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“Too little to claim any expertise on the topic.” Erik nodded to Finbar’s inked skin again. “But I expect the authorities on the mainland aren’t too fond of those.”

Finbar smiled bleakly. “Luckily for me, exiled princes thrive on disapproval.”

“Forgive me,” I said, unnerved by Erik’s interest. “I’m not as well versed in your history. Why would the mainland disapprove of those markings?”

“Because they are the crests of the Hollow families who defeated Saxon,” Finbar said.

Erik cocked his head. “And was your own family among them?”

Finbar had already given me the answer to that question; his ancestors had helped defeat Saxon. But why would Erik care to know?

Finbar must have been wondering the same, because he assessed the king with an obvious wariness. At last, he pulled up his sleeve and nodded to a diamond-shaped symbol inside his elbow. “My mother’s family crest.”

I paused, frowning—but not at the crest he’d indicated. At the one just above it, which I’d seen once before. It’s the crest of an old Wielder family who once owned this land, Keil had said, indicating the engraving on his writing desk.

“All these crests,” I said slowly. “They belonged exclusively to Hollow families?”

Finbar nodded, rolling down his sleeve, and his certainty implanted in me a strange discomfort. The muddled history of this crest was the wrong thing to be worrying about with Erik sitting beside me—with Keil and the others unaware of what situation they would be returning to.

Yet I couldn’t ignore Erik’s interest in the matter, nor the cool smugness with which he continued his meal, as though he’d already known what answers Finbar would supply.

More than anything, I couldn’t rid myself of the bone-deep sensation that this was, somehow, important.

Then Holden said, “You will be pleased to see Finbar’s cousin again.”

And suddenly, nothing seemed as important as the way Erik tensed beside me. The way his hand twitched around his dinner knife, as though with the urge to drive it forward.

“Prince Keil,” Holden continued, pouring himself more wine. “Though you would better remember him as Ambassador Arcus. Lady Alissa told us you’d parted on amiable terms.”

Since Erik’s arrival, my heartbeat had felt like a continuous anxious hum. Yet it ratchetted up further now—near-deafening behind my ears—as Erik slowly set down his cutlery, leaned back in his seat, and draped his arm across the back of my chair.

He must have been too preoccupied with his victory to fully register how I’d nestled back against him earlier. How I’d arched into his touch, exhaling at the soft brush of his lips across my neck . . .

Because I’d believed those lips had belonged to someone else.

Did you let that Wielder brute touch you? he’d once asked in the dungeons. Did he put his hands on what is mine?

He now had his answer.

My stomach clenched as Erik offered me a slow, tight smile. “I’m sure she did,” he said, cupping the back of my head in what must have looked like a tender embrace. But as his fingers deliberately brushed the bruise he’d left me, my breath silently hitched. “You’re quite right, General.” Dread seized me as he finished, holding my gaze, “I very much look forward to seeing the ambassador again.”

31

The meal passed in a pulse-thudding haze of Holden’s bawdy anecdotes, Perla’s watchful silence, and Erik’s fingers, constantly searching for pieces of me. Brushing a strand of hair off my brow. Tracing little circles over my bare shoulder. Grazing the clenched knuckles of the fist I’d made on my lap, as though to coax it open.

He was enjoying playing the role of my betrothed without having to endure the inconvenience of my denial, and it took all my self-control to play along with him—to laugh at the conversation and return his soft smiles. To pretend I wasn’t thinking about the prison tunnels he’d built under my province.

Since learning about the Unbreakable Blade, I’d theorized that the Wielders Erik had Hunted were still alive. Which meant that Marge could very well be in Daradon right now, imprisoned like an animal, being used as an experiment.

And the man responsible was sitting beside me, obscenely satisfied as I dutifully bit into the sugar-dusted strawberry he guided to my lips.

I was counting down the minutes until Perla and I could leave to change our outfits when the drums mercifully sounded, announcing the cliff-diving. I stood, and Erik joined me, settling one hand on my waist as he whispered in my ear.

“I am feeling generous tonight.” His breath kissed the skin of my neck, and I shuddered. “So I shall grant you a choice. You may leave this tent with the compass or with the young woman to whom you have clearly grown attached. You cannot take both.”

My stomach plunged, not just because this was his first mention of the compass, but because I now remembered Dashiel’s words, a premonition fulfilled: You may eventually have to choose between the lady and your task.

And I know what I will choose, I’d said. I hadn’t been lying after all. Because while I didn’t want Erik to take the compass from me—especially when I didn’t know how I would get it back—I couldn’t let him hurt Perla.