Her hand stayed in his for a beat longer than what was proper. 

          A panicked squeak scratched at her throat, as his lips pressed to the back of her glove.

          Gods above, there were simpler ways to kill her.  Quicker ones.

          How was she supposed to respond?  Smile?  Thank him?

          “I’m flattered,” she fought to keep her expression warm as the Grand Mage’s arm circled her waist.  Was there anything else she could add?  Her hand fisted, crumpling the paper the prince had slipped into her palm. 

His answer was something kind, she couldn’t parse above the sound of her blood in her ears.  He settled, looking like he expected the conversation to last.

Etiquette be damned.

 “My prince,” Issi winced as the prince halted midsentence.  If the lack of decorum bothered him, he was too well-bred to show it. She continued hurriedly, “If I may be so bold as to request to be excused.  I have a performance soon and I need to—”

The Grand Mage’s arm made a decent attempt at breaking her in two.

          “Ah, of course,” the prince answered easily, Issi dared a glance at his face.  He looked almost…apologetic.

She didn’t wait for him to repeat himself.  She gave a short bow before extricating herself from the Grand Mage’s grip and nearly running away.   

The far wall was a welcome oasis, brimming with wallflowers, quiet gossipers, and nosy servants.

Had anyone noticed?

Had her master?

Issi bit her lip, crumpling the paper in her hand.  She’d never spoken to any of the princes before, Naya’s hells, she’d never even seen them. What had she done to gain his interest?

Gods, what did she know of them?  The eldest was supposed to wear the successor’s headdress, and the second prince had been working with the guard, the one she’d met was too soft for that, wasn’t he? That left the youngest.

Tiremalv.  She frowned.  The rumors were that he was a palace tart.  Was that all that had been about?

She studied the idea with unease.  The note could be some lewd picture, a crude invitation with a time and a date?  Pets weren’t meant to read so it would have to be something rudimentary, she sighed fighting the urge to ruffle her hair.

He was a prince for gods’ sake.  He could simply order the Grand Mage to lend her to him. 

The way his gaze had settled over her replayed in her head.  It had been a long time since she’d felt seen.  Her fingers fluttered against her cheek.  She’d thought Ner had done a well enough job.

Issi stopped at the foot of the stage.  The band was in the middle of playing a soft, dreamy piece that was popular in the capital.  Fat bellied lanterns skimmed the floor casting warm lights over the players. The small specks she’d seen the day before had resolved themselves into hundreds of gently glowing flowers that drifted through the air.

          She set her case down by one of the pillars before she removed her gloves and secreted the paper into the fabric’s palm.  Her fingers flexed in the cool evening air. The dips and scarring on her left hand couldn’t be hidden by pastes alone, she felt more herself at the sight of it.  

          She waved at the band to announce her presence before sneaking behind the platform.  The waters of the Corpros ran clear on this side of the island, she sat and dangled her feet above it, letting her shoes rest just above the surface.

          A stolen moment.  The air here was sweet and devoid of the heady honeyed wine that permeated everything beneath the ballroom’s dome.

          One bell.

          That’s all she needed to do.  She watched quietly as a ship sailed its way across the river and tried not to think of the punishment she was going to receive when she returned to the wing.

          Her hand warmed where the prince had kissed her.  If only she’d been faster to pull away, but what choice had she had?

          She started as footsteps neared.  Issi scrambled to her feet looking at the waters and the reeds in the distance.  Gods if only escape were that easy.  Her back pressed against the stage as she shuffled around the lip.

          “You,” a voice breathed.

          Issi froze, her blood turning to ice.  She recognized his tone, though she wished she didn’t.  It was too early.  Her legs threatened to buckle.

          “Slaves and whores are meant to bow, not sneak away,” the king of Qasha drawled.  He took a drag from a long-stemmed pipe, the smoke that poured from his mouth was sickly sweet, “And here I thought I’d found a place to relax.”

          Issi lowered herself and pressed her forehead into the marble, “My apologies, my King.”

          “Why are you here?” his speech slurred at the edges.  She dared a glance and found him looking down at her with glassy eyes.

          “I…uhm,” her throat ran dry, she tried to come up with an excuse, “I thought the water was pretty?”

          He stepped closer, “Sit up.”

          Issi complied, fixing her gaze on the king’s chest.  He’d once been a strong person, leading armies on the frontlines of bloody battles.  But time had thinned him, hollowed his eyes and sunken his cheeks.  Despite the effort his clothes made to drape and hang across him, his chest looked delicate, like it had been crafted from sticks and twine.

          “You look just like her,” he muttered dispassionately, “How many times have you tried to die?”

          She frowned, her forehead crinkling, “I…I don’t understand.”

          “Of course, you do,” he reached down and grabbed a handful of her braids, letting them run through his fingers like water.  She shivered and shook her head.

          “I don’t, my king, I’m sorry,” the words were like lead on her tongue.  She didn’t mean any of it, the apologies, his title, she’d contemplated dying more times than she cared to count.  But she found herself shrinking beneath his gaze, flattening as if trying to blend with the ground.

          Here was the man who was single handedly responsible for the destruction of her homeland, the reason her mother had fled and sold her freedom, the reason Issi had ever met the Grand Mage at all.

          She’d say nearly anything to get away from him.

          He frowned and straightened, his eyes matched his son’s, a brilliant, unending blue.

          “What would you have done?” he asked, “If your so-called gods had failed you?  How would you stop them from ruining everything they touched?”

          He took another drag from his pipe, holding the smoke in his chest before releasing it into the air.  His shoulders relaxed, and Issi wished that his death would mean anything, anything at all. But Chousal was gone and killing him wouldn’t serve to bring it back.  It wouldn’t touch the quiet ache she held for a place she’d never known.  She wouldn’t even feel better for it.

          Issi answered passively, “I am just a Pet, I can’t understand the decisions you had to make.”

          He let out a hacking cough, “If a religion is a disease and there’s no cure, how do you stop the spread, little heretic?”

          Her heart nearly stopped, she scarcely dared to breathe.  He couldn’t know, she made no shrines, spoke no prayers, everything she held of the gods fit between her ears.  Her voice refused to come, she gaped a few times in vain before giving up.

          The king grinned, “Don’t worry, you, I won’t let die.  I like you where you are, bound and chained,” her heart sank as his laughter turned to coughing. He looked past her, to the river, towards red rooved houses that marked the outer ring of the capital. Issi knew it to be the direction of Chousal, where his wife had died so many years ago.  She’d stared that way hopelessly for bells hoping to make out some village peak or building, a sign that the nation might still breathe when everyone thought it dead.  The king continued wistfully, “it’s a worse fate than death really.”

          Vengeance hadn’t stayed his heart either.  Destroying two countries and banishing the gods hadn’t ushered a single breath into his wife’s lungs.  These days it was said that he dulled the world with heady smoke until the ache he felt drifted away.  Even as it sapped the strength from his bones.

          “I like you where you are too,” she admitted with some childish defiance.

          The king’s face shifted in surprise, an unexpectedly infectious grin warmed his face, “I see, I see.”  He took another drag holding the smoke inside his chest as if it were air and he were desperate not to drown, “I guess you’re right, aren’t you? A fate worse than death.”