Page 82 of The Isles of the Gods
Without thinking, I slide my hand across to his beneath the covers. Our little fingers bump, and he holds still just long enough to be sure it wasn’t an accident, I think. But I shift my hand a little farther, and he weaves his fingers through mine so quickly, so tightly, it’s like he’s holding on for his life.
“Good night,” I whisper.
“Good night, Selly.”
Tired as I am, I don’t think I’ll fall asleep. But in almost no time at all, I’m drifting away, my fingers still entwined with his.
JUDE
Handsome Jack’s
Port Naranda, Mellacea
I push my way in through the door of Handsome Jack’s, hardly knowing how I got here, and the roar of the crowd rises up to embrace me.
“You’re not on tonight,” says the man on the door, looking me over, then studying a grubby list in one hand. He glances up and considers me again, taking in my expression. “Want to get in the ring?”
And then I understand—thisis why my feet carried me to the tavern, to the boxing ring.
“Yes,” I rasp, already unbuttoning my shirt.
I should have stayed. I should have talked to Leander.
I should have asked—begged—for help. If he was telling the truth about trying to find me when we left, he would have helped me now.
But all I could think was,I helped her kill you. Why aren’t you dead?
And in my head a softer, more persistent voice said,You could turn him in right now, and all your troubles would be over.Because that’s the sort of person I am, it turns out.
But with guilt burning me from the inside out, instead of asking for help, instead of warning him of the hounds on his trail, I ran.
And now, the crowd-monster already building to a bellow around me, I stride toward the ring, and the only way I know to stop thinking.
I don’t deserve what he offered me.
But I can’t bear to know I gave it up.
KEEGAN
The Salthouse Inn
Port Naranda, Mellacea
The dockside square in Port Naranda never sleeps, but it’s quieter now, its activity reduced to those whose errands can’t wait for morning.
A group of sailors carry their cargo toward the nearest pier, no doubt intent on setting sail with the tide. A pair of city guards walk a slow patrol around the edges of the space. Sleepy sailors head out toward their ships—I notice they move in groups. Perhaps they always did, or perhaps it’s the tensionin the air here that makes them do it.
The curtains in our room are drawn, my companions asleep in the bed, boneless in their exhaustion. Slowly they’ve turned in toward each other, and now they sleep with their heads close together, as though they’re whispering secrets.
I should be sleeping as well—I could make up a bed on the floor—but though my head aches with tiredness, rest eludesme.
So instead, I’ve ducked underneath the curtain to stand on the far side, resting our newspaper on the window ledge and reading by the lights of the square below. It’s an old habit. I’ve read by moonlight all my life, whether in the dormitory at school or during my time at home. It settles me, and never fails to slow my head or my heart.
There’s nothing in the newspaper Leander and Selly brought back with them that speaks of the progress fleet or of Alinor’s lost prince, though there’s plenty of mention of Alinor—talk of trade, of politics, reports on manufactured insults. My guess is that another day or two will pass before Leander’s fleet is due to make a stop—it would make sense to give Leander as much of a head start as possible toward the sacrifice before his absence was revealed.
Nevertheless, it won’t be long before the headlines both here and at home—indeed, all over the continent—scream that Prince Leander is dead.
Then two nations will ready themselves for war. Alinor in revenge for the attack on her fleet, for there can be only one suspect in such a crime.
