Chapter 45
The feel of an incorporeal blade slitting down my spine rips me awake so fast my eyes bulge open, seeing I’m still on the seater where I vaguely recall tipping sideways before everything went black.
Atop the stout table ahead, the Skripi board is in disarray, strewn with empty bottles.
I snap my gaze to Pyrok sprawled on the ground where he drunkenly collapsed, snoring. Then to his brother, passed out with his head on the table beside the Book of Voyd, still gripping his quill.
Kaan—
Seemingly absent, given his boots are no longer at the door.
With nobody to bear witness to my agony, I fall into the arc of my spasming muscles, hissing breath, riding the pain slicing down each vertebra.
A claw reaching up from the past, digging into the dips and dents like it’s trying to bleed my spinal fluid—every muscle squeezed so tight I’m going to snap.
The pain finally tapers.
My body loosens, eyes shut as I heave breath past gritted teeth, my heart thumping so hard and fast it sounds like a drum.
The fucking blood bind …
“Dammit,” I whisper, then roll onto my back and wipe the sweat from my brow, chewing on this unfortunate development like a piece of rotten meat stuck between my teeth.
That’ll teach me for daring to forget about Sereme’s septic shackle.
How did she work out I’m still alive?
I sigh, deciding it doesn’t matter how. She knows. Is obviously pissed I haven’t checked in to kiss her feet. Done my part to indulge her toxic lust for control.
I didn’t miss this shit.
Opening my eyes on the too-bright glare spewing through the windows, I knead the alcohol-induced throb from my temples, realizing the wreath is still on my head. The remnants of a moment in time that felt light despite the heavy darkness bearing down on us all.
I set the wreath aside, releasing another long sigh.
Fuck you, Sereme.
Pushing down the light blanket I don’t recall laying across myself, I sit up way too fast, head spinning as I catch the lark bumping against my shoulder. I notice the floral urn is opened, the larks Pyrok stuffed in there now in a flattened pile on the counter.
Guess Kaan couldn’t slumber and decided to go through his mail instead. Probably got called away.
Trying to ignore the persistent throb of my bloated brain, I unfold the new lark’s pleats.
Moonbeam.
By the time you read this, I’ve likely flown to a nearby village.
Their bunker collapsed and they need help getting it back into shape.
I should return by the rise.
PS—I took Korie across to her mah. Siharna birthed a beautiful boy. Both mah and son are healthy and doing well.
Eternally yours.
A tightness eases from my chest as I reread the note, focusing on one line:
Both mah and son are healthy and doing well.
I’m tackled by such relief, my eyes sting. A feeling I’m quick to scrub away with the heels of my hands, shifting my thoughts to something that doesn’t make my heart ache.
Sereme. The bitch.
Maybe her instructions got caught in the Mists and she’s pissed. Knowing her, she’ll slice me until they turn up, or until I come crawling.
Literally, the worst timing.
The muscles in my back continue to pinch and spasm from the brutal intrusion, making it hard to breathe properly.
If I don’t walk this off and stretch my spine, I’ll ache for phases.
Tucking Kaan’s note in my pocket, I shove up and pull on the pants and boots he gifted me—a perfect fit. I rebuckle my sheath and swathe myself in the new cloak that feels much lighter than I expected it to. Like Kaan’s realized how much I struggle with heavy materials that lock in too much warmth.
I smile despite my fucked-up predicament, flick up my hood, and move out into the cold outside—not a soul in sight bar the odd parchment lark fluttering through the snow, dodging fat flakes. Other than that, even the skies are quiet.
It must be slumbertime, meaning we slept all dae.
“Creators,” I mutter, striding across the courtyard, out the gate, and down the stairs toward the river, stretching my arms, back, and neck.
Thick snow crunches beneath my boots while the fresh fall patters my hood, making a soft song as I move through the colorful village, breathing the smoky botanical smells huffing from tall chimneys.
Taking in the different buildings, some glazed by the odd shaft of powdery sun slitting diagonally through the clouds.
Being so close to the border, with cold air nipping my nose and color-stained windows everywhere I look, it feels as though we’re in The Fade, minus the oppressive weight of Cadok’s rule. Like stepping into a vibrant dream that feels too good to be true.
And perhaps it is. Perhaps this goodness will get swallowed, too. Something hard not to dwell on with the impending moonfall and all that transpired in Bothaim. With the echo of my blood-bound reality still pinching my nerves.
Everything feels temporary. As does the well-being of whoever thought it prudent to follow me—my skin prickling from their leering presence.
I wander toward the riverbank, across the bridge Kaan reshaped, pausing amongst a dense pocket of trees beneath the towering might of Líri’s pillar.
Perfect coverage if I have to slit this fucker’s throat.
Don’t want any unsuspecting younglings peering out their windows because they can’t sleep, only to see me hacking through a carotid.
The heady musk of body odor comes to me on a flick of wind while I look past droopy branches appearing to reach down and sip the gushing water, fingers grazing the hilt of my blade.
Whoever this is, they’re not used to the warmer climate this far north …
The air shifts.
I whip around, slam my forearm across the throat of the large black-robed stranger, my dagger poised at his dick. He makes a dense huffing sound as I back him against the gnarled trunk of a tree.
Unfamiliar green eyes leer at me through the darkness cast by his hood, and although his body is lax—a demeanor that suggests I could remove his testicles and he wouldn’t so much as flinch—the tensing muscle in his jaw tells a different story. As do the words he finally spits.
“Careful, grunt.”
Though it sounds like he’s speaking past a gag, something about his syrupy voice makes my skin crawl. Like I’ve heard it before.
Somewhere.
I frown, shoving my weight forward. “Who are you? And why are you following me?”
A brooding silence slips by before he grits out three words that loosen the knot on every tight muscle in my body.
“From the ashes.”
I sigh.
“The Elding will rise,” I mutter, shoving back, eyes narrowed on the stranger now straightening his cloak—no doubt come to monumentally fuck up my coming daes. “How did you find this place?”
Silence.
Right.
I plant my hip against a trunk. “Guess you’re here to hand deliver my summons to Sereme?”
“A job,” he corrects. “With the Mists so far north, many larks are getting lost for cycles, and this mission is time sensitive.”
“I see.”
He pushes back his hood to reveal hair like oil sheets dripping past his shoulders, embellished with a red bead that stands out against the black. His pale skin shows off the veins in his temples, neck, and hands, his face so angular he reminds me of the word sharp. A memorable face.
Certainly not someone I’ve seen before, despite his familiar voice.
“And how did Sereme discover I survived?”
“The miskunn saw you here this dae, standing where you are.”
Uno?
Surely not. Very few know about her, and I doubt Ruse trusts this smug-faced stranger with the precious knowledge of her existence.
“I wasn’t aware there’s a miskunn loyal to the Ath.”
He clasps his hands before him, looking down his nose at me. “The Elding has a young one in his care, yes.”
My eyes narrow. “I’ve never seen this miskunn before, nor has the Elding seen me.” I dance my blade between my fingers. All I can do to temper the unease chipping at me. “Given neither of them know what I look like, you’re either lying or there’s something you’re not telling me. Which is it?”
His responding silence does nothing to ease my raised hackles. In fact, it plants a bulb of distrust so deep it immediately takes root.
I flick the blade high. Catch it. “Secrets shovel graves, grunt.”
His eyes darken. “I would not threaten me, Elding Blade. And it’s Elding Squire, to you—”
“Fancy.”
“My orders come straight from the Elding himself. To threaten me is to threaten our master.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Given he appears to condone Sereme torturing me from afar, using our blood bind to bring me to my knees whenever he wants me to dance, I’m not sure I give a shit. Not anymore.”
In fact, I’m done here.
“Find me when the Ath remembers its values and you locate some fucking manners,” I mutter, charging for the bridge.
I’m just stuffing my blade away when his voice chases me, stilling my feet.
“The fate of The Flourish depends on you, Elding Blade.”