Bound to the Shadow Prince

Chapter 62

Chapter

Sixty-Two

N emeth glances at our surroundings. His wings give an agitated little shiver, and then he folds them tightly against his back. “This roof seems to have held together, and this cottage is comfortable enough for you, isn’t it?” He touches the high back of one of the wooden chairs. “There is no seating for those with wings, but I imagine for a human, it’s quite cozy.” His gaze slides to me. “Perhaps you need to stay here for a few days while I travel ahead and hunt some supplies.”

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Be reasonable, Candra.” Nemeth crosses the room and crouches at my side. He takes my hands in his larger ones. “This travel is unpleasant, and you’re not as strong as me. If it’s miserable for me, I can only imagine how awful it is for you.” He rubs my hands, gazing into my eyes. “I could leave the foodstuffs with you, and you would have to administer your potion yourself for a time but?—”

I shake my head. “No, Nemeth. You can’t leave me. I’m the only chance you’ve got. Think of what they did to the Fellian at the last village.”

He grimaces. “I haven’t forgotten. But I could slide through shadows, steal from people if they won’t welcome me?—”

“And then you’ll be as bad as the rumors make Fellians sound! No. We’re a team, remember? We’re doing all of this together.” I hold tight to his hands, squeezing them as if I can force my opinion on him. “If you leave me behind, I will never, ever forgive you. So get that thought out of your head.”

“Candra,” he says softly. “You’re sick. I won’t let this travel kill you. That would destroy me.”

Is that what this is, then? Because I threw up this morning, now he wants to leave me behind? Telling him the truth might further convince him that I need to remain behind, but I can see the worry and stress on his face. If nothing else, maybe I can take some of that away. “Actually, we do need to talk. We need to have a long discussion and compare notes.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Compare notes? About what?”

“About Ravendor. About your ancestors. About my ancestors.”

He tries to pull his hands from mine. “Candra—now is not the time for a history lesson.”

I shake my head, clinging to his hands and refusing to let go. “Just…humor me. All right? I swear I’ve got a point. And we’re not going anywhere tonight. So come lie down with me and tell me the Fellian version of Ravendor Vestalin.”

“Candra.”

“Please. It’s very important.”

Nemeth rubs his jaw, and it’s clear he wants to keep arguing with me—or rather, keep trying to convince me to stay behind in this little cottage. He looks around and then goes to the door, checking the bar over it one more time and then shoving a chair under the handle to reinforce it. After that, he comes and sits uncomfortably on the edge of the narrow bed.

“Lie down,” I tell him. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

“This bed isn’t big enough for both of us,” he protests.

“Then I’ll lie atop you.” I beam at him as if this is the most simple of answers.

His cock twitches in response and I know I’ve won. With an annoyed (but defeated) expression, Nemeth lies back upon the bed, stretching out. It’s a hay tick mattress and not as comfortable as the down ones we had in the tower, so I know it’s difficult for him to get comfortable. Once he settles his large body in, I climb over his bulk and sprawl across him.

Nemeth immediately puts his hands on my hips and settles me in place, the tip of his hardening cock brushing between my spread thighs. “You’re doing this to distract me, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” I promise. “And you’re the one that’s putting me in the most distracting spot.” I wriggle in place, deliberately rubbing against his shaft and then folding my hands over his chest and propping my chin up on them. “I promise to be very still. Now tell me the story.”

His eyes narrow and he watches me for a long moment, as if trying to determine my goal. His hand goes to my hair, still damp from the weather, and he twines a lock around one finger. “Let me think.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

He tugs on the strand of hair, a reluctant smile curving his mouth at my teasing. “Naughty thing.” One hand slides down my back, his fingers trailing over my spine. “Let me think. I don’t know that you’ll like the story.”

“I don’t expect to like it. I just want to hear it. I imagine the Fellian version of events is very different from the human one.”

He chuckles. His expression turns vague and he thinks for a moment. “It starts, I suppose, at the beginning of time. The gods created their children and placed them upon the world to live. Humans, being the dirt-crawlers made from clay, were given the mountains?—”

“Hey!” I thump his chest, insulted. “Dirt-crawlers? Seriously?”

“This is the Fellian version of events,” he reminds me. “It’s not going to be flattering. Do you wish to hear this or not?”

I scowl at him. “I do. Fine. Go on.”

He clears his throat loudly and obviously, making me snort with amusement. “As I was saying, the dirt-crawler humans lived under the mountains, as they were most comfortable being clasped in the earth that they had been brought from. The children of the Gray God were crafted from the clouds and the skies, and so they lived above, in the fields full of sunshine and warmth.”

I try not to frown. Humans lived under the mountains? This is new to me. “Why would humans live underground?”

“Why do you think a winged people do?” he replies, and taps his fingers on my arm. “I am getting to that part.”

Oh. I’d never realized how very impractical it would be for a winged people to live underground. What he says makes sense in a disturbing sort of way. Our legends say that humans were built of clay to be adaptable, to change quickly. Not that we’re from the earth itself. That the Absent God decided to create one last thing before he left, and so he took all the goodness in the world and pushed them into the clay and that made humans.

Our legends also say that the Gray God was jealous and took all the evils in the world and made them into a race of his own—the Fellians. Nemeth isn’t evil, though, and I know Lionel certainly isn’t good, so clearly the stories have spun away from their origins over time.

When I don’t interrupt again, Nemeth continues. “Humans saw how happy the Fellians—back then we were just called the ‘sky people’—were in their home. They resented how free we were, how the sun warmed us when we flew. The humans came and demanded that the sky people trade places with them— that humans should have the above-ground and the sky people below. Naturally, we refused and a war began.

“The war continued for a hundred years, and neither side was willing to give. Then, a human more cunning than any other began to lead the humans. Her name was Ravendor, and she was a mercenary sellsword who first fought for the sky people, acting as a spy amongst her people. Then, she decided she could have more power amongst the humans, so she betrayed her employers and used their magical weapons in battle. She conquered the Alabaster Citadel, which is supposed to be a neutral place dedicated to all the gods, and claimed it for humankind. The goddess was upset and decided she wanted the war to end. Both parties were never going to see eye to eye, so she decided that the best thing would be for them to come to care for one another. She insisted that Ravendor—the leader of the humans—and Azamenth—the King of the sky people—enter into a truce. She split the land into two continents and between them, she erected a tower. Ravendor and Azamenth were bidden to enter and not return until they were ready to give truce.”

“And let me guess,” I interject. “Seven years passed, and when they came out, Ravendor and Azamenth were in love, yes?”

Nemeth grins at me, his fingers trailing over my spine. “Something like that. At least, Azamenth believed himself to be in love with Ravendor. I’m told she was charming and beautiful, and if you are of her line, I can believe that.”

I want to preen at his praise, but I know he’s getting to the uncomfortable parts, so I gesture that he should continue instead. “So what happened after they left the tower?”

“There was peace for a time.” His expression grows thoughtful, his fingers slowing as he caresses my back. “Everyone lived in harmony outside of the mountains, sky people and human together. Ravendor had four children by Azamenth—two with wings, and two without, two born inside the tower, and two out. Eventually the humans became dissatisfied with living with the sky people. Why should they share what was rightfully theirs? And so they whispered things into Ravendor’s ear until she acted.”

I know this part. He’s mentioned it before. “She killed her mate?”

“Aye.” Nemeth sighs, the sound heavy and defeated. “She slew Azamenth and drove his people from the kingdom. Anyone with wings was not welcome in Ravendor’s land. Azamenth had a younger brother, Abedon. He stole the two winged children from Ravendor and retreated with what remained of his people deep into the mountains, across the channel, and established the kingdom of Darkfell. The princes of the first house are the descendants of Abedon and Azamenth’s half-blooded children, though a thousand generations have passed. Abedon swore to avenge his brother’s death, and ever since, Darkfell has not trusted a human for betraying them and stealing their lands. The goddess was furious with Ravendor’s betrayal and the destruction of peace. She confronted both the Absent God and the Gray God and told them of the humans’ misdeeds. The Absent God turned his face away from his children, and the Golden Moon Goddess and the Gray God withheld their names from the people. We are no longer allowed to use them, and so our prayers are dulled because we cannot beseech them by name. The land is cursed, and the line of Ravendor and the line of Darkfell must return to the tower over and over again, or the goddess’s wrath will be swift. And that is the end of the story. Does it satisfy you?”

It’s a terrible story, one that paints the humans as the monsters. “Ours is really different.”

“I remember. You told me once.” His hands continue to stroke my skin, petting me. “Ravendor was a saintly hero and saved the humans from the big bad Fellians. That is your version, yes?”

“More or less.”

“And which do you think is more likely?” There’s no judgment in his tone, just genuine curiosity.

“My guess is that the truth is somewhere in the middle,” I admit. “The humans weren’t innocent saints, and the Fellians weren’t martyrs. Everyone was probably fighting over land and resources, because it’s the same thing everyone’s fighting over now.”

“Why the interest in old stories?” Nemeth asks, his gaze seeking mine. “Why do you care about Ravendor or the house of Darkfell?”

My throat closes up. I don’t want to tell him. He said he didn’t want children, that they were a complication he was glad not to have. Yet I can’t let him continue to worry over my health. I certainly can’t let him leave me behind, thinking he’s doing it for my own good. “Do you love me, Nemeth?”

“How can you ask that? You know the answer.” His eyes narrow as he studies me. “You think my feelings would change the moment I leave the tower, like Ravendor?”

The parallels between Ravendor’s story and my fate are a little worrisome, but I push those thoughts aside. “I wanted to hear more about the children that they had—Ravendor and Azamenth.”

“They aren’t mentioned except in context of the larger story. Why?”

“Because I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. “And I’m not supposed to be.”