"Nothing," he said. But he forced my other hand behind my back until he could grip both my
wrists in one of his hands. His hands were not that large, and to get a firm grip meant my wrists were ground together, bruising. I'd have struggled more if I'd thought I could get away, but even if I escaped Doyle, he'd seen the gun. There was nothing I could do about it, so I didn't struggle. But I was not happy.
Doyle used his other arm to pick me up and lower me to the ground in a sitting position. Except for my wrists it was all done gently enough. He knelt, his cloaked back still hiding us from the other men. As his hand hovered over my leg, moving toward the gun, I thought about kicking him, being difficult, but there was no point. He could have crushed my wrists with no effort. I might get the gun back tonight. If he crushed my arms, my options were over. He slid the gun out of the ankle holster. I sat on the floor and let him do it. I stayed passive in his grip, let him move my body as he wanted. Only my eyes weren't passive-I couldn't keep the anger out of them. No, I wanted him to see the anger.
He let me go and slid the gun behind his own back, though the leather pants were tight enough that it couldn't have been comfortable. I hoped it dug into his back until he bled.
He took one of my hands, helping me stand. Then he turned with a flourish of his cape to present me to the other guards, one hand holding mine as if we were about to make a grand entrance down a long marble staircase. It was an odd gesture for the grey hallway and what had just happened. I realized that Doyle was uneasy about the gun or his choice of taking it, or maybe wondering if I had other weapons. He was ill at ease and he was covering.
"A small disagreement, nothing more," he said.
"A disagreement about what?" The voice belonged to Frost, Doyle's second in command. Other than the fact that they were both tall, physically they were almost opposites. The hair that fell in a glimmering curtain to Frost's ankles was silver, a shimmering metallic silver like Christmas tree tinsel. The skin was as white as my own. The eyes were a soft grey like a winter sky before a storm. His face was angular and arrogantly handsome. His shoulders were a touch broader than Doyle's, but other than that they were both very alike and very unalike.
He wore a silver jerkin that hit him just above the knees to meet the silver cloth of his pants, tucked into silver boots. The jeweled belt at his waist was silver studded with pearls and diamonds. It matched the heavy necklace that graced his chest. He gleamed as if he'd been carved all of one great silver piece, more statue than man. But the sword at his side with its silver-and-bone hilt was real enough, and if you could see one weapon, there'd be more because he was Frost. The queen called him her Killing Frost. If he'd ever had another name I did not know it. He wasn't wearing any magical or bespelled weapons-for Frost it was almost the same thing as being unarmed.
He stared at me with those grey eyes, clearly suspicious.
I found my voice, anything to fill the silence. Distraction was what was needed. I let go of Doyle's hand and took a step forward. Frost was vain about his appearance and his clothes. "Frost, what a bold fashion statement." My voice came out strong, somewhere between teasing and mockery.
His fingers went to the edge of the tunic before he could stop himself. He frowned at me. "Princess Meredith, a pleasure as always." A slight change in tone made mockery of his polite words.
I didn't care. He wasn't wondering about what Doyle was hiding. That was all I had wanted to accomplish.
"What about me?" Rhys said.
I turned to find my third-favorite guard. I didn't trust him as I did Barinthus or Galen. There was something weak about Rhys, a sense that he wouldn't exactly die for your honor, but right up to that point you could depend on him.
He put his cape and the waist-length spill of white wavy hair over one arm so I'd have an unobstructed view of his body. Rhys was a full half foot under six feet, short for a guard. To my knowledge he was full-blooded court. He just happened to be short. His body was encased in a white bodysuit so tight that you knew at a glance that there was nothing under it but him. There was white-on-white embroidery on the cloth edging the round collar and the slight flare of the long sleeves, and encircling the cutout over his stomach, which revealed his cobblestone abs like a woman showing off her cle**age.
He let the cape and his hair fall back into place. He smiled his full cupid-bow lips at me. They matched the round boyishly handsome face and the one pale blue eye. His eye was a tricircle of blue; cornflower blue around the pupil, sky blue, then a circle of winter sky. The other eye was lost forever under a furrow of scars. Claw marks cut across the upper right quarter of his face. One single claw mark parted an inch from the rest, cutting across otherwise perfect skin to cross from his upper right forehead to cut down the bridge of his nose and the lower left cheek. He'd told me a dozen different stories about how he lost his eye. Great battles, giants, I think I remember a dragon or two. I think it was the scars that made him work so very hard on his body. He was small, but every inch of him was muscled.
I shook my head. "I don't know whether you look like the top of a p**n ographic wedding cake or a superhero. You could be Ab Boy, or Abdominal Man." I grinned happily.
"A thousand sit-ups a day does wonders for your abs," he said, running a hand over them.
"Everyone needs a hobby, I guess."
"Where is your sword?" Doyle asked.
Rhys looked at him. "The same place yours is. The queen says we do not need them tonight."
Doyle glanced at Frost. "What of you, Frost?"
Rhys answered with a quick smile that made his lovely blue eye gleam. "The queen's weaning him a weapon at a time. She's decreed he has to be unarmed by the time she dresses to go to the throne room."