xarion touches the small of my back and guides me toward the back of the theatre.
“What is it?” I ask once we reach the far wall.
Xarion touches his finger to his lips, then yanks me behind a tapestry into a corner alcove. The air is still, and the music and sounds from the stage are muffled. He presses close to me, the heat of his body sending chills skittering across my skin.
“I couldn’t bear being so close to you and not being able to talk,” he whispers, his warm breath caresses my lips as he bends close. “It’s been torture these past months. I’ve tried to focus on my duties, but you’re always so near yet so far. I hate this gulf between us.” He takes my hands in his, rubbing their backs. “I can’t continue on like this.”
My throat grows thick, and I swallow down the aching lump. Meeting his eyes, I attempt a smile. “Xarion, this is the way of it. As I said before, we’re no longer children.” His face contorts in hard lines, his lips pressed together, but I push on. “I’m your guardian. I miss our friendship, too. So much most days . . . but I can’t.” I shake my head. “Please don’t make this more complicated. I just have to protect you and you have to become King. It’s the way it is.”
“Our friendship,” he scoffs with a low chuckle.
“Yes, Xarion. You’ve been my closest friend, and I care for you. Why can’t we have a professional relationship, also? What is bothering you? You take no issue being Habi’s master, or even Phoenix’s or Lunia’s. That is how you must treat us, like I’m your servant—because I am.”
His eyes pinch in anger, and I step back. “How can you not know my feelings for you? Do you think I would risk my crown for just a friend?”
My head rears back, and I blink.
“Star—” He groans and runs a hand over his face. When his eyes meet mine again, he sighs. “I have turned down every offer of courtship from my selected betrothals—all because of my feelings for you. I’ve spent months, years trying to figure out a way for us—” He bites off his words, throws his hands up in frustration.