Chapter 11
CHAPTER
Each of us went through the same preparations that Trace and Gia had received.
New clothing, becoming of the roles we’d play—and I had to say that Gia’s wardrobe was far more interesting to peruse than mine, yet I was still surprised to see how little clothing even the servants were expected to wear.
On one hand, less clothing and light fabrics would keep us cool in the extremely warm climate of Artume, but on the other, it left few places to hide weaponry, and was the farthest thing from protective.
I was reminded again how much of our role was theater and espionage when I riffled through these costumes.
My garments were restricted to shades of blue, as apparently it was the color all servants were expected to wear at Nasallus.
Most pieces were a thin muslin fabric; typically sleeveless, with panels crossing over the chest and flowy skirts allowing me to move freely.
The slits along my legs seemed absurd and useless for a commoner in servitude, but were in accordance with the styles I’d seen in Gia’s nicer wardrobe.
Nori’s attire was much more elevated. All of her outfits were red, and unlike mine or Gia’s, hers covered almost every inch of her body.
The fabric was still a thin cotton, but it was long-sleeved with full-length skirts and layer upon layer of fabric.
The sleeves and hemlines were embroidered with intricate gold patterns of filigree.
I had a hunch the red was specifically chosen to represent and even conceal the color of blood. The thought sent shivers up my spine.
The God, Oscillius, was said to have walked a cursed city at night, placing a bloody hand print on the door of every innocent.
For those that awoke to an unmarked front door, they would eventually suffer a great plague, bringing about countless deaths.
The Order that Nori was joining had adopted the God’s name, believing that healers gifts would only work on the innocent, and that efforts to heal those judged by Oscillius were futile.
The red hues clashed with her scarlet hair, but it was barely detectable when she donned the required cowl with a scarf wrapped around her neck.
The healers were honored, revered, untouchable.
It was improper to gaze upon their flesh, and her uniform embodied those sensibilities.
I admired the subtleties of the outfit, and while I presumed it would be unbearably hot, I thought Nori had been granted the best possible reprieve.
Cairis’ package was similar to Trace’s in that it contained heavy leather armor with the insignia and designs of the Artumian Kingsguard.
Each article was tinged a rich shade of brown and smelled of a smoky-sweet oil, ornate with dark, bronze-colored buckles.
While the pieces Trace received had appeared weathered, perhaps even hand-me-downs, these were pristine, almost ornamental.
Cairis would be stationed inside the castle itself, and though they were placed to protect the occupants, the king and his inner circle would not subject themselves to odorous, battle-worn uniforms.
The most notable difference between the northern and southern Kingsguard attire was coverage.
Cairis had straps and panels of leather armor across his chest and back, but it was still bare skin everywhere else, showing off his exemplary tan, muscular frame.
His physique was a close second, only to Varro—but I was biased.
A brief flashback of Trace’s body came to the forefront of my mind.
I had easily suppressed such memories since his betrayal, but there they were.
Trace’s pale skin, a stark contrast to Varro and Cairis’.
He, too, was all muscle, but he was lean where they were bulky.
His slender body allowed for the leathers to hug every dip and curve perfectly like a second skin, whereas Cairis always looked like he might burst through his clothing at the seams. I inhaled deeply, trying to push the memories of his body far from my mind.
Varro’s attire was something more akin to a well-traveled wanderer: worn-out, brown trousers, and an assortment of lightweight crème-colored shirts.
The only unique item was the silver band that he was to wear around his bicep, a clear indication that he was a member of a shipbuilder’s clan, similar to the northern guilds.
The armband was a marker of who worked for whom in the shipyards, and designated each individual back to its group’s leader.
Idris didn’t have to say it, but I’m absolutely certain there had been Sea Fae who’d met an untimely death off the coast of Nasallus for us to acquire such a band.
As we continued to pack our things, my nerves began to set in as I realized I would need to leave behind anything from my past: the bracelet from my sister, the small handful of books I’d brought with me from home, the notes and sketch from Trace—even my dark wielding journal.
These items would be safe inside of Basdie, but there was a looming notion that I may never see them again if we did not succeed in our mission.
I packed them all away into a bag, committing the nostalgia of each item to memory and reasoning that, if I didn’t return, they’d be easily disposed of that way.
My journal remained safely tucked away with the others in the room that no one other than another Dark Wielder could access. My story, my truth, was unfinished, but I’d recorded what I could before leaving it behind.
Most importantly, we each needed to find ways to transport our moonstones with us and carry them undetected on our person.
They were small, but this wasn’t easily managed for those of us who were given roles with so little clothing involved.
I wondered to myself where Gia had hidden hers, particularly when she was engaged in any seductive activities.
Before leaving, it became obvious that I wasn’t going to depart the premises without demonstrating my latest capabilities to Idris.
Saryn pored over the details of my progress with him and Theory.
My mentors were visibly impressed, but Idris, on the other hand, didn’t show the slightest sign of appreciation.
Instead, I was met with glances of skepticism.
It was unmotivating, to say the least. Idris was very old and very powerful; I shouldn’t have been bothered by the fact that he was unimpressed.
But something in his demeanor made me wonder if there was a hint of jealousy there.
Did he covet the idea of being a Dark Wielder?
If he knew the possibility of it decaying the mind, I wonder if he would envy it so deeply?
With so few remaining hours at Basdie, I expected we’d have increased our training and discussed detailed plans, but instead, we mostly just lounged about the common room, trying to do normal things that would distract us from what lay ahead.
I played one last game of Bones and Stones with Nori, and now that I could see the air, it was too tempting not to pay her back for all those times she had cheated.
This resulted in tie after tie, until she realized I’d discovered her secret and matched it with a deception of my own.
She smiled at me knowingly, packing the small pieces into a pouch one last time.
Instead of taking them with her, she placed them on the shelf near the books, perhaps for some unfortunate, future member of the Imperi to find.
On our final night, Varro and I met privately in the healing pools.
The tension of every unspoken word was palpable.
If I let my mental shields down, he’d have been bombarded with questions, many of which I had no answers to.
Should we have told our mentors about us?
Should I have confided in Saryn about the Drift?
Are we making a huge mistake in not sealing the bond now, or would that be an even graver mistake?
How was I ever going to explain any of this to Trace? Did I owe him that?
Varro could see I was lost in a well of thoughts, moving behind me and wrapping his strong arms around me like a protective cage.
I sank into the feeling of safety, not knowing when I’d feel that again.
He rested his chin atop my head, and the heat of his body radiated more warmth than even the waters.
I lolled my head back into the crook of his neck, and he gently kissed the tip of my ear.
A small shiver ran down the back of it, and though there wasn’t any pain, it was still a reminder of the scars that resided there.
“Do you think we should?” I said just above a whisper, nerves already spreading goosebumps over my skin.
Varro tucked my hair behind my shoulder, not needing me to expand further. “Cress, you’re not ready. I know this, and I’m okay with it.”
I turned abruptly from his grasp to face him, frustrated with myself. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not, maybe this should be about survival, and I’m just being reckless.”
“You know I would give myself to you freely if you just wanted a chance to avoid the Drift, but I know your heart. I know you don’t want that to force your decision.
” And though he didn’t say it, I knew he didn’t want that either, that he wanted me to choose him—not out of fear, but out of a want, a need, a desire to.
He said the words so calmly and confidently, like he had thought it over many times and come to a clear conclusion…
unlike me. Every time I wrestled with these thoughts, I found myself making a different choice.
I knew he was my mate. I was grateful for our connection and his unwavering support, even going so far as to lay down his life for me.
But this had been given no time to bloom.
The way Gia spoke about her mate, there was a deep devotion… there was love.