Thread of Darkness

Ch. 7: a game of chess

"How do you know?" she'd once asked. "How can you be sure that the game will end soon?"

Ryne had appeared genuinely baffled. "There are thirty-nine nine possibilities, Cami. In every scenario, I win. Can't you see that?"

She couldn't.

Still couldn't.

Ryne's greatest strength, she thought warily, was how quickly his mind worked; his greatest weakness was assuming that other people's minds worked the same way.

Ryne picked up an iron poker. "Ah," he said lightly. "I've done it again, haven't I? I've been a presumptuous ass."

"No, it's fine," Camille said automatically. "I just..." She picked at a stray thread on the bedsheets. "You realize that means the Delafort line will come to an end. You won't have a legitimate heir. Not by blood."

Ryne's face hardened. "Good."

"They'll need to look like you," Camille said. "The person that I..." She cleared her throat. "The father."

"I know," Ryne said. "I have several candidates in mind."

Of course he did, Camille thought; she should have expected that. "Oh."

Ryne leaned against the poker. "I can show you the list, if you'd like."

"Ah."

"But only," Ryne added, "if you should wish to see them."

"Right."

He put the poker back in the bucket. "It'll have to wait until Eris departs. I had hoped to discuss it with you this morning, but I couldn't find you."

She waited for Ryne to ask where she'd been. But he didn't. Then again, Camille thought, Ryne respected secrets; he wouldn't expect you to share information unless you were getting something in return.

"Speaking of Eris," Camille said, "you bated him. Tonight at dinner." She folded her hands in her lap. "You dangled Anna in front of him like a piece of meat."

She half-expected Ryne to deny it, but he shrugged. "Yes."

"Why?"

His eyes were twin green flames in the darkness. "Have you ever seen a street magician perform a trick, Cami?" She shook her head, and Ryne's lip curled. "He waves something shiny in front of you as he slips the card out from under his sleeve. That's how he deceives you; you're not paying attention."

"And Anna is your something shiny?" she asked.

"Precisely."

"Ryne." She couldn't keep the wariness out of her voice. "What are you planning?"

"Do you really want to know?"

They assessed one another. Black knight against white rook. King against Queen. It was a game of chess, Camille thought tiredly; Ryne's whole life was a game of chess.

"We're meant to be a team now," she said.

"Is that what we are?" Ryne sounded wry. "A team?"

"Yes."

"I don't—"

He coughed.

It was a bright, sharp sound, like several piano keys struck with a hammer. Cold fear sliced through her. She rose, but Ryne held out a hand, gripping the mantlepiece for support. Her heart hammered in her chest.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Do you need a healer?"

"No—" The sound was a rasp. "No healer."

"Somnium?"

"No," Ryne gasped. "No more— no more somnium."

Camille waited, shifting her weight as Ryne coughed. She hated this. The standing around. The feeling of being useless. She'd spent the last few months scouring the library, searching for any sort of cure — any mention of goddesses and curses — but there'd been nothing.

Ryne sucked in air, and it was a terrible, wet, rattling noise. Camille dug her fingernails into her palm.

She waited.

Years of history filled the space between them. Ryne, wading into the stream to catch fish with his bare hands; Ryne, patiently showing Penny how to fold paper cranes that they threw from the highest tower on the Midsummer Feast. Please don't die, she thought desperately. Please don't leave me.

Not, Camille thought, that she would ever say that to him; Ryne hated displays of emotion. She pretended to study a painting of a horse on the wall, wiping discreetly at her eyes. Then she turned and changed the subject.

"Which guards will you choose?" she asked. "To escort Anna to dinner? They'll need to be trustworthy."

Ryne's voice was hoarse. "I'll escort her myself."

"Do you think that's wise?"

He was still gripping the mantelpiece. "I can handle her."

"If you say so," Camille said.

She kept her voice conversational, but Ryne went very still. A bad sign, as far as things went. Camille turned for the door; she was in no mood to argue tonight, and she suspected that Ryne wasn't, either.

"I should get some sleep," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She paused at the threshold, taking one last glance at the room. A knot formed in her chest. The air still smelled of him, she thought, all musk and vanilla and forged iron. Ryne's face was unreadable.

"He'll come back," Ryne said.

She looked away. "I know."

"Not for me," he added. "For you."

"Perhaps," Camille said.

She didn't believe that. Not really. Isaac would come back for Anna. Unbidden, the image of them kissing at the edge of the lake rose in her mind, and Camille closed her eyes. When Ryne spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

"Isaac thinks the world of you," Ryne said. "He cares for you like a sister. I've never seen him so protective of someone."

Camille swallowed.

"Yes," she said, feeling hollow. "Lucky me."