21. Cirri
Chapter 21
Cirri
F or the second day in a row, I woke up alone in Bane’s bed.
Instead of rising, I rolled onto my back, staring at the high ceiling, then raised my arm up to my eye level.
The marks his fangs had left were faint, tiny silvery patches, like years-old scars. Or stars… stars that had somehow fallen from the sky and embedded themselves in my skin.
So it was real. I had let him feed from me, and I hadn’t lost my mind to terror, or jerked away and caused irreparable damage to myself. I exhaled a sigh of relief, remembering the strange, dizzying sensation that had crept up on me after he fed. Everything had seemed so funny for no particular reason, my skin had been fizzing with warmth… and Bane had simply cuddled me tight, until I fell into a sleep so deep I didn’t remember a single snatch of dreams.
I blinked at the ceiling, and let my arm drop across my stomach as a sudden frown replaced my smile. What was he studying? I felt a little selfish for wanting him to be here when I woke up, particularly when last night was the first time I had ever tried to meet his needs, but… in my heart of hearts, yes, I was selfish.
I wanted the first thing I heard every morning to be the sound of Bane’s voice. I wanted the first thing I smelled to be his woods-and-smoke scent. I wanted the first sound to be his voice, and my first sight to be the face that had been so dreadful to me a short time ago.
It no longer seemed strange to acknowledge just how much I liked my husband. He was a true friend, like I had always known him in my soul, and we were just working out a few details in the reality of now.
I finally climbed from the bed and began dressing, but only after taking a deep whiff of the pillow Bane had slept on.
Last night was a good first step, and today I would examine the Veladari hymn I’d found in one of the books. I was saving the altar book for last; my sixth sense about books was rarely wrong, and I had a gut feeling that one would be the one to consume all my waking thoughts, but I wanted enough material to be able to translate it first. Today was devoted entirely to the hymn, and to searching the other books for more sample texts.
And when Bane came to fetch me for dinner and we sat down like a proper couple, I would share my progress, and hopefully weasel a detail or two out of him about what he was studying.
But it was not to be.
Dressed and equipped with my journal and pen, I opened the door on Miro, whose hand was raised to knock.
“Good morning, Lady Cirrien.” To my surprise, he sketched a small bow, no hint of his usual cockiness or sly sidelong glances. “I was wondering where you’ve been. You’ve missed our portrait sessions.”
Oh. The damned portrait.
The last thing I wanted to do was sit and listen to Miro make crude jokes, and the books called my name with a silent siren song, but… Bane himself had commissioned the portrait.
He wouldn’t share his blood with me, because I wasn’t what he considered a true mate, but—I felt that we were becoming true friends, at least. We were on the first tentative steps to being lovers. Genuine companions.
If I wasn’t a mate… I could at least be someone he would remember. If he had the portrait, then a hundred years from now, two hundred, he could look back and think of me fondly.
I should stop thinking of it as a gravestone.
One day, it was going to be all that was left of me, and if a portrait was all Bane had left to remember me by, I wanted it to be a damn good one.
I managed to smile at Miro, and signed: I’m ready if you are.
A hint of puzzlement crept into his eyes, but he held out a hand. “After you, then, my lady. We’ll return to the Bloodgarden. I’m already set up there.”
His new, distant politeness was incredibly pleasant, and made it much easier to follow him to the Bloodgarden. The mist was thin today, allowing faint rays of actual sunlight to pierce the usual gloom.
A chair had been nestled against a background of thorny brambles and lush roses, and the canvas was set before it. I glanced at it as I passed, taking in the rough charcoal sketch and the overlaid wash of ochre paint.
“As I was looking at it, I thought the posed formality didn’t seem to suit you.” Miro pondered the sketch. “When I see you, you don’t behave like most of the noblewomen here. There’s more of a… a looseness to you, like you don’t want to be seen, but you can’t help but draw the eye. So I decided we’ll just paint you as you are now. No overdone dresses, no styled hair.”
I pulled my journal out of my bag, being very careful not to allow the back cover to droop open: I’d pressed the tiny rose Bane had left on my pillow yesterday between two pages in the back, where it would remain for eternity.
Then I wrote, I think that’s best. I never feel comfortable in formal clothes.
Although I didn’t agree with him about drawing eyes—it was probably just the color of my hair, which made me fade into the background easily enough when it was covered—I certainly agreed that overdone was not what I wanted this painting to be.
I wanted it to be as I was now, messy hair and ink stains on my hands, not an idealized memory of someone who had never existed.
Miro read my message and his shoulders relaxed. He smiled at me, running a hand through his dark hair and rumpling the curls. “There’s something we have in common. I don’t, either. Probably because… well, my mother was a noblewoman, but I didn’t inherit the title. I was never expected to dress well or attend comportment classes.”
Oh? I wrote in an effort to be polite, watching him mix paints on a palette. He’d seated me close enough that he could glance over and read the page, even as he used a tiny trowel to mix colors.
Miro examined what he’d made, then picked up a stiff-bristled brush and began dabbing it on the canvas.
“As you know…” He gestured to his face with the brush. “I’ve a Forian father.”
His usual smile was small and twisted. I tapped my pen softly, debating what to say, and finally settled on: Many people have Forian fathers.
Miro let out a soft snort, his gaze flicking between me and the canvas. “The problem is when you live in a place where that’s what they see first,” he said softly. “In the Rift, they see a Forian. In Foria, they see a Veladari. When Mother died, the peacetime hadn’t yet begun—and nobody wanted a half-Forian bastard to inherit her title. Bane kept me on, as I was already her protégé, but my inheritance is long gone.”
It was far too early to be thinking of this, but a polite Miro was better than a crass Miro.
I’m sorry that happened to you , I wrote, thinking that it was a bit much to complain about it every time we met. He was still the court artist of Ravenscry, no small feat.
Perhaps he thought he’d met a kindred spirit in me, having lost a title as well, but I could go the rest of my life and never think of the lai Darran family or estates again, and remain unbothered.
“That’s kind of you,” he said, dredging a new brush through scarlet paint. “But then, you’re always kind, Cirri.” He smiled at me, giving me a long look under dark lashes, and I wondered if this was some sort of joke: I certainly hadn’t been kind in what I’d said the last time we met, and I would gladly say it again. “And this painting… I think this will be my greatest work, and with luck, I’ll move up in the world.”
Artists are always in high demand in Argent , was my neutral contribution.
“Perhaps, but I’m not a city lad. Born and raised in the Rift.” He patted his chest. “I’d just be happy to take my family title back, make them see something more than a Forian by-blow when they look at me.”
I’m sure they will.
He continued on for some time, and even though I tried my hardest to be an attentive listener, my mind drifted, lulled by the warmth of the rare sunshine on my shoulders.
The hymn… in the space of a late afternoon, I might be able to translate one or two of the High Tongue runes. By the Light, when I could finally present Bane with actual, verifiable translations… it would be the greatest project of my life, the unbinding of a lost language.
So that would be today’s goal, but the fact that he had risen before the sun and vanished again still had my curiosity by the throat. Could he be studying the High Tongue on his own? Or was it something to do with Wyn’s new bloodwitchery, the reason she’d filled a vessel with my blood?
I pondered whether he was holed up in the Tower of Autumn with Wyn, working on something that was possibly deadly—he hadn’t made those warnings for no reason, and I trusted him not to understate the matter—and if I should be concerned about him being involved in something of a dangerous nature.
Which made me huff aloud with laughter. Bane was a fiend. Literally, what could possibly pose a threat to him, outside an army of wargs?
“Is something funny?” Miro glanced up from the canvas, still smiling, but there was a subtle gleam of annoyance in his gaze. “I didn’t realize that I was so amusing.”
Just thinking of Bane , I wrote, and replayed Miro’s last words in my head: he’d said something about the noblemen disliking him.
Well, it clearly hadn’t been the best time to laugh, but then, I could only listen to a constant stream of self-pity and woe for so long before I began to get itchy.
“Ah.” He glanced at what I’d written. “I imagine he occupies your mind quite a bit.”
Instantly my guard went up; I examined his face for the tell-tale signs of petulance I’d come to expect from him, but he appeared almost carefully neutral, disguising his true thoughts.
That tends to happen when you’re married to someone , I wrote.
“It’s just a pity, that’s all,” he continued, brow furrowed as he dabbed more paint on the canvas. “To waste a lai, a beauty like you, on… well, you see what he is.”
And we’re done here , I wrote, holding it up for his perusal before scrawling more in sharp letters. You can keep beating the dead horse, but it’s rotting and it stinks by now . I’d wish for you to have a good day, but something tells me you’ll spend it sulking and miserable and making it worse for everyone else. You can come find me again to finish this when you’ve grown up a bit.
His eyes widened as he read my words, and when I slammed my journal shut and got to my feet, he reached out as though to grab my skirt.
My fist clenched around my pen, and I glared at him hard enough that he withdrew his hand, leaning away from me.
“Cirrien, wait. Wait .” Miro laughed disbelievingly as I walked away. “So you’re just leaving? All right, then. Good day to you too, Lady Silence.”
His mocking nickname pricked at me as I plunged deeper into the Bloodgarden, determined to walk off my irritation before going to the library. I didn’t want to be angry and uncontrolled when I handled the precious books.
Lady Silence. How clever . Really, it was amazing we didn’t fall all over ourselves to appreciate his wit.
I exhaled as I took the curling paths through the garden, until I stumbled into a shadowed corner in the back; the fountain—no, altar—where we’d made our vows was hidden in darkness, the woman’s eyes closed, her mouth no longer spilling blood. Her empty hands were dry, still stained crimson with wine and blood.
If the fountain was here… then our thorns were over there. I retraced the steps I remembered from that night, smiling as I remembered Bane signing, asking me for cats, and found the patch of earth at the base of one of the carved loggia columns where I’d knelt in my wedding dress to dig with my bare hands.
I knelt before it now, unsure whether to smile or frown: our vine was growing. Green tendrils had emerged from the soil and were beginning to creep up the column, the tiniest nubs of what would become thorns blistering their sides. There was even a bud with the faintest hint of pink to it, a bloodrose born of our conjoined hands.
But the earth here had been disturbed, and recently. I touched the freshly scattered soil, breathing in the scent of newly-turned earth.
Who had been digging in our vines?
I was happy to see it already growing, a sign, as Bane had explained to me, that their ancestors were pleased with us. But to come here and dig around in it… what purpose did that serve?
I would ask him when I saw him tonight; I made a mental note to make a written note, so I wouldn’t forget.
But forget I wouldn’t; it still nagged at me as I made my way to the library, my irritation with Miro overcome by the unsettlement I felt at the knowledge that someone had specifically found our vines and dug there.
I settled myself at my usual table in the library, wrote it down in my journal, and pulled the book with the Veladari hymn towards myself, diving headfirst into the work.
Disquiet became enthusiasm as the afternoon slipped by; it was almost impossible to keep my excitement tamped down. I identified several of the known High Tongue runes in the passage across from the hymn, cross-comparing and finding the translated words in the correct places.
So this was a parallel text, and perfectly positioned to directly translate the High Tongue verse alongside it.
I notated the new runes, checking a formal Veladari dictionary as I went. The formal version of our language hadn’t been used as common vernacular in over a millennia, but my initial suspicions seemed to be supported: the High Tongue runes seemed heavily influenced by them, or vice versa.
I’d managed to confidently add several words to the new, functional dictionary of the High Tongue that I was creating when the hair on the back of my neck rose, standing straight up. Chills followed, creeping down my spine and arms.
Something was watching me.
I looked up slowly without moving my head, taking in the library. The sky, framed in the high arched windows, was tipping towards evening in shades of rose and lavender; the shadows had grown long, and the candles had already been lit.
There was no sign of Koryek, whose silent presence I had grown used to. No sign of any servants.
I was alone, and yet I felt the slow creep and crawl of eyes on my back.
Gripping my pen as a makeshift weapon— I should keep a letter-opener here , was the sluggish thought at the back of my mind—I burst into motion, kicking my chair back and spinning around, pen held to stab.
But I froze in place at the sight of what watched me from the library doors, all thoughts of stabbing overcome by a deep, stark sense of wrongness, overlaid by a sense of awe at the sheer, strange beauty of them.
Whatever they were, they weren’t alive. Not in the sense of a living, breathing being with blood in their veins.
I wasn’t entirely sure that they had veins, in fact.
They were the shape and height of people, if people had been reduced to mere outlines: a head on a neck, joined to a torso, with limbs in the right places… even fingers and toes. Both stood several inches taller than myself.
But they had no faces. No eyes, no mouth or nose, no distinguishable features.
The one on the left was made thorny vines; black and spiny, as though the bloodroses’ brambles had grown into the shape of a vaguely masculine being, torn themselves free, and walked away.
The one on the right was softer, smoother; I decided it was a ‘she’ based on the more feminine form, and she was nothing but velvety crimson petals, molded into the shape of a woman.
I stared at them, and… they stared back. Eyelessly. Unmoving. Simply standing in the doorway, facing me.
Goosebumps rippled over my flesh as I debated my options. I had no idea what they were . I’d never seen anything like them before. If it had been a warg, my options would’ve been clear: fight or die. If it had been Miro, I could’ve handled that with some harsh words.
But these things, shaped like people, made of thorns and roses… I couldn’t even begin to guess what they were, or if they could be killed at all.
I’d made up my mind to focus on the thorny one first—his spines could be dangerous—when a voice rang out from behind them.
“Oh, for the ancestors’ sakes, there you’ve got off to—!”
At first, with the strangeness of it and the adrenaline humming through my veins, I couldn’t quite make sense of Wyn’s voice here, in the library, right at this moment.
But the bloodwitch came striding in, shooing the figures apart with little waves of her fingers. By the Light, they even moved like people—Thorn moved aside grudgingly, his head turning towards Wyn, while Rose did a dainty little side-step, with the grace of a born dancer.
Wyn huffed, adjusting her robes, and held out her hands like an impresario. “It worked! I am absolutely brilliant, if I do say so myself.”
Thorn’s head had turned towards me again. I cautiously reached for my journal, unwilling to move my eyes from the things for more than a few seconds. What worked? This? By the Light, what are they?
“These are yours, made specifically for you by yours truly.” Wyn laughed, clapping her hands together with delight as she looked Rose up and down. “They’re a variety of golem, I suppose, as a Fae-made golem was the basis for their forms, but I’ve removed all unnecessary aggression from their magical makeup, and my own sanguimancy has imbued them with some rather interesting properties.”
Unnecessary aggression? I wasn’t entirely sure what a golem was to begin with, but if it was anywhere near as disturbing as these, I didn’t want to meet one.
“So.” Wyn gestured to Rose. “It’s become obvious that you won’t accept the help of the maids; now you have this lovely companion. And here…” She gestured to Thorn. “It will protect you with its… well, not its last breath, as it doesn’t have lungs, but you get the idea.”
I nodded numbly.
Why did they come here? I asked.
A wavering expression crossed Wyn’s face, half apologetic, half triumphant. “They’re made with your own blood, Cirrien. They weren’t released from the wards until after we’d run some necessary tests—ensuring they wouldn’t become hostile, or mutate, or… ah, any number of other things—but as your blood is the component for the sanguimancy giving them a semblance of life, they were drawn to you, like iron to a lodestone. Wherever you are, they’ll want to find you. Truly, this is a work of genius, and while I don’t expect anyone else to appreciate the magnitude of such an accomplishment, I feel absolutely zero scruples about shouting my achievement from the rooftops.”
She rubbed her hands together with glee, leaving me to stare at her.
They were going to follow me everywhere? Was… was this what Bane had been working on?
How lovely , I wrote weakly, wondering how I was going to sleep at night ever again, and startled as Rose raised her hands.
Thank you , she signed, ducking her head as though bashful, and my heart started racing. I lowered the journal and pen to the table.
“Yes,” Wyn said slyly. “As I said, they were made for you . They’re simple—after all, they are creations, not living creatures—but they will understand you. With that being said, these are the first of their kind. Perhaps I will refine the design and grant them more intelligence, though the ancestors know, a construct with intelligence of its own is always asking for trouble.”
You hear me? I asked with my hands, and Rose nodded. Thorn’s spiny hands moved more slowly, his movements cautious: I hear .
Rose stepped towards me, her movements still dainty and graceful; that must have been part of her design. Pretty , she said, touching my hair, then her own face. Same.
I couldn’t lie to myself; I was still quite nervous of them, these creatures made of Fae magic and Wyn’s bloodwitchery, but the wistful motion of Rose’s hand as she touched her own petal cheek was so… human.
We are the same , I told her, because it was true in two ways: she had been made with my blood, and truly, my hair was the same color as the petals that comprised her body.
Rose pressed her hands to her cheeks, almost like she was blushing and trying to hide it.
By the Light, this was surreal.
I grabbed my journal to speak to Wyn. Are you sure they won’t become hostile? They won’t harm Bane?
“No, dear,” Wyn said, still smugly admiring Rose. “A little of his blood went into their forms as well; I used most of it in the guardian golem, encouraging its protective instincts, but neither of them are designed to see Bane as a threat.”
I wondered just how far their threat instinct went; if I grew annoyed at someone, would Thorn take that as an opportunity to do… whatever it was a golem did?
I would have to control my temper. Wyn might have tested them in wards, but this was Fae magic, and it was pretty clear by now that nothing good had come from the Fae.
But it was hard to remember that as Rose leaned over my desk, somehow examining my work without any eyes to see, and began straightening the piles of books with quick, delicate touches even I couldn’t fault.
I tried to think of a way to ask Wyn if she was really, truly sure they were safe without insulting her work, when the soft tap of claws on stone met my ears, and I glanced at the door with relief.
Bane filled it with his presence, looking tired and careworn, and he stopped at the sight of the golems. “You’ve made them already?” he asked Wyn, glancing at me. “Do you… do you like them?”
I nodded slightly, a little more of reticence leaking away as Rose smoothed a page-marking ribbon perfectly flat in the formal Veladari dictionary I’d been using. Then I raised a shoulder in a shrug; I was undecided.
Bane’s brow creased into the deep ridges they took on when he was irritated. “I wanted to be here when they were introduced,” he said. “In case things went poorly.”
“Visca and I ran plenty of tests.” Wyn sniffed. “There were no signs of hostility or insanity whatsoever. And of course I improved their forms, to make them less disturbing to the eye.”
“Even so.” His tone shifted smoothly into one of command. “The next time we do something involving Fae magic, I must be present when Cirri is introduced to it.”
Wyn shot him an annoyed glance, but she finally dipped her head. “Just so. Now, if you would stop nitpicking and admire my intellectual triumph…”
Bane let out a nearly inaudible sigh, and approached Rose first. His pointed ears went flat against his skull as he moved, swiveling to hear behind him; Thorn had smoothly slipped into place at his back, following exactly three paces from the fiend as he drew closer to me.
“Now, that’s not quite what I’d instructed them to do…” Wyn murmured, watching with sharp eyes as Thorn rounded Bane to stand by me.
I kept my arms at my sides, afraid of any sudden movements that might cause me to smash directly into those prickly limbs. Thorn ‘stared’ at Bane as he drew closer, clearly assuming a posture of defense.
Oh, by the Light… I didn’t think I could deal with a golem trying to come between me and my husband, as though Bane posed any threat to me whatsoever.
Bane’s ears flicked upwards again, his muzzle wrinkling, lip curling up to expose his fangs. “You’re made of my blood,” he snarled at the golem. “Back away.”
The golem didn’t move; Rose cowered behind the table, her hands pressed to a nonexistent mouth.
Even without expression, his hands unmoving, Thorn seemed to grow almost belligerent at Bane’s command; somehow he managed to project it in the lines of his body, his stance.
Bane stared him down for a moment longer, then relaxed, to my surprise. “Good. A cowardly protector wouldn’t be of much use. It’s a little overprotective, though.”
Like you? I asked, raising my brows. He is made of your blood, as you said.
Bane gave me a slight smile.
“You can call it off, Cirrien,” Wyn said, still watching with avid interest as the golem made of Bane’s blood refused to submit to his donor’s intimidation.
I sidled to the side, so that I was within Thorn’s line of sight.
He’s my husband , I signed firmly to the golem. When he’s around, I want him with me. I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want to be guarded against him at all.
For several long seconds, I was afraid my efforts were in vain, but Thorn finally nodded, taking several steps back to stand near Rose.
“Excellent.” The relief in Wyn’s voice was audible. “There’s always a slight chance a construct will take the salient part of the personality of whoever donated materials to its core being, so, er… we shouldn’t be surprised that it’s utterly obstinate.”
Thorn’s head tipped to the side, and he signed with one hand. He .
“What was that?” Wyn asked.
He , I wrote for her benefit. He says he’s a he, not an it.
I glanced at the golem, the spines protruding from his cheeks catching the light, and then at the soft curve of Rose’s face. Was it because they had been designed in bodies with clear male and female lines, or because I had referred to Thorn as a ‘he’ to Bane? Wyn said they were simple, but how much did they really understand?
“If they disturb you, we can put a stop to this,” Bane told me softly, his golden eyes locked on mine. “I thought you might want friends who would understand you more easily. Friends who could watch your back when you need it. So long as you understand that they must never leave Ravenscry, or be seen by the Rift-kin. They… wouldn’t accept them.”
Both Thorn and Rose looked at me, both effortlessly projecting their concern that I would ask Wyn to incinerate them on the spot.
But… Thorn reminded me a little of Bane, with his truculent refusal to move. And Rose seemed so delighted by simple things: the color of my hair, perfectly aligning the edges of the books. They could both easily understand the priests’ tongue, which would make my life easier.
I imagined Miro trying to paint with Thorn breathing down his neck and Rose plucking at his hair, and had to suppress a smile.
Besides, when would I ever leave the keep of my own accord? I had no need to fear them following me into some poor unsuspecting village when I planned to stay holed up in the library for the foreseeable future.
I like them , I told Bane. They stay.