Inherit the Flame

Chapter Thirty-Five

Detan told himself he wasn’t hiding. He was regrouping, settling in, recovering, preparing himself for what was to come.

He’d never hide when there was work to be done. No, not Detan Honding.

He pulled a blanket over his head, and stared at the false stars his adjusting eyes made of the light seeping through the fabric. He breathed deep of the musky-warm aroma of the blanket. The harsh soaps of his childhood filtered through to him, reminded him of sneaking through the laundry rooms as a child for a hint of what went on in that mysterious, steamy place. And the memory of being cuffed on the back of the head for getting in the washers’ way.

Bundled away in his old bed, the mattress permanently dented in a shape that was much like his own, only smaller, he could pretend for a while that stealing a sweet pie was going to be the greatest adventure of his day.

But then reality had to go and ruin it all.

In the hall outside his door footsteps picked up as the lunch hour grew near. The whole staff of the palace must be bending their backs to accommodate the sudden influx of Thratia’s entourage. The longer he lay here, the sooner someone important would come and find him. Thratia, Aella, Auntie Honding. He tried to imagine which one it would be, or who would send a servant first to collect him, and decided to the pits with waiting around for that.

Detan threw the blankets off himself and swung his feet to the ground. He yanked his boots on and tugged his charcoal jacket straight, running a hand through his hair to set it to rights.

He opened the door, and damn near tripped over Misol.

“Come to invite me to tea?” he asked.

She looked naked without her spear, hands folded defensively across her ribs. At least his auntie had put her foot down about Thratia’s people running around the house while openly armed.

“Aella wants you.”

“And do you just hop right up and do whatever she asks?”

She cocked her head to the side. “She’s my boss.”

“She’s your jailer.”

Misol bared her teeth at him, but said nothing.

“Make no mistake, she’s mine, too.”

“Thought that was Thratia.”

“Had to tell where one begins and the other ends.”

“Honding,” Misol’s voice took on a hard edge. “Are you going to make this difficult for me, or will you shut your trap and come along?”

“I’ll come, but I can make no guarantees about the state of my trap.”

“Marvelous.” She stalked off down the hall. Detan pattered along like a good little prisoner, chafing at being ordered about in what was meant to be his own house. Never mind that being in control of anything at the moment was an illusion. He still had his ego to think of, after all.

Misol led the way to a wing of the palace generally reserved for the most important guests his family hosted, and Detan grew more annoyed with each step he took. Sure, Thratia deserved to be put up with a bit of polish, but Aella? That little monstress was likely to leave a few bloodstains on his auntie’s nicest carpets. She was more suited to a dungeon than a suite.

He recalled the narrow tower Thratia had purpose built in her compound for his arrival, and winced. Maybe it was better that his auntie treated her like a normal guest. At least a regular room was less likely to give him a case of the shivers.

And wow, had his auntie ever put Aella up in splendor. Each step they took Detan noted the change in decor, and dredged up old memories of this wing. If Misol wasn’t lost, Aella’d been tucked away in one of the nicest rooms in the place. Probably even nicer than what his auntie had handed over to Ranalae, and that made him grin. If Aella was being over-honored, at least Ranalae was being insulted in the process.

Misol knocked once on a door at the end of the hall and swung it open before waiting for a response. Detan’s power fled him, a numb, wooly feeling indicative of Aella’s will taking its place. He stepped hesitantly into the room, wondering what fresh nightmare Aella had created to test him now, and choked on a scream.

Aella sat in a high-backed chair at a small round table, glancing over the gilded rim of a teacup to the woman who sat beside her. Ranalae. Their postures were mirrored, elegant and firm, but while Aella glanced to Ranalae, that woman’s gaze was locked tight on Detan. At their feet, Callia huddled, the silver chain which Aella used to guide her puddled between her shoulder blades.

Detan turned, heart thundering, but Misol barred his way, her sturdy frame filling the doorway. She caught his eye, held it, and there was something like regret in her expression. Whole fucking lot of good her regret would do for him now.

“Leaving so soon?” Ranalae mused.

Detan breathed slowly, deeply, straightened himself, and turned to face them both. “What do you want from me?”

Ranalae inclined her head to an empty seat at the prim little table. “Sit.”

Hers was not a voice he was accustomed to disobeying. He sat.