12

Basar Vad the Fifteenth

Morning light poured through the window glass, her eyes stirred and Ryska blinked awake to find her face pressed against a man’s chest.

She looked up and found herself sleeping in Valere’s arms. She sat up at once, only to be pulled back by her wrist, which was tied to his wrist, and last night came rushing back. She had tied it, fearing he would vanish when she slept, then the memory told her that perhaps that was the least embarrassing thing she had done, and he had let her do whatever nonsense she threw at him throughout the night.

She looked at him again, and her breath caught. Crimson marks bloomed across the side of his neck, scattered beneath his jaw, trailing over his collarbone and disappeared across the breadth of his chest. Heat rushed to her face so suddenly for she had not let him sleep until midnight, she had instead painted him with them throughout the night, and now the morning had the audacity to illuminate every last one.

“Valere," she lifted a hand and patted his cheek.

“Ryska," he blinked and spoke in his gruff morning voice. “Let me sleep at least now.”

“You complain about me?”

“A little," he let out a sleepy huff of a laugh. “You kicked me out of bed twice, declared war upon the blanket, and somehow still managed to place both your hands, one leg, and your whole self on me before the night was over," his hand rose to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. “I am rather glad you kept me awake for most of the night, at least while you were awake, you kept me in the bed.”

“You are shameless,” Ryska declared, giving him a firm shove before slipping out from beneath him and climbing to her feet.

“Am I wrong?” He flung a hand into the air and dropped back onto the mattress, but Ryska caught it before he could settle.

“We have exam,” she pulled him upright. “It begins at the second hour of the First Teil.”

“First Teil,” Valere murmured, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking.

“It is First Teil," Ryska caught his chin and turned his face toward the balcony, where dawn had already poured its pale light across the chamber.

Valere rose with profound reluctance, stretching both arms above his head as a long groan escaped him, every muscle in his body protested the sleep the night had stolen from him, and Ryska forgot why she had woken him at all for the sound settled deep beneath her ribs.

Her eyes lingered upon him as dawn poured over him, revealing him in its pale light. Broad shoulders caught the first rays, falling into a lean waist honed by steel rather than comfort. Every breath shifted the hard planes beneath his pale skin; every stretch awakened the quiet strength carved into his body by years of discipline then there was his unfair face, a sharp jaw like carved stone, a straight nose worthy of statues, high cheekbones touched by the morning light, and lips shaped like a bow, still parted from that long groan. His hair, strange bluish brown like wet cedar beneath dawn, fell in waves around his neck, while his eyes were impossibly blue beneath lashes too long for a man.

Ryska realized he was not only the gentle man who had indulged her throughout the night, but handsome too, unfairly so, and something within her chest turned, like a book falling open to a page she had never meant to read yet could no longer stop herself from reading.

“Ryska,” Valere waved a hand before her, and she returned to the present.

“Uh…” Her feet shifted as though uncertain where to carry her. “Exam, we have an exam," she glanced around to find her scrip to take bath only to realize she was standing in an entirely new room. “When did we come here? Did my fire burn anyone?”

“Do you not remember anything?” Valere stepped a pace closer.

“When my fire steps out, I don’t seem to remember what happens, I never do,” she said.

“Let us get ready and leave for the exam," his hand came to rest at the back of her head. "You can ask your questions in the carriage.”

“Have you brought my scrip?” Ryska asked.

Valere opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a knock sounded upon the door. He crossed the room and opened it to find his guards stepping inside with two silver trays covered in sheets of silk. They placed them upon the table and quietly withdrew. Valere closed the door again and lifted the coverings, revealing freshly pressed garments for both of them, along with everything else they needed to freshen up.

Valere wished for myris to open beneath his feet and swallow him whole, mortified that his brother already knew he had brought a girl into his chamber, and worse still, that he knew about her and was doing all of this before Valere had even spoken to Ryska about any of it.

“What kind of inn sends all this?” Ryska frowned as she crossed the room.

“It is not an inn,” Valere drew a slow breath, searching for words, then abandoned every excuse and chose the truth. “It is my palace.”

“In Aldaene?” Her brows knit together. “So... you are Valere Paendrage," she held his gaze without blinking. “The Prince of the North.”

“I am,” he nodded and lowered his gaze.

“You happen to stay at the inn in your own city?”

“I thought someone might come for you again and find you alone.”

“You could have spoken to me.”

“You refused the simplest courtesy I offered,” Valere replied. “What reason had I to believe you would welcome me as your neighbor?”

Ryska opened her mouth, only to realize he was right. Had he asked, she would have refused without a second thought. Left with no argument to offer, she said nothing, simply took the garments from the tray, and held them against herself.

“Show me the bath and call a handmaiden," she said. "I shall need help with this hair.”

Valere's gaze drifted downward and still it found more of her. The golden braid flowed over her shoulder and descended without end, crossing her waist, her hips, her knees, until it reached her ankle in one unbroken cascade. It lay there like spun sunlight gathered into a single braid, so long and so impossibly full that, for a heartbeat, he wondered whether dawn itself had been woven into her hair.

“You have hair the length of your own height,” his eyes widened.

Ryska glanced down at the braid, then seemed to remember the hour all over again. “We do not have time, Valere.”

“You go and take your bath, then I shall help you with your hair.”

“Man cannot touch my hair," she said.

“There are no women here,” Valere said. “It is my mother's retreat palace.”

Ryska looked around the chamber again, her gaze rose to gilded pillars that climbed toward a vaulted ceiling, then drifted to silken draperies stirring in the dawn breeze that spilled through the open balcony. Her eyes wandered across walls covered in painted scenes, where forests, mountains, rivers, dragons, whales, lions, hydras, ponds and endless skies unfolded together in one vast tapestry of color.

“These paintings are beautiful,” she recognized at once that they had been painted by heart, rather than by some artisan merely seeking payment for the work.

“Mamma painted them for me while she was carrying me,” he said, glancing around and a fond smile found his face, but it faded as quickly as it came, and sadness settled into his eyes. “I will fetch someone for you.”

“I shall braid it myself.” Ryska waved a dismissive hand, but the moment her arm rose above her waist, a sharp hiss escaped her lips and her eyes widened. “My assessments.”

“Are you left-handed?”

“I am.”

“Ryska,” his voice steadied hers before panic could take hold. “Garuka will bring someone here to help with your hair, and then I shall take you to the healer," he patted her head. "We will find our way through this, all right?”

“We do not have time,” she said, worry gathered in her voice.

“Trust me,” Valere said softly. " We will manage it, all of it.”

Ryska blinked as those words settled something within her heart, something far older and deeper than the newest worry of the examination.