15. Cirri
Chapter 15
Cirri
T he primrose’s petals rained to the ground as I climbed from the carriage, relieved to be out of the space that seemed so large and empty without Bane to fill it.
And yet, despite the hour of suffocating silence I’d endured and the desire to hear him laugh again, I was also glad that I’d had the time to pull myself together.
Never in my life had someone raised a weapon against me. I’d felt the back of Sister Aletha’s hand before, and been swatted across the knuckles by the Eldest Sister more times than I could count, but never… ever in my life had someone pulled a knife with the intent to kill me.
At the time, I thought my heart would gallop right out of my chest. The wine Wyn had given me hadn’t settled my nerves. I’d simply felt floaty, strangely disconnected from everything happening around me.
And when Bane had passed that man’s sentence… for the first time, I’d really, truly seen what other people saw when they looked at him.
A beast. A monstrous being to be feared.
Even the first time I’d laid eyes on him, I hadn’t felt the prickle of genuine terror. He was strange and alarming, but he still behaved in a way I understood: smiling, speaking, offering his hand.
But tonight, all of that was gone. He had been both judge and executioner, and there was none of the Bane I had come to know in him: his eyes, flat and cold, his claws a threat.
And yet… could I have stopped him? Would I have?
That man would have cut out my heart if given half a chance. Would I still feel any remorse if it had been me lying on the ground in the end, bleeding out from terrible wounds?
I’d spent the carriage ride considering that very question, and finally came to a slightly selfish conclusion: no, I wouldn’t have. If he’d managed to stab me, I would have happily let Bane have his way with him—the idea of laying down and dying for someone else’s silly misconception was almost offensive.
My disturbance was not from the man’s death, but by how quickly Bane had changed from softly laughing and joking with me, to nearly ripping a human’s arm off and draining him dry.
It drove home just how much effort he put into making himself seem harmless, a gentle giant, when in reality… he was a force of nature, a destructive goliath capable of tearing through people like so much paper.
And, moreover, it was ridiculous of me to be so shocked by the sudden, extreme violence.
For the Light’s sake, he was a fiend . He was not a genteel prince from a fairy tale, clad in gleaming armor and waiting to carry me away on a white horse.
He was a monster, and he had knowingly become one, for one purpose: brutality.
So. I knew perfectly well what I had married; my reservations about his ability to turn on a whim and become a slavering beast didn’t matter in the slightest.
Perhaps he was savage, but he had done it for me, and… well, I was willing to accept that, if it meant I didn’t bleed to death on a chair full of shrubbery.
I’d crumpled the primrose in my fist with a silent apology to the man who had thrown his life away, and when the torchlight of Ravenscry appeared in the distance, I let the relief wash over me.
Home. I was home, and though I needed a night away from my husband—I had accepted him as he was, but the sight of the blood soaked into his shirt still had me shaken, an odd parallel to my nearly-unmarked wedding gown to my wine-muddled brain—when the sun rose tomorrow, I too would rise with the new day, with new intentions.
First of all, I would need to teach him my language. The slate had served me well, both in speaking to Bane and in my defense, but I didn’t want to rely on chalk for the rest of my life.
Second, I wanted to know more about the Rift-kin. I couldn’t remain locked in Ravenscry forever, hardly more than a prisoner; if I wanted to walk among the people I supposedly represented, I needed to understand them—and hopefully prevent future misunderstandings and executions.
Third and finally, I needed something to do . Being dressed up like an oversized doll and paraded around at parties was no way to live. I hadn’t sold years of my life to the Silver Sisters to do nothing with the knowledge I’d gained.
With these intentions in mind, I waited until the carriage pulled to a halt, unbarred the door after Visca gave the all-clear knock pattern, and opened it, only to find the commander and Wyn waiting for me outside.
Where was he?
I released the primrose, letting the petals drift as I raised my hands. Where is my husband?
“If you’re asking where Bane is… the answer is, I don’t know,” Wyn replied. “What he did tonight was a hard thing. I’m sure he wishes to be left alone to… to think on his actions.”
Visca cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Derog was one of his finest men in the war,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Sometimes we must do things we regret.”
My hands froze in place, a chill creeping down my spine.
Bane had had to murder a friend… and I was the cause. No wonder he didn’t want to see me now; would he ever be able to look me in the face and see anything but a painful reminder?
“It’s not your fault, Cirrien.” Wyn smoothed her sleeves, adjusted her lapel; nervous habits she seemed unaware of. “It was madness for him to attempt to harm you. At least the Rift-kin now understand that their days of living in ignorance are over, and that no disrespect will be tolerated to the ruling family.”
The sickness in my stomach was a stone as I lowered my hands and walked towards the keep’s inner doors. There was nothing else to say.
He’d had to kill a friend, someone he’d known for far longer than he’d known me.
I wouldn’t want to see me, either.
Wyn walked me to my chambers in the Tower of Spring, where Koryek waited patiently outside the door. I nodded to my guardian as I passed through; Wyn paused, looking as though she were about to speak, but she finally just sighed and turned away, heading to her own home with Visca.
At least one of us would have a pleasant night. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, closing my eyes.
Then I reached up and pulled off the primrose crown, striding across the room to the fireplace and dropping it in. The petals crackled, shriveling as they blackened. I didn’t want any reminder of Fog Hollow sitting around where Bane might see it.
I’d started tugging the laces on the back of my velvet gown free when I looked at my desk. My journal was tucked away in there; I’d told Bane he would read it tonight.
Well, he wasn’t in Ravenscry, and I wasn’t tired. My veins were still humming with nervous anticipation, as though the knife had yet to fall.
I brought out the journal and flipped through, finding where I’d ended before: explaining my fear of being fed on and bled, that a thousand years of vampire rule couldn’t be overcome in a night.
Below it, all I could think to add was: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this trouble on you. I’m so sorry.
Before I could change my mind, I slammed it shut and went to the door, striding past Koryek and heading towards the Tower of Winter.
I knocked several times, the beat of my fist growing harder each time, but no one answered. He still wasn’t home.
Taking a deep breath, I opened his door, seeing nothing but darkness. No Bane lurking in the shadows; nothing but the large, empty bed and the thousands of skins on the walls.
I crept inside and walked to the edge of the bed, and finally laid my journal on it. I gave the cover a pat and left, hoping he would come back tonight—hoping he would see my apology.
A small part of me wanted to curl up in that enormous bed and wait for him, but that might be too much a reminder. If he came home and saw me, the unwitting instrument of his friend’s doom, that might only drive a further wedge between us, when it was already difficult to overcome his nature and my communication.
I would trust in the journal to explain myself, and hope that he came home tonight to read it.
Safely re-locked in the Tower of Spring, I shed the velvet for cotton and curled into my own bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows, staring up at the rose-carved posts. Comfortable in the safety of bed, my heart finally began to slow to a normal pace. The knife plunging towards me, the shock of realizing I was about to die—all of it began to seem distant, already a dream.
Everything would be fine.
He would come soon.
When he knocked on the door the next morning, I rushed to answer it, leaving Ellena cursing behind me as my stays came entirely unlaced again.
Hair still dripping, hope swelling in my heart, I yanked it open, hands already signing— Bane, you’re home —and stopped dead in my tracks.
Miro smiled down at me. “I’m glad to see you survived the warm welcome,” he said, lips twisting. “They're positively archaic people, aren’t they? I’m surprised they don’t live in the wallows with their pigs.”
I stared at him, my tired brain feeling like it was grinding through mud to make sense of his presence, but Miro didn’t allow me to stand in silence for long.
“We’re beginning your portrait this morning, my lady.” He raised a brow, looking me over. “Wear something suited to your station.”
I shut the door without another word, returning to Ellena glumly. She was rougher this time as she tightened my bodice, lips pressed flat. I preferred Yuli’s gentler touch, though I’d be happiest of all not to wear these clothes that needed another set of hands to get on.
When I was more presentable, I swallowed a sigh and opened the door once more. Miro nodded with satisfaction at the sight of scarlet brocade. “Now that’s proper for a lai.”
Slateless, paperless, I kept my hands at my sides as he led me away. There was no point. Not even Ellena would speak for me; she trailed behind us, doing a poor impression of a chaperone.
To my surprise, he brought us to the Bloodgarden. By daylight, the mystery and pools of shadow became the fairy tale it’d promised to be; I touched a rose as we passed, its lush petals like velvet on my fingertips. Golden motes drifted through the bars of sunlight, casting a warm glow on everything they touched.
Miro had brought out a chair and an easel. I sat in the chair at his command, and stiffened as he touched his fingers under my chin, lifting my head, and began arranging my hair over my shoulders.
“Settle,” he murmured, bringing a lock forward over my shoulder. “I’m not hurting you.”
By the Light, if only I had the ability to bite my tongue and hold back a deluge; I couldn’t say anything to him he’d understand. I didn’t want his hands on me at all.
When I was arranged to his satisfaction, he took up his place behind the easel, a stick of charcoal in hand. I focused on some point over his shoulder, examining the lushness of the roses around us. Ellena pulled a bud free from a stem and began dismantling it, dropping bits of unformed petal to the ground as she watched Miro under her lashes.
“Loosen up your shoulders a bit,” he told me, squinting as he peered from the easel to me.
I tried to listen to his instructions, pasting a “dreamy” smile on my lips and fearing it looked vapid, and straightening my back, which couldn’t get any straighter with how tight the stays were.
“Wait.”
I wanted to scream. Miro turned to the bloodroses behind the easel, and pulled a small knife—my back did straighten then, my heart skipping a beat—but he simply cut a red rose free and tucked the knife away again.
On the sheer strength of not wanting to disappoint Bane any further, I held still as Miro tucked the rose behind my ear.
“That’s better.” His knuckles grazed my cheek; it took every last drop of willpower I had not to pull away.
He finally returned to his charcoal and the paper, sketching out rough, broad lines.
I resolved to find another slate, to hopefully be able to speak as he painted. Miro had grown up in the Rift, right here in the castle, the son of a Forian. He would know about the people over the mountains and the wargs, about the mad wolf god they worshipped. There was so much to learn, and yet when he finally spoke…
“I took the liberty of going through some of the old records. I was curious about you, being a lai Darran and all, and I found the genealogy of your people.”
He still only cared about the name. The name that meant absolutely nothing, as I’d owed a lifetime to the Sisters as their servant. My shoulder lifted in a small shrug, and I cut a hand through the air: It doesn’t matter.
“You’ve got the old blood. The first lai Darran recorded was the lord of Owlhorn, before it went to the lai Tristels. I suppose our illustrious lord protector made out well for himself with you.” He laughed, adding a scribble to the canvas with a flourish. “His wife has the blood of kings. Does it taste any different, I wonder? No—don’t move. Keep your shoulders where they are.”
I resorted to signing with one hand, spelling phonetically. Doubtful .
“You know, with a bloodline like that, you’d have every right to inherit Ravenscry yourself if something happened to our Lord and savior.” Miro gave me a conspiratorial smirk over the canvas, even as a chill ran over me at the thought. “You and your children, assuming he can produce them.”
Ellena snorted, tossing her mangled rosebud aside, and Miro glanced her way. She stepped closer and whispered something to him, her eyes flicking towards me with ill-concealed spite.
“Oh, you don’t say?” Miro said, with a tone of false surprise.
What are you gossiping about? I asked, no longer caring about where my shoulders were positioned.
“So you haven’t been sleeping in his chambers.” Miro wriggled his brows. “How will you get on with the business of pushing out heirs? Or is it his beastly visage that drives you away? I suppose a lady with the blood of kings can’t fathom having an animal humping away at her.”
A hot flush of anger rose in my cheeks, and my hands curled into fists, but Miro laughed. “Oh, calm down. I was joking. And put your shoulders back.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t uncurl my fingers even to speak. What was it about Bane that made me feel this way—the sudden surge of rage that made me want to drive my fist right into Miro’s self-satisfied face for speaking of him so?
It’s because he’s making fun of me right to my face , I told myself, knowing it was partly true. Because he can say cruel things—he can imply Bane’s death, he can call him an animal—he can mock me, and I can’t say a word in my defense. And if I did… he would ignore it.
As angry as I was with Miro, it only made me appreciate Bane more, that he made an effort to hear what I was saying.
Once more, I felt invisible and unheard, an object to be moved around. Quite literally, in Miro’s case.
So Bane was quick to kill a man in my defense… there were worse things.
“I apologize, my lady.” Miro lowered his charcoal stick. “That was far too forward of me. Let’s have the smile back in place now.”
It was, and you should be ashamed of yourself , I signed, tossing my hair back. To hell with his posing. You might be the most talented artist in the Rift, but you have the manners of swine and gossip like a harridan. Keep your thoughts out of my bedroom and your hands to yourself.
His own smile flickered, wavering like a candle flame. When it steadied, there was something hard and cold about it. “So I’ve made you angry. I apologized. What more would you have me do? You might be the Lady now, but I won’t sit on command and bark like a good dog, begging for your forgiveness.”
I stared at him incredulously. Bark like a dog? Nobody asked for that! All I would’ve asked from you is manners, the same kind I learned as a servant. If the Sisters’ maids can manage it, so can you.
“You know I can’t understand whatever that is,” he snapped, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Look. I truly am sorry, Cirrien. Shall we start over?”
I eyed him warily, not trusting him in the slightest.
“It was a long night. I’m tired and I spoke out of turn. Please forgive me.” He opened his eyes, raking a charcoal-smudged hand through his dark hair. Those green eyes stood out like jewels against his sun-darkened skin, half-lidded, but there were no shadows of tiredness beneath them.
There was something about a handsome man who used his face like a weapon that made me trust him even less.
But Bane had apparently commissioned this portrait… it was something the nobility did. I had no desire to pretend to be something I wasn’t, but things were already unsteady enough between us.
Every time I thought I gained ground on actual friendship with him, something yanked the rug out from under me. It was just a portrait, and if it pleased him to have it done…
For Bane’s sake, I would sit through these sessions and endure Miro’s priggish barbs. And one day, when I’d managed to teach this entire keep my language, I would let him know exactly what I thought of him.
But today was not that day, and we had barely started.
I nodded briefly, managed to paste on the smile he requested, and sat quietly as the morning stretched into a long afternoon. Miro kept his nonsense to a minimum after that, but I hadn’t forgotten, nor forgiven, and made no effort to reply to his few adjustments of my position.
My stomach was growling when he finally released me, the faint golden light of the sun falling behind the walls. Despite the coolness of the Rift, the brocade dress was heavy, and sweat had soaked my back.
I kept my farewell short, a mere nod to him before I fled into the keep, without even looking at what he’d managed to get onto the canvas.
Ellena remained to help him with his materials; more joy for me, to be away from her. For all I knew she was feeding him more gossip now, about what I did, where I went—or didn’t.
Like my husband’s bed.
I’d been a servant my whole life; much of our stability was founded on gossip of the people who owned us. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the fact that I was emphatically not in Bane’s bed was a subject of conversation.
And yet, now that I found the shoe on the other foot, it was quite infuriating. What business of theirs was it if we had heirs or not? He would live forever, and one day…
I stopped in the middle of a hallway, not even seeing where I was. The thought was a punch to the gut, kicking the breath out of my lungs.
One day I would die, and he would replace me.
There would be another woman living in my tower. Another woman wearing that white spidersilk gown. Another woman glancing sidelong at that bestial face, learning to read the small tells that meant he was smiling, or worried, or angry.
Bane and Wyn had told me themselves… a vampire only gave his blood to a true mate, one they wanted for all the long centuries of their lives. He had told me I would never taste his.
I was used to feeling invisible and unwanted, but I’d never considered how ephemeral I truly was.
One day, that portrait would be all that remained of me—that, and Bane’s memories.
Replaceable. Mutable. Unheard.
A mere transitory century of Bane’s entire life. And he had not come to find me today, despite the limited fragment of a lifespan I had compared to him—whatever I had left, it was a mayfly speck against his eternity.
Because I was just the first of many. No matter what I did, whatever loyalty I felt towards him… I would only be a ghost to him.
Miro was painting my epitaph in the present.
Despite the heat of the day and the sweaty fabric against my back, I felt cold deep down in my bones.