Sunder (Deridia #12)

1. Offer

Many orbital cycles later...

Orma was situated in the courtyard. Not theirs—that one had lost much of its appeal long before. When children were replaced with tight-faced servants. When the suns began to glare too sharply against the stone. When twinkling threads lost some of their lustre.

It wasn’t their fault. The threads, that was.

It was hers.

She’d grown despondent.

Or perhaps it was beyond that, now.

Something a little too near to despair.

She had a book, but it had been plucked from the library with little care, and the title held no appeal for her. Botany, she suspected. A flower and its stem had been pressed into the cover, dry and brittle with age. Its impression, however, remained intact, the veins and patterns pressed into the vellum with precision so its imprint would last far longer than any flower possibly could.

This courtyard was heavily shaded, the trees old and left much to their own devices. It did not seem to matter as much as the manicured shrubberies that grew in precise lines at home. These were allowed to grow freely, their branches tangling in ways that the book would likely object to, detailing the importance of proper maintenance so the weight of the tree could be kept carefully in balance.

That was a profession, wasn’t it? She thought she’d seen such workers flittering about the city’s trees as they pruned and topped with practised eyes.

She had no skill. Not one she might boast about or claim as a profession. She could read. Could sew with moderate success. But she had no eye for the design itself, no instinct for how a fabric might drape into something so useful as a dress. Napkins, she could do. When fabric was square and the hems were mostly even, and her only decision lie in which of the few flowers she could embroider would decorate the corners.

She plucked through the pages of the book once more. An idle distraction. She’d hoped for company, but the door was locked and the rooms were dark, and while it was rude to linger—she knew those lessons well—she did not wish to return home.

Not yet.

A flutter, the burst of unnatural wind as wings pushed downward in a descent, and she glanced upward.

“You look disappointed.”

Lucian. Not his mate, as she privately had hoped, but she supposed he would do well enough. He’d gentled since Firen had come to him. His face had softened from the harsh lines he’d worn with such distinction.

He was happy.

“It is not my fault that I favour your mate.”

He hummed, coming and settling beside her on the bench. “You hold a grudge against any of our blood, admit it.”

She rolled her shoulders, her wings settling neatly into place. Not that they’d been missed—she knew how one of their line should sit. How she should behave, whether in the walls of her ancestral home or out of it. “Maybe.”

She didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. Everything was such a tangle of hurts and love that she wasn’t certain what was reasonable to feel any longer.

She was withering. That’s what Mama called it. Like one of those mates that wasted away after the death of a spouse, unable to cope with the absence.

It wasn’t needed any longer. Couldn’t she see that? If she would simply approach him, simply be done with it, perhaps she would grow stronger.

“You look awful,” Lucian observed, and she barely suppressed a roll of her eyes. Her fingers tapped instead at her book, which he took in much the way he would have when they were children, simply for the fun of stealing from her.

“Have your interests turned to poisons?”

She blinked. Frowned. “Perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with far more intensity than was comfortable. “Orma,” he warned.

She fluttered her feathers again and did not meet his eye. “Lucian,” she repeated, with as much mockery as she was able. “I took it without thinking. Company, in case your mate was unavailable.”

It should have appeased him, but the sound he made was one utterly lacking in conviction. “For one of our fathers, perhaps? Or are you finally going to do me in?” It was a jest, but only just. They’d shared that sort of macabre humour when they were younger, but they’d set it aside when it felt too near to the truth. “Or one of your wretched healers?”

He nudged her with his shoulder, and she jostled more than was reasonable, his hand coming out to steady her immediately.

“I’m fine,” she responded crisply, because he was about to fuss, and she couldn’t abide that. She knew how slight she’d grown. Knew how shadowed her eyes were. Knew that her bones felt near to breaking, brittle and hollow. Like a single gust would be enough to sweep her away forever, and she’d lack the strength in her wings to take her back where she belonged.

“Liar,” Lucian countered, handing back her book.

Her younger self would have bristled. Would have found a good many other names to fling back at him in turn. But she could only muster a sigh. “You’re intruding on my bench.”

“Yours, is it? Have you taken up residence? Begun work at the Hall?”

She crinkled her nose, because he was being rather cruel, even if his tone was light as he did it. He knew she hadn’t. Had done nothing at all.

“You could, you know. You’re clever.” His voice grew soft, and that was somehow worse. A little too near to pity.

She did not tell him that her wits had little to do with it. That there were days her body was so sore and uncooperative she could barely steal from her bed.

That there was a reason her visits were sparse and often short.

“I think there is quite enough of our family at the Hall,” she offered instead. “You seem to being doing well there.”

He settled his weight braced on one hand against the bench, trying to appear at ease when the effect was but. “I suppose,” he agreed, his attention shifting away from her and back toward the house.

His house.

Because he belonged there and she did not.

Family, he’d reminded her. Which meant her welcome was obvious.

Family, she’d reminded him. Which meant it was not.

He’d smiled, and understood in ways that his mate was only beginning to, and she’d squeezed his arm and thanked him quietly before returning to her true home.

To her room.

With its low lamps and muted colours.

Nothing too stimulating. Too harsh when her eyes were burdened by the strain.

“Where is Firen?” she asked, because it was clear his attention had shifted in want of her.

“Market,” he answered with a shift of his eyes. As if he could picture her there, and...

Longed to go to her.

But he didn’t. He’d checked here first, just in case she’d come home early. And found Orma instead.

Sat with her.

When all he wanted to do was go.

She made to stand, but her head grew muzzy and she couldn’t quite manage it. She would. In a moment. She’d go. Perhaps not fly—she’d learned that lesson the hard way.

But she could walk, and she would. It was not that far.

“You should go,” Orma insisted. “Keep her company. You’re intruding on my solitude.”

He blinked once, slowly. Then turned his head and looked at her fully. “If you’d wanted that, you’d be back at home.” He ducked his head to keep her eye. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She wouldn’t lie to him, not when he was more than capable of catching her little deceits. “I’d not keep you,” she said instead.

“You could come,” he offered. “You are not lacking in funds.”

“No,” she agreed. “And I thank you for the offer, but I must decline.”

It hurt to do it. Because she wished she might go. But the very prospect was enough to overwhelm her. So many people, so many threads, tangling and coiling and some bursting out in search of their mates, and only some settling where they belonged...

She did it. On occasions. When a mood came upon her, when she longed to taste it. She’d sneak away, dressed in what finery she could muster without help to don it.

She’d attend a fete. Would watch the colours and revel in the sensations of it. The rightness. The smiles and the dances and the wisps of new love that she swore she could feel for herself.

It would leave her feeling dreamy and hopeful. Would lighten her steps and give strength to her wings and then she’d...

She plucked at the pages of her book, frowning softly.

“Orma,” Lucian repeated. So she mimicked his name in much the same tone, a warning and a question all at once. She was rewarded with his scowl, and that was all right, because it was better than his pity. “I’m allowed to worry about you.”

“If you must,” Orma sighed, stretching out her legs and allowing her skirts to part and her sandaled feet to whisper against the flowers that pushed valiantly through the cobbles.

Weeds, her mother would say, a crinkle to her nose as if they were troublemakers rather than survivors.

“I’m also allowed to encourage you to do what you must,” Lucian continued, his expression far more severe. “Do not be like me. Do not try to please them forever. It won’t work. It isn’t working.”

She blinked at him, processing. “Is that you what you think I am doing?”

He leaned in closer, an intimidation trick he’d picked up from his father, although he’d be horrified to learn of it. “Of any of us, you can find him. Today, if you were brave enough for it. Put an end to all this. Save yourself.” What had begun as a command ended with something far more akin to a plea.

Strange, coming from him.

Enough to gentle her tongue. To cause her to reach out and touch his arm and give him a pat.

Placation, that was all. But one kindly meant.

She could and she couldn’t.

She could allow the threads to unfurl. Could let them guide her, lead her, full of intention and the bravery he claimed she might need.

She could set out with such hopes, only to find that her legs gave way at only half the distance. Heart open and bond throbbing in her chest, desperation flowing freely through her veins as she realised she would not make it. Couldn’t make it.

That the call for her mate would go unanswered, because he could not feel it. Wouldn’t feel it.

Not until she gave him his portion.

Until this tangle in her chest was shared.

Until the burden of it was not hers alone.

Lucian would help. If she asked it of him, he’d pluck her up even now and fly wherever she told him to go. And there she would appear, weak and wretched. Her mouth tasted of ash even to imagine it.

“Would you let Firen help?” Lucian asked, seeing enough in her expression to know she would not relent so easily. “If you don’t trust me to do it?”

She swallowed thickly. She had no desire to hurt him, even if she had no particular wish to confide her most intimate thoughts, either. He was family, one of the best of them, and she loved him dearly. But they were rarely in one another’s confidence. “It is not a matter of trust, I promise you. I know you would help me in any way you could.”

His mouth formed a tight line. “But you will not allow me to help.”

She tried to soften her eyes, to smile at him. To make him feel better, since she could not hope the same for herself. “If I was going to ask someone, it would be you.” It was as much as she could offer, and although his mouth twisted, his eyes softened, and she hoped they would part with no cross feelings between them. “You should go. I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

Lucian shook his head with a sigh. “If I unlocked the door, would you stay until we came back? Have supper with us?”

The thought was an appealing one. It would give her time to rest before she was back in company. To make sure there would be more to her than weak smiles and wistful looks as she took in two of her favourite people.

She opened her mouth, full of thanks and placations, but he shook his head. “Thought not.”

She swallowed, his rightful assumption at her refusal stinging more than was reasonable. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, knuckles tight around her book. “I...”

He stood. Placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “I don’t need you to be sorry,” Lucian soothed. “I need you to be happy. And you are determined not to let me.”

A lump settled in her throat, and if her eyes stung, it was simply the breeze drying them. “It’s not like that,” she protested.

He stood back, his left brow quirking upward in disbelief. “It isn’t?”

She refused to sit and let him loom over her—there were times to be small and to be badgered at, and it was not here and it was not with Lucian.