Or so she’d thought.
And yet, as she eyed the snickering gossipmongers who whispered among themselves in the feast hall, the attitudes of many around her were beginning to more than simply grate upon Tempest’s nerves. Going by the reaction from the crowd during her Trial, Tempest had assumed the people of the court were not strictly making fun of her because she was the first female Hound. They had been more than supportive in her fight against the lion.
Which means they’re making fun of you for being you.
Tempest looked down at the silver dress Juniper had finally wrangled her into wearing. It was tight in the bodice and hung low on her shoulders, exposing Tempest’s collarbone and the top of her breasts. Split sleeves of white gossamer fell to her elbows. The skirt was long and sweeping and threatened to trip Tempest up wherever she walked.
Though she knew the silver fabric perfectly complimented her hair and suited her skin well, wearing something so figure-hugging, revealing and outright unsuitable for moving about in made Tempest feel incredibly self-conscious. She hated anything that hampered her movements, let alone her breathing. She bowed her head, her gaze dropping to the indecent neckline again, and her lips thinned.
One careless move, and she’d fall right out of the top.
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous, that’s what it was.
It was probably a man who designed this dress. The bastard.
She finished her goblet of wine with a sigh and allowed Maxim to pour her another.
“If only I could have worn trousers,” she lamented, shaking her head at her own body. “There’s far too much fabric going on in all the wrong places. So restrictive.”
Several women nearby were audibly shocked by the comment. They stared at Tempest, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, then tittered when a finely dressed man said, “If you want someone to make things less restrictive for you, my house is but ten minutes away from the palace!”
Tempest’s cheeks grew even redder than the court ladies in all their rouge and lipstick. Dima stiffened to her right, and she placed a hand on his leg beneath the table to still him. He arched a brow at her.
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
Tempest winked at her uncles as she stood as gracefully as she could in a dress that threatened to suffocate her, abandoning her wine to the table.
“I think I’d rather have ale,” she said in an undertone, rushing off before anybody could try and stop her.
Tempest found that despite having been thrilled that she passed her Trial, no amount of excitement and pride could allow her to simply enjoy the evening’s celebrations. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy a party, but the people one spent it with mattered greatly. And no one in this room was her friend. She was either an oddity—which meant she was to be studied or to become the butt of the joke—or a conquest for a man who decided he wanted to tame the warrior girl, which was the worst of the two in her opinion.
Subconsciously, she drifted to the edge of the great room, searching for anything out of place. Women spoke secrets behind their fans, men smoked and eyed the women, lush for their pickings. She hid her smile as a small hand darted from beneath one of the banquet tables. Little ones were stealing snacks, and yet, she couldn’t find herself comfortable.
Perhaps you can find Madrid and ask him about Tomas. The poor boy had been terrified earlier. What has become of him?
With a purpose in mind, she glided through the throngs of people, keeping a sharp eye out for the Hound master. Tempest breathed a sigh of relief when she exited the ballroom and found a bunch of men drinking ale; they happily handed her a tankard and allowed her to lean against the wall and drink in silence, with only a few curious glances tossed her way.
They were of a rougher, poorer class than the people from the court Tempest had only just run from—the palace and its grounds had been opened to the public for today and today only. At least around merchants and soldiers and ordinary folk Tempest could be herself… dress or no dress.
“It’s getting worse in the south,” a man with grizzled hair and a thick, foreboding scar across one of his hands said. “By the mountains bordering Talaga. My brother nearly lost his life last week on the road. Lucky he only lost his horse instead.”
“Aye, I’ve heard it’s gotten further out of hand than anyone is aware of,” another man said. He eyed up a soldier, who Tempest at last recognized as the handsome palace guard who’d given her the spear she’d used to defeat the lion. “Rane here has been hearing all sorts since he was promoted to the palace. Ain’t you, Rane?”
Rane glared at him. “It’ll be on my head if anyone knows I’ve spoken of such things.” But the men around him merely waited for him to relent and tell them more, so, with a furtive glance around them—which lingered on Tempest, who smiled slightly in return—he elaborated. “There’s a… sickness… spreading through the kingdom. A deadly one. It’s wiped out whole villages, all along the Talaga mountain range. More bodies are piling up by the day.”
Tempest stilled. She had not heard word that the Talagan rebellion had gotten so far. In truth nobody had even called it a rebellion yet, since no official attack had been made against the rest of the kingdom yet. The Hounds were like a group of older gossiping women. Surely if one of them knew something, then all of them would?
This damn well feels like an official attack against us. Just what is the king doing about it?
Tempest sipped her drink and quietly melted into the shadows, leaving the men to their discussion to search for a bathroom, or a storage room, or literally any kind of empty, quiet space she could make use of. She needed to think away from all the noise and bustle and alcohol of the feast. Her mind raced. How deadly was the disease? Was it spreading through the mountains from the former shifter kingdom? Was it an act of war? If the Talagans were making their move against Heimserya, this could be Tempest’s opportunity to find her mother’s killer. Vengeance was so close she could almost taste it.
She just had to figure out a way to get permission to look into it all.
“How odd, to see the person for whom this entire feast was organized for standing all alone in the dark.”
“I simply needed a moment to breathe,” Tempest replied, irked by the stranger’s audacity and his ability to sneak up on her for precisely two seconds before she turned to see who had spoken.
King Destin stood there, resplendent in gold-and-ruby finery accented his long, tawny hair and amber eyes. Those lion eyes locked onto Tempest’s, preventing her from bowing or backing away.
Damn.
“Y-Your Grace,” Tempest stammered. “I did not hear you approach. I—”
“Needed a moment to breathe,” he cut in, smiling. “I understand. However, I have been looking for you for quite some time. Won’t you spare your king a few minutes of your time?”
Tempest knew she couldn’t say no. Destin was the king, after all, and a tall, powerful man to boot. Really, she had no reason to refuse him. He hadn’t done anything to her. Yet.
Her attention homed in on his fingers gloved in midnight silk. Huge jeweled rings adorned his gloved hands, the stones catching in the lantern light.
He could crush your windpipe with his bare hands, and you’d have to let him do it.
She inclined her head slightly, hoping it would suffice enough as a response until her voice came back to her.