The Kiss of Deception (25 page)

She always brushed it off, claiming she had heard the horse or felt the ground move before we did, but back then, I was certain it was the gift. I had seen her face. She saw what would happen before it did, or saw it happen from afar, like the day she took to her room in grief on the day her father died, though she didn’t receive the news until two weeks later, when a messenger finally arrived. But in these latter years, there had been nothing.

“Even if it’s not a vision,” Pauline said, “it could still be a gift. There could be other kinds of knowing.”

A chill clutched my spine. “What did you say?”

She repeated her words, almost the same ones the priest had used that morning.

She must have seen the distress on my face, because she laughed. “Lia, don’t worry! I’m the one with the gift of seeing! Not you! In fact, I’m having a vision now!” She bounced to her feet and held her hands to her head in mock concentration. “I see a woman. A beautiful old woman in a new dress. Her hands are on her hips. Her lips are pursed. She’s impatient. She’s—”

I rolled my eyes. “She’s standing behind me, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I am,” Berdi said.

I spun and saw her standing in the tavern doorway just as described.

Pauline squealed with delight.

“Old?” Berdi said.

“Venerable,” Pauline corrected and kissed her cheek.

“You two ready?”

Oh, I was ready. I had been waiting for this night all week.

*   *   *

Crickets chirped, welcoming the shadows. The sky over the bay was draped with thin streamers of pink and violet while the rest deepened to cobalt. A bronzed sickle moon held a pinprick star. Terravin painted a magical landscape.

The air was still and warm, holding the whole town suspended.
Safe.
When we reached the main road, a crisscross of paper lanterns twinkled overhead. And then, as if the landscape alone weren’t enough,
the song.

The prayer was sung as I’d never heard it sung before. A remembrance here. Another there. Voices separate, combining, gathering, giving, a melody coming together. It was sung at different paces, different words rising, falling, streaming like a choir washed together in a cresting wave, aching and true.

“Lia, you’re crying,” Pauline whispered.

Was I? I reached up and felt my cheeks, wet with tears. This was not crying. This was something else. As we got closer to town, Berdi’s voice, with the most beautiful timbre of all, moved from song to greetings, the remembrances melting into the now.

The smithy, the cooper, the fishermen, this craftsperson, that dressmaker, the clerks of the mercantile, the soap maker who reminded Berdi she had some new scents she must try, they all offered their greetings. Soon Berdi was pulled away.

Pauline and I watched the musicians setting up, placing three chairs in a half circle. They set their instruments—a zitarae, fiola, and goblet drum—on the chairs and went to find some food and drink before their music began. While Pauline wandered off to sample the pickled eggs, I walked closer to examine the zitarae. It was made of deep-red cherrywood inlaid with thin seams of white oak and had worn marks where hands had rested through hundreds of songs.

I reached down and plucked one string. A dull pang rang through me. On rare occasions, my mother and her sisters would play their zitaraes, the three of them creating haunting music, my mother’s voice wrenching and wordless like an angel watching creation. When they played, a chill ran through the citadelle and everything stopped. Even my father. He’d watch and listen from a distance, hidden away on the upper gallery. It was the music of her homeland, and it always made me wonder what sacrifices she had made to come to Morrighan to be its queen. Her sisters had followed two years later to be with her, but who else had she left behind? Maybe as he listened and watched, that was what my father was wondering too.

More people arrived for the evening festivities, and the chatter and laughter grew to a soothing buzz. The celebration had begun, and the musicians took their seats, filling the air with welcoming tunes, but something was still missing.

I tracked down Pauline. “Have you seen him?” I asked.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be here.” She tried to pull me away to watch the lighting of the floating candles in the plaza fountain, but I told her I’d catch up with her later.

I stood in the shadows outside the apothecary and watched the hands of the zitarae player press and pluck, a mesmerizing dance in itself. I wished my mother had taught me how to use the instrument. I was about to walk closer when I felt a hand on my waist.
He was here.
Heat rushed through me, but when I turned, it wasn’t Rafe.

I sucked in a surprised breath. “Kaden.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” His eyes traveled over me. “You look radiant tonight.”

I glanced down, embarrassed, guilt pinching me for being too generous with my attentions last night. “Thank you.”

He motioned toward the street where people were dancing. “The music’s playing,” he said.

“Yes. It just started.”

His damp blond locks were combed back, and the scent of soap was still fresh on his skin. He nodded again toward the music, awkwardly boyish, though there was nothing else boyish about him. “Can we dance?” he asked.

I hesitated, wishing they were playing a faster jig. I didn’t want to lead him on, but I couldn’t refuse a simple dance either. “Yes, of course,” I answered.

He took my hand and guided me to the space set aside in front of the musicians for dancing. One of his arms slid behind my back, and the other held my hand out to the side. I made sure our conversation was full, recounting the day’s games so we could maintain some distance, but when talk lulled only briefly, he tugged me closer. His touch was gentle but firm, his skin warm against mine.

“You’ve been kind to me, Lia,” he said. “I—” He paused for a long while, his lips slightly parted. He cleared his throat. “I’ve enjoyed my time here with you.”

His tone had turned strangely solemn, and I saw the same gravity in his eyes. I looked at him, confused at this sudden change in his demeanor.

“I’ve done little enough for you, Kaden, but you saved my life.”

He shook his head. “You managed to break free. I’m sure you’d have been just as capable with your knife.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe not.”

“We’ll never know what might have been.” His fingers tightened on mine. “But we can’t dwell on the maybes.”

“No … I suppose we can’t.”

“We have to move on.”

Every word from him was weighted, as if he was thinking one thing but saying another. The unrest that had always lurked in his eyes doubled.

“You sound like you’re leaving,” I said.

“Soon. I have to return to my duties at home.”

“You never told me where home is.”

Lines deepened around his eyes. “
Lia
,” he said hoarsely. The music crawled, my heart thumped faster, and his hand slid lower on my back. Tenderness replaced the unrest, and his face dipped close to mine. “I wish—”

A hand came down on his shoulder, surprising us both. Rafe’s hand.

“Don’t be piggish, man,” Rafe said cheerfully, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Give the other fellows a chance.”

Astonishment paraded across Kaden’s face as if Rafe had dropped from the sky. In an instant, his surprise was replaced with a scowl. He looked from Rafe to me, and I shrugged to show it was only polite to dance with everyone. He nodded and stepped aside.

Rafe slid his arm around me and explained he was late because the clothes he had laid out at the bathhouse had somehow gotten up and walked off by themselves. He’d finally had to make a mad dash to the barn loft with only a towel to cover himself. He eventually found his clothes tossed in Otto’s stall. I suppressed a giggle, imagining him running to the loft draped only in a towel.

“Kaden?”

“Who else?”

Rafe pulled me closer, and his fingers gently strummed my spine. Hot splinters whirled in my stomach. We had only seconds together before the music changed to a fast jig. Soon we were pulled apart by the swift exchange of partners. The pace was brisk, and I found myself laughing, the lights twinkling and swirling past my view, more joining in, Pauline, Berdi, Gwyneth, priests, the farrier, little Simone holding her father’s hand, strangers I didn’t know, everyone singing, hooting, stepping into the center circle to show off a few fancy steps, the zitarae, fiola, and drum thrumming at our temples.

My face damp with the revelry, I finally had to catch my breath and step back to watch. It was a fast whirl of color and movement, Rafe dancing with Berdi, the seamstress, schoolgirls, Kaden taking Pauline’s hand, Gwyneth with the tanner, the miller, an endless circle of celebration and thanks. Yes, that’s what it was, thankfulness for this one moment, regardless of what the morrow might bring.

The words Rafe had spoken rang clear again.
Some things last … the things that matter.
The very words I had scoffed at only weeks ago now filled me with wonder. Tonight was one of those things that would last—what I was witnessing right now at this very moment—and I saw a time past, a time even before that, the Ancients dancing in this very street, breathless, feeling the same joy I was experiencing now. The temples, the wondrous bridges, the greatness may not last, but some things do. Nights like this. They go on and on, outlasting the moon, because they’re made of something else, something as quiet as a heartbeat and as sweeping as the wind. For me, tonight would last forever.

Rafe spotted me on the fringe of the crowd and slipped away too. We walked through the plaza that was flickering with floating candles, the music fading behind us, and we disappeared into the dark shadows of the forest beyond, where no one, not Kaden, Pauline, or anyone else, could find us.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I stretched in the bed, my legs sliding along the cool sheets, and smiled again. I had half slept, half dreamed, and half relived every moment all night long—too many halves to fit into one night.

There was a bond between us I couldn’t name. A sadness, a regret, a falling short,
a past.
I saw the yearning in his eyes, not just for me but for something more, a peace, a wholeness, and I wanted to give it to him.

I was immersed again in his tenderness …
his finger tracing a line down my shoulder, slipping my strap free so he could kiss my back, his lips barely brushing along my kavah, my whole body tingling at his touch, our lips meeting over and over again.

From the first day, Lia, I wanted this, wanted you.

Our fingers laced together, tumbling in a bed of leaves, my head resting on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, his hand stroking my hair.
I had to get some sleep, but I couldn’t stop reliving it. I hadn’t thought it could be this way. Ever. With anyone.

We had talked for hours. He loved fishing from a riverbank, but he rarely had the time. He hesitated when I asked about his parents, but then told me they had died when he was young. He had no one else, which explained why he had no schooling in the Holy Text. He had worked on a farm, mostly tending the horses and other livestock, but also helping with the fields. Yes, melons were one of the things they grew, just as I had imagined. He hated pigeon meat and was glad we left the dinner early yesterday. I shared my stories too, mostly about forays into the mountains or forests with my brothers, who remained unnamed. I was careful to leave royal details out. He was surprised to learn I had favored swordplay over stitchery, backroom card games over music lessons. He promised to challenge me to a game one day.

It was late when he walked me back. Pauline had left the lantern out for me. Our words just kept stringing on and on, always one more thing to say to keep us from parting, one more thing we needed to share. Finally I kissed him one last time and told him good night, but as I reached for the door handle, he stopped me.

“Lia, there’s one more thing, something else I need to—”

“Tomorrow, Rafe. We have all day tomorrow. It’s late.”

He nodded, then lifted my hand to his lips and left.

A perfect night … a perfect forever.

I was in that half-awake dreamworld all night long, until the early morning hours, when the first muted light tiptoed along the ledge of the window, and my dreams finally gave way to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Lia.”

A nudge on my shoulder.

“Lia, wake up.”

Another nudge.

“Lia! You have to wake up!”

I startled awake, sitting upright. Pauline sat on the edge of the bed. The room was bright. I had slept all morning.

“What is it?” I said, shielding my eyes against the light. And then I noticed Pauline’s expression. “
What?
”

“It’s Walther. He’s behind the icehouse. Something’s wrong, Lia. He’s—”

I was out of the bed, groggy, rummaging for pants, a shirt, something to throw on.
Walther behind the icehouse?
My palms were damp with sweat. Pauline’s voice was shrill.
Something’s wrong.
I threw down whatever was bunched in my hands and ran out of the cottage barefoot and in my nightdress.

I saw his tobiano first, lathered and snorting, as if it had been ridden all night. “Take him to the barn and wipe him down,” I called to Pauline, who was running behind me. I rounded the corner of the icehouse and saw Walther sitting on the ground, leaning against a broken overturned wheelbarrow that was stored there along with unused crates and a jumble of other castoffs.

“Lia,” he said when he saw me.

My breath stopped dead against my ribs. He had a gash on his forehead, but worse, his expression was crazed—this was a wild man pretending to be my brother.

“Walther, what is it?” I rushed to his side and fell to my knees. My hand went to his forehead, and he looked at me and said “Lia” again, as if it were the first time.

“Walther, you’re hurt. What happened?”

His eyes were desolate. “I have to do something, Lia. I have to do something.”