Chapter Eighteen
“Thank the gods you’re still alive.”
I rolled my eyes at Caom’s dramatic tone after opening the door to him the next morning. He had his usual basket hanging from his arm, and his eyes held genuine relief when he looked me over.
“It was just dinner,” I said, walking into the living room as Caom shut the door.
“Still. I was half certain I’d hear in the village this morning that Prince Lonan had slit your throat for being insolent. He’s killed on her behalf for far less.”
My stomach clenched at the reminder that Lonan was the Carlin’s assassin. Somehow I could forget that too easily.
“I was perfectly polite,” I muttered, heading back into the kitchen where I’d been making tea when he knocked.
“How was it?” Caom asked as he set down the basket by the door. “Was it awful? Did you have to speak to her sons?”
I shrugged uncomfortably, going over to the table and quickly closing my notebook, stuffing it beneath theNovice Drachmsmithbook. I didn’t want Caom to see that I was copying out the potions I wanted to try, for some reason. Even though he’d encouraged me to try potioncraft before.
“It was awkward. Tense,” I told him. “But nothing really happened.”
“Was the food good?”
I chuckled at that. “Yeah, and there was a lot of it. I’ll probably spend most of today napping to try and sleep it off.”
“Well, don’t get too comfortable.” Caom peered into the cauldron, sniffing the tea and wrinkling his nose. “You like this tea? It’s soearthy.”
I glanced over as I moved the quill and inkwell to the sideboard. “It’s nice. Why shouldn’t I get comfortable?”
“The game of favours.”
I made a face. “The what?”
Caom looked over at me, brows pinching. “The game of favours. Don’t you know?”
Unease slithered into my gut, stiffening my shoulders. “No.”
“Oh.” Caom cocked his head. “The Carlin called for it, so I just assumed she would have told you last night. You’re the guest of honour.”
I had no idea what he was talking about—no idea what a game of favourswas. But I already knew that I didn’t want to be involved.
I shook my head, taking a step back as though that would help me. “I don’t want to play.”
Caom rolled his eyes. “You have to, Ash. The Carlin’s ordered us to hold it just for you. To help you get more involved with the Folk and our ways. So you can—”
“Shed my mortal skin,” I muttered. “I know.”
“It’s nothing to worry about, Ash.” Caom waved an elegant hand. “It’s just a silly game. An unseelie tradition.”
“What is it?” I asked, nervously twisting my fingers together.
“We all pair up for a battle of skill and wits, for the chance to win a favour from the other.”
I knew the Folk took theirfavoursseriously. They loved their vows and promises, loved trapping mortals with them.
Which meant this could be very bad for me.
“Do you mean magical skill? Powers?” I asked. “I don’t have those. How am I supposed to win?”
Or was the point that I wouldn’t be able to?