“Don’t you even consider it,” Chaol said too quietly. “She’s full of shit.”
People gasped. Hasar barked a laugh.
Arghun snapped, “You will speak with respect to my sister, or you will find yourself with legs that don’t work again.”
Chaol ignored them. Yrene’s hands shook badly enough that she slid them beneath the table.
Had the princess brought her out here to corner her into agreeing to this preposterous idea, or had it merely been a whim, an idle thought to taunt and gnaw at Lord Westfall?
Chaol seemed to be on the verge of opening his mouth to say more, to push this ridiculous idea out of her head, but he hesitated.
Not because he agreed, Yrene realized, but because he wanted to give her the space to choose for herself. A man used to giving orders, to being obeyed. And yet Yrene had the sense that this, too, was new to him. The patience; the trust.
And she trusted him. To do what he had to. To find a way to survive this war, whether with this army or another one. If it did not happen here, with these people, he’d sail elsewhere.
Yrene looked to Hasar, to Kashin and the others, some smirking, some swapping disgusted glances. Arghun most of all. Revolted at the thought of sullying his family’s bloodline.
She trusted Chaol.
She did not trust these royals.
Yrene smiled at Hasar, then Kashin. “This is very grave talk for my birthday. Why should I choose one man tonight when I have so many handsome ones in my company right now?”
She could have sworn a shudder of relief went through Chaol.
“Indeed,” Hasar crooned, her smile sharpening. Yrene tried not to balk at the invisible fangs revealed in that smile. “Betrothals are rather odious things. Look at poor Duva, stuck with that brooding, sad-eyed princeling.”
And so the conversation moved on. Yrene did not glance to Kashin or the others. She looked only at her constantly refilled goblet—and drank it. Or at Chaol, who appeared half inclined to lean across Yrene and flip Hasar’s chair right back into the pool.
But the meal passed, and Yrene kept drinking—enough so that when she stood after dessert, she had not realized precisely how much she’d imbibed. The world tipped and swayed, and Chaol steadied her with a hand on her elbow, even as he was none too steady on his feet.
“Seems like they can’t hold their liquor up north,” Arghun said with a snort.
Chaol chuckled. “I’d advise never to say that to someone from Terrasen.”
“I suppose there’s nothing else to do while living amongst all the snow and sheep beyond drink,” Arghun drawled, lounging in his chair.
“That may be,” Chaol said, putting an arm on Yrene’s back to guide her to the trees and tents, “but it won’t stop Aelin Galathynius or Aedion Ashryver from drinking you under the table.”
“Or under a chair?” Hasar crooned to Chaol.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the heat, or the hand on her back, or the fact that this man beside her had fought and fought and never once complained about it.
Yrene lunged for the princess.
And though Chaol might have decided against pushing Hasar into the pool behind her, Yrene had no such qualms about doing it herself. One heartbeat, Hasar was smirking up at her.
The next, her legs and skirts and jewels went sky-up, her shriek piercing across the dunes as Yrene shoved the princess, chair and all, into the water.
45
Yrene knew she was a dead woman.
Knew it the moment Hasar hit the dark water and everyone leaped to their feet, shouting and drawing blades.
Chaol had Yrene behind him in an instant, a sword half out—a blade she hadn’t even seen him reach for before it was in his hand.
The pool was not deep, and Hasar swiftly stood, soaked and seething, teeth bared and hair utterly limp as she pointed at Yrene.
No one spoke.
She pointed and pointed, and Yrene braced for the death order.
They’d kill her, and then kill Chaol for trying to save her.
She felt him sizing up all the guards, the princes, the viziers. Every person who would get in the way to the horses, every person who might put up a fight.
But a low, fizzing sounded behind Yrene.
She looked to see Renia clutching her stomach, another hand over her mouth, as she looked at her lover and howled.
Hasar whirled on Renia, who just stuck out a finger, pointing and roaring with laughter. Tears leaked from the woman’s eyes.
Then Kashin tipped his head back and bellowed with amusement.
Yrene and Chaol did not dare move.
Not until Hasar shoved away a servant who’d flung himself into the pool to help her, crawled back onto the paved lip, and looked Yrene dead in the eye with the full wrath of all the mighty khagans before her.
Silence again.
But then the princess snorted. “I was wondering when you’d grow a backbone.”
She walked away, trailing water behind her, Renia howling again.
Yrene caught Chaol’s stare—watched him slowly release the hand on his sword. Watched his pupils shrink again. Watched him realize …
They were not going to die.
“With that,” Yrene said quietly, “I think it’s time for bed.”
Renia paused her laughing long enough to say, “I’d be gone before she returns.”
Yrene nodded, and led Chaol by the wrist back toward the trees and dark and torches.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Renia and Kashin’s laughter had in part been true amusement, but also a gift. A birthday gift, to keep them from the gallows. From the two people who understood best just how deadly Hasar’s moods could be.
Keeping her head, Yrene decided, was a very good birthday gift indeed.
It would have been easy for Chaol to roar at Yrene. To demand how she could even think to risk her life like that. Months ago, he would have. Hell, he was still debating it.
Even as they slipped into her spacious tent, he continued soothing the instincts that had come bellowing to the surface the moment those guards had pressed in and reached for their swords.
Some small part of him was profoundly, knee-wobblingly grateful none of those guards were ones he’d trained with these weeks—that he hadn’t been forced to make that choice, cross that line between them.
But he’d seen the terror in Yrene’s eyes. The moment she’d realized what was about to happen, what would have happened if the princess’s lover and Kashin had not stepped in to defuse the situation.
Chaol knew Yrene had done it for him.
For the mocking, hateful insult.
And from the way she paced inside the tent, wending between the couches and tables and cushions … Chaol also knew she was well aware of the rest.
He took up a seat on the rolled arm of a chair, leaning the cane beside it, and waited.
Yrene whirled toward him, stunning in that purple gown, which had nearly knocked his knees from beneath him when she’d first emerged from the tent. Not just for how well it suited her, but the swaths of supple skin. The curves. The light and color of her.
“Before you begin shouting,” Yrene declared, “I should say that what just happened is proof that I should not be marrying a prince.”
Chaol crossed his arms. “Having lived with a prince for most of my life, I’d say quite the opposite.”
She waved a hand, pacing more. “I know it was stupid.”
“Incredibly.”
Yrene hissed—not at him. The memory. The temper. “I don’t regret doing it.”
A smile tugged on his mouth. “It’s an image I’ll likely remember for the rest of my life.”
He would. The way Hasar’s feet had gone over her head, her shrieking face right before she hit the water—
“How can you be so amused?”
“Oh, I’m not.” His lips indeed curved. “But it’s certainly entertaining to see that temper of yours turned on someone other than me.”
“I don’t have a temper.”
He raised a brow. “I have known a fair number of people with tempers, and yours, Yrene Towers, ranks among the finest of them.”
“Like Aelin Galathynius.”
A shadow passed over him. “She would have greatly enjoyed the sight of Hasar flipping into the pool.”