Soul of Ice

Chapter Thirty-Three

"No, not lover," Riviera mused as she swirled her wine. "He's much too young... unless, of course, that's what you prefer?"

Astra scowled, her hand tightening on her knives even though she had no hope of being able to throw them at her at this distance.

"Yet you care so much!" She laughed, the only sound reverberating in the huge ballroom. "It's so amusing. I do wonder why, though. Calayne, a Varalian spy, in cohorts with the prince of Solasia?" Riviera shrugged, as if it didn't matter that much to her.

"Oh, stop that," she snapped suddenly, waving a hand down at someone Astra couldn't see. "Stop," she repeated again, irritation in her voice. "Stop, or else I'll have him killed." She jerked her head, a vindictive smile gracing her face as two Pelosian soldiers walked out, dragging someone between them.

Astra sucked in a breath. Above, with blades pressed to his throat, was the Crown Prince of Auxerre. There was a distinct wail a distance away.

Riviera stared down from the balcony and gave a sharp wave of her hand. "Drop your weapons." She glared around, and Astra heard swords and blades being dropped, one by one, from the royal guards—the true royal guards of Auxerre, not the ones impersonated by Pelosians.

Despite that, despite the prince whose life balanced on a knife's edge above, Astra felt her hand tighten on the two knives in her grasp. Riviera would have to come down at some point, and maybe, if—

"Drop them," the Solasian prince hissed, his hand digging into her palm to loosen her grip. "Drop them before you regret it."

She dropped them because of an unbidden memory that came to mind. One of a fire-burned field on the outskirts of Auxerre, a hand reaching out to her even as she lay huddled and protected under a thick, spiked shield of ice. The two knives fell from her hand and tinkled softly against the ground.

Riviera smiled down at her before ordering, "Tie them up." She turned around, then paused, and said, "Tie the girl and the prince together. They amuse me." The Pelosian soldiers went into motion, ropes already in their hands. "You resist," she warned the room as a whole, "you die."

The warning was heeded for a few minutes until someone tried to make a break for it down the line—a frightened, young courtier, by the looks of it, whose wits had either left him behind or had never existed altogether. There was the sound of a sword being unsheathed, a gargle, the drop of a body, and a short wail followed by screams.

Smart, Astra couldn't help but think. She was trying to keep the prince of Auxerre alive as long as possible to continue to use him as leverage.

A guard grabbed her roughly and tied her back to back with the Solasian prince, before forcing them to sit down in front of the line of tied up prisoners.

"Finally." Riviera laughed as she came down the stairs, and Astra could almost pretend that the ball was still going on, and she had come late to the dance. Even her dress was pristine—not a wrinkle in it. Behind her, Pelosian guards dragged the prince, who had his hands bound in front of him and a blade pressed to his throat. A bead of blood had already coalesced above the blood.

Riviera eyed the carnage around the ballroom, a lazy, arrogant smile on her face, and Astra followed her gaze. Countless numbers of people lay dead, strewn about the room, some still with blades stuck inside them. Astra wondered if Jemma, Anya, and Ciril were among those lying dead and ignored on the cold ground. She wondered if she should care, if they were. But she felt nothing.

"Where's the king?" Riviera questioned, her eyes jumping from person to person. "Oh! There you are."

One of her soldiers helped push the aging king out of line.