Fen did not move.
“The Geon commissioned a song from a bard about it apparently, after one visit to The Acana’s holding a year ago,” Race carried on, still quietly, as if these words were for the leader of their small group and yet he had to be aware that Fen could hear. “Deep eyes to fall into. Hair that silk could not compare to. A mouth suited to dreams, that sort of thing. Graceful hands, now that I think on it.”
Fen was tired, shaky, with dirt on his face and scrapes along his skin. He might have leaves in his hair. Unlike the three before him, and the large one in particular with his braided hair, he should not have looked well after a night spent outside, much less lovely.
“So the Old Horror sent him to The Geon,” his captor observed without surprise. “With no escort? Even if The Acana didn’t care, he’d send an escort to protect his bargaining piece.” It held a question without sounding like one.
“I slipped away,” Fen answered, not wanting incur any anger. “I did not find the alliance suitable.”
Race seemed shocked. “You were forced into it? I don’t understand.”
“Not forced,” Fen corrected quickly, looking up when the hand around his wrist relaxed slightly. “Encouraged to go, and to use any means necessary to promote the interests of The Acana while a guest in The Geon’s holding. Which I could have done,” he added, darting another look up to see if the dark eyes had left him. They had not. “If I felt it was worth it, I might have done.”
His voice was nearly level, as it might have been in The Acana’s court as he lied to his father’s face.
“Could have,” his captor echoed. “Any means.” He might not think Fen’s loveliness was enough to achieve such a thing. With him, perhaps not. But with The Geon… everyone seemed to think so. Fen’s captor made a noise of disgust. “The Earls expect even that from their children now? Or do I misunderstand what they mean by alliance? Nobles don’t use words like they should.”
Fen released a breath. “That’s intentional,” he murmured, looking up and doing his best to hold the man’s gaze. “Another way to ensure they get what they want.”
“Fuck,” the man growled, the one word filled with something that made Fen shiver, which then made the man’s hand tighten on him.
“Lan.” The woman used a warning tone as though she understood something Fen didn’t. “We were not here for this. You have enough fronts as it is.”
“I’m aware,” the one she’d called Lan agreed. As if only now remembering he held Fen, he abruptly dropped his hand. Fen didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to.
“Flower, do you only do what you’re commanded to do?” Race asked Fen in a surprisingly gentle tone.
“Fuck,” Lan growled again, definitely angry, then turned to stare silently at the woman.
“You weren’t even supposed to be with us,” she told him without sympathy. “This is what your worrying gets you.”
“I needed to stretch my legs,” Lan insisted. “I think better when doing something.”
“Do you need to walk now, then?” the woman snapped back smartly as no one in The Acana’s court would have when addressing The Acana. An odd comparison, but Lan did seem to be the one the others deferred to, even if the woman was obliquely telling Lan he needed to do some more thinking.
Fen belatedly realized they were discussing what to do with him. These three used words in their own way, not like the Earls, but with things unsaid that the others all nonetheless understood. Fen would have to pay attention to the spaces between their words as well as their words themselves.
“He slipped away,” Lan said, and without doing anything, the other two gave the impression of snapping their mouths shut and going silent.
For a moment, Fen could not breathe. Then he made himself take in air before reaching out to brush his fingertips over Lan’s sleeve to get his attention. Whatever else their argument was about, that remark had been meant to defend Fen.
“I would make a good captive,” Fen suggested, all honey, his face hot despite the cold. Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, all of them wide, perhaps with disbelief. But, the words out, Fen was calm. He lowered his hands to his sides. “A hostage,” he added, “if you need a wedge for leverage in a negotiation in the future.” Not much of a wedge, it was true. The Acana did not care about Fen personally, only the idea of a child of his taken and in a way where other nobles might hear.
Race’s frown changed into a delighted grin. The woman was thoughtful.
Lan, the one who mattered most, recovered quickly from his surprise. He cocked his head to one side as he stared down at Fen. “A captive? You offer no alliance to me?”
Fen, trying to determine the tone of Lan’s last question, didn’t follow its meaning immediately. The moment he did, he fell back, thorns pushing against his shoulders and keeping him from fleeing altogether. If he had slept safe in his own bed, he would never have been so careless.
These were not the people of the Wild Dog. These were the people of the Wild Dog and the Wild Dog himself.
Race’s grin seemed too sharp. The woman too still.
The Wild Dog’s gaze was steady on Fen, waiting.
He could afford to wait. He might not be an Earl, but the power here was his.
Fen considered him as he had not dared before, darting more than one glance to his hair, starting to show brown as the sun kept rising, but maybe also holding hints of red. His skin was paler than Fen’s, who had the amber warmth of his mother’s family. The beard was short, not like the longer, chest-length beards worn by the Rossick and some of the Issick who lived in places of extreme cold. His features were as thick as the rest of him, broad brow, broad nose, solid jaw. He had no decorations outside of the tiny plaits in his hair and the braided cords around his boots. The clasp for his cloak looked like serviceable carved wood. Fen dropped his attention to the sword, then dragged it back up to the Dog’s watchful eyes.
