Page 21 of Immortal

“Her Majesty desires your kingdom to prove its devotion before—”

“We have been loyal,” I burst out, my temper slipping.

“The loss of the Divine Pearl Lotus is a grave matter,” he reminded me somberly. “If it is found, it would alleviate some of Her Majesty’s unease.”

Half-promises that offered nothing of worth. Even if I surrendered the lotus, it would just turn the queen against us more because it would reveal my grandfather’s lies—and mine.

“Thank you for speaking on our behalf.” I restrained myself from pushing further when his position was clear. While I wouldn’t thank him for anything he did for me, his support for my kingdom was another matter. It struck me then: the God of War could be either a dangerous enemy or a powerful ally. According to Weina, his voice carried the most weight with Queen Caihong. It didn’t mean I had to like him, but I should conceal my resentment. Such pretenses turned my stomach, but I couldn’t afford a rigid sense of honor when dealing with the immortals—they already had far too many advantages over us.

There are lies of necessity and those of malice. I would do this for my people, for my own survival.

Feeling his gaze on me again, I looked up into his face. There was a cut just above his eye—not deep, but bleeding a little. “You’re hurt.”

“I was training with the soldiers.”

“Who inflicted that on you? Did someone manage to best the God of War?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

His expression darkened. “How can you determine who won without watching the fight?”

There was an edge in his tone like he was irked at my assumption. I blanched, imagining his opponent’s wounds. “Why don’t you heal yourself?”

“A small matter,” he said with a shrug. “There is a cost to magic. Every time we use it, it drains our energy. I’ve grown used to ignoring the things that don’t need to be healed.”

Yet he’d healed me without hesitation when we first met, the warmth of his magic knitting my torn flesh together. Something tightened around me, another strand of obligation that I must rip away. An inconvenience to be indebted to the one I was determined to hate. I wanted to use him, not to like him—though I had to feign one to achieve the other.

I pulled out my jar of ointment, offering it to him. “Apply a little to your face. Not everything has to be done by magic.”

He did not take it. “Why don’t you show me how to use it?”

Did he want me to serve him, or was this a game? As his mouth curved, I glared at him, tempted to refuse. But it would be ungracious after his hospitality.

I pulled out the stopper, the herbal fragrance soothing my nerves. Then I leaned toward him with deliberate measure to brush a thin layer of the ointment across his forehead—trying not to flinch from the feel of his cool skin, how the cream mingled with the dried blood.

“Thank you.” His voice was a little rougher than usual.

Something stirred in my chest, something I forced to still. I looked around, seeing a weiqi board on a nearby table. “Do you play?”

“Would you like a game?” he countered, his eyes alight.

I wrinkled my nose. “You’re the God of War; strategy is in your blood.” While I had played often with my grandfather and Chengyin, I wouldn’t underestimate his talent in this game.

“I’ll offer a handicap and play the first move,” he said, already moving toward the board.

I paused. “Nine stones might rebalance the odds—but only slightly.”

In reply, he held up three fingers.

“Nine,” I repeated.

“Don’t you understand how negotiations work?”

“I state what I want; no less. You have many centuries of experience ahead of me in this game,” I protested.

“Not centuries more.” He sounded offended.

“This isn’t a game of chance but of skill and experience,” I said firmly. “Or are you afraid I’ll win? Do you only play when there is no risk of losing?”

The corners of his mouth tightened. “Very well. Nine.”