Chapter 50
I rummage through the woven baskets to discover a pair of black knee-high boots with thick soles and laces down the front. Tugging them on, I find they fit and immediately fall in love with them.
Perfect for tucking blades down and stomping toes.
I pull out a bundle of sheer black fabric from a different basket, unraveling it, discovering it’s actually a hooded robe.
“Huh,” I say, tugging it on, checking myself in the mirror—turning left and right.
This.
Is.
Adorable.
I can still see my silky sheath beneath, giving a layered effect that also doubles as my own portable slab of shade that doesn’t restrict the airflow to my body.
I admire the floor-length hem and the bell sleeves that almost fall to the tips of my outstretched fingers. A convenient length to mostly hide my cuff so I don’t look like an escaped convict while I’m traipsing through the city, hunting for a Curly Quill.
In the same drawer, I find some pants that look too small, but I yank the black belt free and bind it around my waist, discovering it fits if I thread it all the way to the final hole.
I flick up the hood, look at my reflection again, and smile.
Perfect.
Grabbing the candlestick, I charge from the room, down the hall that spills into a domed sitting room. I frown up at the ceiling—a mosaic Sabersythe that looks like it’s about to blow flames all over me.
A shiver skitters all the way to my toes.
Kaan needs to fire the decorator before somebody dies of a heart attack.
I cut my glance around, a third of the wall a stretch of glass doors with tawny windowpanes, looking out on a paved courtyard buttoned with a fire pit. Massive urns spill plush vines that appear to clothe the building, heavy with inky flowers the size of my head, their faces tipped to the sun.
The room itself has a cozy feel despite its horrific ceiling art, more urns gushing vines that smother the internal walls, drenched in sunshine pouring through the many windows—those inky blooms flavoring the air with a spicy sweetness.
Around a stone table no taller than my knee—and sitting atop a curl of plush leather seaters—are two large males. One with his body facing me, his expression hidden by a flock of pale locks half covering his eyes. The other watching me over his shoulder, brow arched, his face and shoulders covered in freckles. A blaze of hair making him look like he just woke from a middae nap.
Both of them wield a fan of Skripi shards, with more face down on the table also adorned with a glass of amber … something and a dish of crispy-looking nibbles.
“Love that game,” I say, striding toward the table, pausing to pinch a snack from the dish. I drag it through a swirl of pale dip and sweep it onto my tongue, scrunching my face at the creamy concoction threaded with notes of something that tastes a lot like dirt. “Not my favorite. What is it?”
“Trufflin cream,” the red-haired, heavily pierced male croaks. “We import it from a nearby village. The fungus that goes into it is hard to grow, so it costs its weight in gold.”
I swipe the rest onto my tongue, confirming it is—in fact—terrible.
“Definitely not my favorite.” I toss the crisp into my mouth and chew, brows bumping up. “You’ve redeemed yourself. These are delicious.”
Rich.
Salty.
Fatty.
They even pop against my tongue with each bursting bite.
I crunch through another. “What are they?”
“Fried colk fat.”
Huh.
Not my snack of choice since I just watched one bleed into a bowl, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I scoop the entire dish against my chest and wrap my shackled arm around it—the one still gripping hold of my stolen candlestick. I pluck out another crisp of fat, crunching through it. “You don’t mind, do you?” I ask, pointing at the bowl.
“Not enough to stop you,” the shirtless male says, his raised brow inching up his head until it’s almost lost amongst his rebellious locks. “Do you want a bag for the candlestick?”
I smile. “How thoughtful! Yes, I’d love one.”
He shares a look with the quiet male and stands, wanders over to a drink bar, grabs a thin cotton bag, and empties a bunch of dimpled orange fruit on the bench. He lumbers back toward me, opening it. I drop the candlestick inside, and he threads the handles over my arm.
“Thank you.” I look between them both. “You don’t need me to kill anyone in exchange for it, do you?”
Silence prevails for so long I almost repeat the question.
“Ahh, no. We’ll pass,” the red-haired male says.
“Nice.”
And strange. That’s usually how it works.
“Let me know if you change your mind. I’m trying to get out of conscription work, but your king saved my life a couple of times, so I’m happy to offer a one-time-only favor.” I hoist the bag farther up my shoulder. “Where’s the front door?”
The male on the seater continues to stare at me like I’m some strange creature he’s never seen before, his complexion so wan I wonder if he’s coming down with something. Poor guy. Probably best I leave before I catch it too, else I’ll never make it back to the wall to flay Rekk Zharos from cock to throat.
The redhead points behind me. “That way. Eighteenth door on your right is the fastest route to the city center.”
I turn, seeing a hallway I hadn’t noticed earlier—lined with windows, beams of light shooting through.
“So helpful.” I pinch another crisp from the bowl cradled against my chest and spin, tossing both males a wave with the same hand. “Nice chatting with you!”
Have a great life.
Silence chases me as I saunter down the hall, gorging on fried fat and the glory of being free.
Supposedly.
I didn’t wake in a cell, strung up, or in a dragon’s mouth. Nobody’s called me a filthy null or made my stabby hand twitch too much. I didn’t get tackled to the floor the moment I stepped free of my suite, painted in the blood of a sacrificial beast, or tied to a stick and offered to the Sabersythes. Nobody called me Kholu or ordered me to stay and breed some world-saving offspring , nor am I being herded by a mythical silver feline.
I’m cautiously optimistic that my short stay in Dhomm is going to be far less traumatic than I was previously anticipating.
T wo large, stony-faced guards grip the handles of the double doors and pry them open.
“Creators,” I mutter, squinting against the overwhelming flood of sunlight. I pluck the last crisp from my dish, crunching through it as I step out into the sticky, sweet-smelling heat, drawing my lungs full.
Blowing out a sigh.
Freedom tastes like fried colk fat and too-hot air, but I’ve never been more thankful. The only thing that could blunt my whetted optimism is a large, scarred, ember-eyed king who sawed off somebody’s head for me.
My heart squirms, like it’s trying to burrow between my ribs. A feeling I want to crush in my clenching fist.
The quicker I get out of here, the better.
The doors snip shut behind me, and I spin, a different set of guards bracketing the doorway on this outside wall catching my attention. I take in their dragonscale armor, the way both males wear their dark hair loose around their shoulders, each armed with a bronze sword in one hand and a wooden spear in the other.
Sucking the last of the salty seasoning off my fingers, I step close to the male on the right somehow not squinting or sweating despite the violent sunlight pouring upon his face. “Would you mind holding this for me?” I ask, nudging my empty dish toward him.
A line forms between his brows, and he glances at the pendant hanging against my sternum, brows bumping up. He dips his head for a few long beats—like a bow—then looks up at the clay dish. Clearing his throat, he extends his sword, which I take, thanking him as I place the dish upon his now-empty hand.
Stepping back, I swing the weapon around, getting a feel for its balance. I frown, yet to find a sword I’ve immediately fallen in love with.
“Too heavy for my hand.” I jerk my chin at the dagger strapped around his thigh. “But I’ll happily swap you for that. And the sheath.”
After a moment of pause, the guards share a look before the male sets the crockery on the ground, along with his spear. He unbuckles his sheath, and I first weigh the dagger’s feel before surrendering my stolen sword.
“Nice doing business with you,” I say, winking.
He clears his throat, stepping back into position with my dish on the ground between his feet. I notice a few beads of sweat now gathered on his brow.
“Quick question.” I set my candlestick bag on the ground and part my robe, easing up the hem of my shift so I can thread the leather strap around my hip and thigh. “You don’t happen to feed folk to the dragons here, do you? In, say … I don’t know, a giant blood-soaked coliseum with a stake in the middle that’s really uncomfortable to be tied to?”
I cut a glance at both males who are casting each other wary looks. They shake their heads in unison, and my brows bump up.
Interesting.
“What about your young elementals? What happens to them?”
“They attend Drohk Academy,” the guard on the left announces in his thick northern accent, dipping his head.
“And the nulls?”
“They’re given the option to discover if they have an affinity for the runes. If not, they may choose to study something else or gain an apprenticeship.”
Apprenti— Huh?
“Right,” I say, head cocked to the side as I blindly thread another buckle.
The doors shove open.
The big shirtless male with fiery hair stands in the hallway beyond, arms crossed, brow raised. “Harassing the guards?”
“Rather presumptuous of you.”
“Your reputation precedes you.” He pokes his head out the door and looks left and right, as though checking we’re all still in one piece.
Mainly them.
His emerald stare shifts between the dish on the ground, the guard’s reddening cheeks, and my freshly donned weapon. “I see you’ve managed to scam your way into being equipped. Quick work.”
I drop my hem. “Hidden talent. What’s yours?”
“Sweet fuck all.” He dashes his hand at the stairs that swoop toward the bouldered city below. “Let’s go.”
My heart drops, frown returning.
Am I not as free as I thought I was?
“What did I do to deserve an escort?”
He flicks me an up and down look, both brows raised. “You look like a tourist unaccustomed to the heat. If you’re going to hock off a solid gold candlestick, you might as well get a good deal. A merchant sees you with me, chances are they won’t short you.”
Actually, that’s thoughtful. Though I wonder if he’d be so supportive if he knew I intended on swapping said candlestick for an armory’s worth of Sabersythe scale blades?
“Thank y—”
“Unless they caught me tangled up with their daughters,” he tacks on, shrugging. “Or their sons. Then they’ll probably refuse to do business with you altogether.”
Creators.
“Weren’t you in the middle of a game you should probably finish?”
“Yes. And I was getting my ass kicked. Grihm’s lethal when he’s in a shit mood, and my pride’s already bruised. Besides, somebody stole our snacks and the fucking brandy ran out.”
Right.
Guess I’m stuck with him.
“In that case,” I say, bending down to snatch my bag off the ground, “shall we?”
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his tight brown leather pants and leads the way, his long steps smooth and light despite his hulking size. The sun beats upon us like a distant blow of dragonflame, so I tuck my hood farther forward, casting my face in shadow, immediately easing the discomfort.
“I’m Pyrok.”
“Raeve. Though I suspect you already knew that.”
“Correct.” He extends his left hand across his body toward me, pointer and middle finger outstretched, the others curled in. I frown at it, looking up into his eyes, then back at his hand again before I mimic the motion, our fingers meeting.
He flashes me a half smile that’s so nonchalant it’s infectious. “There you go.”
I stab my stare down the stairs as we ease amongst the bouldered buildings clothed in more of the big inky blooms Essi would’ve loved.
That organ in my chest pangs, and I rub at the ache.
“So, Raeve, what sort of store were you hoping to dump that candlestick at?”
“A Curly Quill. If you have one.”
He casts me a sidelong look. “We do.”
My eyes widen. “It’s called that? The Curly Quill?”
“ Parchment, pawn, and all your Runi supplies ,” he chimes, and relief bubbles through me, popping against my ribs.
Lightening my steps.
I knew they were elsewhere; I just wasn’t certain there would be one this far north. This is my lucky dae.
“You need a quill?”
“I do.”
Lots of quills with sharp, pointy ends honed enough to slit through all of Rekk’s important bits.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Then I need a sweet drink and a good view,” I tell him, moving the handles of my bag so they’re resting on my shoulder, repressing the urge to scratch at the skin on the side of my nails that’s starting to get a little raw.
“Drink sounds like a premium part of the plan. What sort of view are you after?”
“Best you can find.”
It’s a big city. Figure if I have a view broad enough, I’ll eventually work out where the carter hutch is without forcing any tongues to wag. Then I’ll know where I need to go once I’ve liquidated this heavy golden asset and am packed with a lethal amount of weapons, toting a satchel full of those crispy black fruits Veya was eating.
In front of me.
Shard by crispy, watery shard.
The muscles beneath my tongue tingle …
If I leave this place without some, I’ll never forgive myself.