“I didn’t know what was going on.”
“So, you decided to run out of the gates?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No.”Maybe.
Loose black strands fall over Jasce’s forehead as he shakes his head. “You know what is beyond the Darhavva palace.”
Of course, I do. I’m not uneducated.
In fact, I’m very educated.
“The Giiana desert,” I say after a moment.
I studied a map of the Giiana desert many summers ago. House of Crimson, with its much larger territory, sits above the desert, and House of Silver’s territory is situated below it. The desert acts as a buffer—providing our smaller territory some protection from annihilation. It is the border towns and villages, in the areas where the desert narrows, that see the bulk of the fighting. And once every few seasons, House of Crimson will make a push to occupy land south of the Giiana desert.
Everyone knows this.
He really is irritating.
Poor Lyra. Is her every move questioned?
Maybe she’s a prisoner in her own home too.
“I was headed there anyway,” I blurt out, then inwardly admonish myself when I realize my mistake. I’m obviously no good at subterfuge. Or maybe he’s just better at interrogations.
He said Lyra never apologizes. So, before he can ask if I’ve lost my mind again—and I can tell he’s going to—I decide to own my mistake. I cross my arms and lift my chin, mimicking his earlier stance.
“I think the desert is beautiful,” I state, as if that explains everything.
I stare at him for a few moments, challenging him to question me. He holds my gaze with ease as he sits in a chair opposite of me. He obviously has never doubted himself and is comfortable with someone staring at him, whereas my entire life has been the opposite. And so, for all my momentary false bravado, I back down first and look away.
Silence weighs between us as I fidget and inspect my fingernails. Then I hear soft, rhythmic tapping. When I look at Jasce, he is still sitting there, his empty goblet propped against his leg, and he is absentmindedly—annoyingly—tapping his thumb on the rim. Tap…tap…tap. That signet ring drums a slow, steady beat. His gaze travels down my body and comes to rest on my hands in my lap.
“Why would you risk walking in the Giiana desert without any provisions?” He continues tapping out a disjointed beat against the goblet. “You know how quickly the landscape can shift and how easy it is to get disoriented.”
“I had food,” I counter weakly. “I gave it away.”
“You gave it away?” He lifts his brow, as if challenging me, or waiting for me to crack.
“Yes. I gave my bread, pastries, and my flagon to two little children who were starving.”
His thumb stops tapping. But he doesn’t respond to my comment.
Seeing the opportunity to take the focus off me, I interrogate him. “Do you know you have starving children in your streets?”
“They aren’t my streets.”
I blink and shake my head. “Then, whose are they?”
“Every House of Crimson city belongs to Jerrod. You know that.”
“I don’tknowthat.”
“Jerrod is the chieftain. The cities belong to him. The rules, the taxes, the people—everything.”
“But you are his son. Surely, he listens—”
Jasce raises his hand, cutting me off. “I don’t want to talk about my father. I want to talk about you making me chase you all over Darhavva.”
