Page 165 of The Stolen Throne
She points. “I thought you should see this.”
Doing my best to ignore the darn drop, I lean over to see what she’s pointing at. What greets me could be comforting or concerning, depending on how paranoid I want to be. On the back side of this wall is another massive walled-in structure that backs right in under the cliffs. Separate. Not part of the palace grounds.
Barracks. Large enough to house a very large army.
The yard below us is full of soldiers, all training one-on-one despite it being nighttime and the revelry going on in the city. Omma taught me some basic principles about the five styles of hand-to-hand combat Tropikan warriors are trained in, and I appreciate this unintentionally private demonstration. They’re incredible. Speed. Strength. Agility. But the intensity, the seriousness they’re training with…there’s an air of an impending fight.
My grip on the battlement I’m leaning over tightens as I watch.
“Every blasted soldier in Tropikis seems to be gathered here,” Pella says. “Why?”
She has a point. We don’t keep the entire army of Aryd stationed in the capital, only part of it. “Maybe they come for the Rites? More protection for the king?”
“Maybe,” she murmurs. But her frown says she’s not entirely convinced. I’m not, either.
Because they let us in. Why would they bring an army here to protect the king and their secret Rites, then let a band of strangers in—royalty or not? “We’re King Panqui’s guests?”
“So his majordomo tells us.”
I sigh. It’s tempting to ask her to try to find out more, but I get the sense our welcome here is already balanced on a cliff’s edge. “Until something says we’re not honored guests, we have to assume that’s what we are.”
“I guess.”
“But tell the others and keep a sharp eye.” I’m pretty sure we’ll both be wary of this until we leave here.
“Come on.”
We go back the way we came to our building, then make our way down the stairs to the third floor, where our rooms are housed. The building is eerily vacant. Not even a few guards stationed here and there. They really empty the place out.
“You seem to know your way around,” I comment.
I get a side-eyed glance. “When no one notices if you are there or not, it’s easy to take time to…explore.”
Which is more than I was expecting her to tell me. More, I think, than she intended to reveal, too, because she immediately gets all sullen.
How am I supposed to respond to something like that?
“I’m pretty sure I would notice if you weren’t around,” I finally say. “It becomes so pleasantly quiet.”
Pella makes a sound through her teeth, like a click and a hiss at the same time, which is Wanderer for whatever.
Our footsteps echo off the walls all the way down the hall to our rooms.
“You can use Cain’s pallet,” she says as she unfolds her own and flops down. “It’s his night to stand watch first anyway.”
Which means my friends felt the need to have someone standing watch despite being “safe” here. Smart.
She points out the roll tucked in a corner, and I get settled. Cain’s pallet smells like him—like desert and sand and sun. When I used to sneak out and spend time with him, I’d lay wherever he told me, with him at my back keeping me safe, and inhale. That scent, to me, is escape, freedom. But it’s not home anymore. Reven is home. I lay on my side, my back to the wall, and watch the candlelight dance over the room.
“You should’ve gone easier on him, you know.”
I glance Pella’s way to find her staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind her head. “On who? Cain? I’ve been trying to.”
“No.” She shakes her head. Then turns on her side to face me. “On Reven.”
What’s this now? She’s worried about Reven?
I think about my first night in the zariphate after we escaped Eidolon, when we were all eating in Cainis’s rooms and Pella almost made Reven smile, touched him.
