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“Teeth are extremely important,” he agrees. “If you cannot flay the flesh of your enemies with nothing more than your teeth, what could be more shameful?”
I don’t have anything to say to that. I take a bite of fruit instead. It looks like something crafted by someone with a passing familiarity with a tizret fruit from Protheka, but it tastes overly sweet, without its characteristic tang. That and the silvery, metallic sheen on its skin makes me realize it’s been crafted by magic instead of grown.
“Do you create all your food here?” The question escapes me before I think it through, and I cringe. It’s one thing to speak when spoken to, but to ask a question of a dark elf on Protheka would more likely than not invite a sharp backhand to the face.
But my hosts are not insulted at all.
Kha’zeth, amazingly, almost smiles. “Do you like it?”
I nod. I almost say that the fruit is similar to one back home, but I worry that he’s tried to recreate it. I don’t want to tell him that he’s failed.
“I can perfect it, if you like.” He almost looks embarrassed. “I wanted you to be comfortable, and so I have spoken with the soz’garoth acquainted with the palace. Prince Rej’thorek has requested we summon food to please his human mate, Laura.”
Laura.
The traitor.
The reason Toklys is dead.
The reason I sit at a table, surrounded by more food than I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Part of me wants to ask more questions, because I have no idea what a soz’garoth is, or what magic allows them to summon food, or why a prince would work so hard to win the favor of a human, but mixed feelings paralyze my tongue.
Tanulia pushes her blonde hair from her face and blinks at me with mischievous black eyes. Hers are similar to her uncle’s, but with whites surrounding them. “You do not like her.”
The other girls, sensing juicy gossip, lean forward over the table. “Did you want the Prince instead?”
“No.” My voice isn’t sharp, but it’s final. “I’ve- never met him before.”
I take a breath and smile to soften the word, but Kha’zeth has already begun speaking about their various engagements of the day, and the girls give me a cheerful wave as they push away from the table.
They aren’t upset at all.
Something in my chest unwinds. How long has it been since I haven’t had to make myself demure in order to please others? In order to stay alive?
Who am I, without that constant fear flowing in my veins?
I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. I’ve been scared as long as I’ve been alive.
I turn to Kha’zeth, who fiddles with his utensil, an empty plate before him. Can I afford to speak my mind here, or is this another trick?
Our shared gaze locks.
I know I should apologize for falsely accusing him of doing terrible things to me, but it’s difficult to muster up the courage. I suddenly miss the girls, and the excuse to chatter on about mundane things.
The girls leave for their rooms, the doors shut, and even the zonak servants leave once they’ve cleaned the table from our meal.
I tear my eyes from him and gaze out the window. It’s no picturesque view. Thunder rumbles so loud that the windows shake. Purple lightning dances across the sky, reflecting the turmoil inside me.
I have to apologize, but I have no idea how.
78
KHA’ZETH
Natalie and I stare at each other over our plates, the sounds of the girls’ conversation fading as they go to their rooms. She didn’t believe me when I tried to explain myself earlier, and I don’t entirely blame her, even if her accusations crippled a part of me I didn’t know existed.
That familiar ire threatens to crowd out my ability to reason, but I smother it, unwilling to let her continue to believe that I would hurt or violate her in the way she believes I have. I don’t know what to say, what to do to make her believe me.
