"Nothing . . . except that I'm to escort you to a reception, without a guard, and expect you to neither attempt escape nor humiliate us in any way. The chances of you doing neither are nearly equal to the chances that Rametta will stop scolding me for every infelicity she imagines I make."
"True," Moria said. "But you knew all that earlier, which does not explain your current cursing and fuming. What else has happened?"
His cheek twitched, but he said nothing.
"Kitsune," she murmured, before she could stop herself.
He looked over and it was as if they were back in the Wastes. On the road, just the two of them, bickering and goading each other.
"My father has asked . . ." He inhaled sharply. "No, my father requires . . ."
"He requires . . . ?" she prompted.
Gavril wheeled on Rametta and spoke in her language, rapid-fire and furious, striking his palm for emphasis as he spoke. The healer shook her head and said something back, quiet, meant to soothe, but he only pointed at Moria and shook his head as he spoke. Rametta continued trying to calm him, but he resumed pacing.
"Gavril . . ." Moria said. "What's going on?"
Rametta said something else, pleading now, but he kept walking, briskly, as if growing only more agitated.
Moria stepped in front of him. "Gavril . . ."
Before he could answer--or refuse--the door opened. Alvar and his guards walked in.
"Ah, good, you're already here," Alvar said to his son. "You've told her the news, I presume."
"I--" Gavril began. "I was . . ."
"He was working up to it," Moria said. "Slowly." A pointed look at Gavril. "Very slowly."
"Well, we haven't time for that. As the guests of honor, you're expected to make your grand entrance before the attendants can open the rice wine. And our visitors will not want to wait a moment longer than necessary to drink it."
"Guests of honor?" Moria said.
"Of course." Alvar smiled at her, his teeth glinting. His eyes glinted, too, like Daigo's when he caught a particularly elusive bird. "It's your betrothal party. Tonight I announce that you'll be marrying my son."
THIRTY-FIVE
"Is that too tight?" Tyrus asked as he wound the strip of clean cloth around Ashyn's arm. The "nick" had turned out to be a gash, much deeper than she thought.
She shook her head. As Tyrus fastened it, Ronan paced, occasionally aiming glares Guin's way. The girl sat at the base of a tree, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. They'd escaped the bounty hunters--the surviving ones, that is--and were now catching their breath and tending to injuries.
"Why did you stop him?" Guin asked Tyrus. "He was running at me. If you hadn't cut him, he wouldn't have turned on you and Ashyn wouldn't have been hurt."
"So it's Tyrus's fault Ashyn was injured?" Ronan snapped.
"No, it's my fault," she said softly. "I'm asking why the prince didn't let him cut me down. Why Ashyn didn't leave me there."
"That is the stupidest--" Ronan began.
Tyrus cut him short with a raised hand and said, his voice gentle, "I could stop him so I did. Ashyn could help so she did."
"I wouldn't have done the same for you. Either of you."
Ashyn looked at the girl, hugging her knees, her gaze fixed somewhere on the ground between them. She'd said the words not with defiance but quietly, as if she was still working through the scenario in her mind.
"Sometimes that doesn't matter," Tyrus said as he tied off the bandage and stood. "For some people, that doesn't matter."
"But in a group, it matters." Ronan strode over. "Guin's right. She wouldn't have done that for us, and she almost got us killed. We can't have someone like that. Not now. She's deadweight. She eats our food, drinks our water, slows our pace, and requires our protection."