Chapter 11
The study was a large room at the far end of the new wing, with tall glass windows on three sides and bookshelves covering most of the walls in between.
The books weren’t cheap either, none of the simple, cloth-bound editions I usually found in the homes we broke into; it was all goldleaf and ironwork, leather and vellum, a fortune in ink and quills.
Either Averre generals were paid significantly better money than their Estien counterparts, or this particular couple of husband and wife earned their income in other ways.
From the conversations I’d witnessed so far, I felt inclined to believe the latter.
Durlain lit the candles around the room, then unbuttoned his long coat in silence, draped it over the back of a chair, and sank into the window seat with an inaudible sigh.
Not a glance at me as he closed his eye and let his head rest against the wall.
Not a word about his stolen breakfast or whatever the hell was happening in this household, either, and after a day of biting my tongue, even the relief of that first point wasn’t enough to make up for the second.
I kicked off my sodden boots, plunked myself down in the nearest armchair, and said, ‘Don’t you think this would be a good moment to offer some words of explanation to any hypothetical travel companions you dragged into this place?’
He didn’t even open his eye.
‘Her name is Hevaine.’ His voice was flat, as if recounting dusty historical facts to an audience of indifferent listeners. ‘I recommend not telling her any of your secrets if you’d like for them to remain, well, secrets. Her taste in wine is excellent, though.’
Don’t expect me to answer further questions, the undertone said, loud and clear. Not your ally. Not your friend.
He could go to hell and stay there.
‘But she knows your secrets,’ I sharply pointed out, ‘and yet no one else seems to know you’re alive so far. Don’t suppose you’d come here if you expected her to betray you, either. So what is she to you?’
That won me a swift, narrow-eyed glance. ‘Useful.’
She was in my way, his voice echoed in the back of my mind, and it was that memory that abruptly made me decide to shut up after all; I wasn’t sure if I’d manage a single word more without several expletives that would once and for all ruin any chance of getting something informative out of him tonight.
So we waited in mutually vexed silence until a knock at the door announced that our dinner had arrived, then ate our stew and fresh-baked flatbreads without exchanging so much as a look across the table.
It was only after we’d finished our meal and the servants had cleared out the plates and bowls that Durlain rose, snapped up his coat again, and raked a hand through his purple-black curls with a motion that suggested he was bracing himself. ‘Shall we?’
My blink felt owlish even to my own eyes.
‘The wardrobe,’ he clarified, an edge of annoyance in his voice. ‘Vai was right – we need you to have some clothes that look like they actually belong to you. Easier to get them from here than to explain to any shopkeepers who you are and why I’m spending a fortune on you.’
Because the average fireborn man wouldn’t spend any money on a human woman unless she was a courtesan, and there was no way on earth anyone would ever mistake me for a noble lord’s mistress.
I swallowed a handful of bitter replies, then a couple of reciprocal insults, and finally settled for a brisk, ‘I’m not asking you to spend a fortune on me. ’
‘I’m glad to hear it. It wouldn’t improve my opinion of your intelligence.
’ The lift of his eyebrow made no effort whatsoever to soften the offense.
‘That said, I would for entirely selfish reasons prefer not to travel across several kingdoms with someone who looks as though she should still be behind bars. So if you don’t mind? ’
It wasn’t even a counterargument. A counterargument would have implied the existence of a discussion, and his bored, level tone made clear there was nothing of the sort between us – just him, being right, and me, unnecessarily dragging things out.
I considered telling him to fuck off, then glanced at my sweaty blue tunic and realised it was several sizes too large on me, and that I would in fact very much prefer to never deal with Estien law enforcement again.
‘As long as you don’t make me wear one of those dresses,’ I murmured, following him back into the deserted corridor.
His glare was so withering even his eyepatch seemed to participate in it. ‘Didn’t I mention I would like for you to draw less attention?’
Bastard.
He was annoyingly right, though.
The room he led me to was situated on the ground floor.
On the outside, it seemed no different than any of the linen closets we’d encountered on the way down – but Durlain pulled the door open and gestured for me to go first, and the low, lantern-lit room into which I emerged looked more like a supply shop than like any wardrobe I’d encountered in my life.
There were aisles.
Crates and boxes, racks and shelves. Every single inch of them was filled with clothes and other accessories: from glittering gowns to humble linen dresses and everything in between, complete with ballroom shoes, gardening gloves, aprons, and headcloths of the sort washerwomen wore at work.
Boots. Bags. An array of weapons that would put the Estien armoury to shame.
The notion of all of it belonging to a single person sent my head spinning – an utterly incomprehensible abundance of options that left me unsure where to walk or where to look or where to even think.
I wasn’t used to choices.
Messenger birds took what they were given and never complained.
‘Alright,’ Durlain said below his breath, shutting the door behind himself, then nodding at me to follow as he made for a rack of sturdy tunics I hadn’t even noticed yet. ‘Any wishes?’
I gaped at him.
‘Preferences?’ he clarified, a hint of causticity to his tone – as if listing a handful of synonyms would make the content of his words any more comprehensible. ‘Requirements? Anything in particular you do or do not want to see on a tunic?’
‘It … it would be good if it were warm, I suppose?’ I suggested faintly.
‘Ah, yes, very helpful.’ A pointed gesture at the rack before us. ‘That excludes exactly none of them. Anything else?’
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it again.
My mind was frightfully blank.
Not too small. Not too big. I doubted he’d be happy with any of those wishes. Durable. Somewhat waterproof. Equipped with sleeves?
All of that applied to every single piece of clothing on this rack.
‘Flames have mercy,’ Durlain muttered, eye darting heavenward for a moment before returning to my face. ‘Fine. New approach. How about’ – he reached out and pulled a random item from the assortment – ‘this one?’
The tunic was undeniably gorgeous.
Dyed a vivid rust red, it was woven from a soft, fine wool that would easily keep out the spring cold without ever being stifling.
White fur lined the hems. Black bead designs decorated the collar and shoulders.
It looked expensive. Well-crafted. Absolutely nothing like anything I’d worn in my life.
‘We can’t just … take that,’ I managed, realising that I should at some point start wondering why Hevaine owned a clothing collection of this size and variety, and deciding immediately that this did not need to be that point.
‘When she said to bring me to this room, surely she wasn’t talking about these things? ’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll pay her.’
‘That doesn’t make it any better,’ I sputtered, although the thought of making him bleed for my clothes was admittedly significantly less unwelcome. Lark might have questions, though. ‘You should just find something cheaper and … and …’
Something more like me.
Something people won’t stop to look at.
Durlain’s eyebrow quirked a fraction. ‘I assure you my purse has no need of your scruples. Any other objections?’
Mists take me. It was a stunning piece of clothing. No one had ever offered me anything like it since Kjell had forged Eihwaz for me, and what the hell was I thinking, trying to reject a gift like that out of sentiment for a man I didn’t even like?
‘I— No.’ My lips resisted the smile I tried to produce. ‘No, it’s perfect. I just—’
‘For fuck’s sake, Thraga.’ He pronounced my name as if he was sorely tempted to shove the tunic down my throat. ‘I’m trying to get you into something comfortable enough that you don’t look perpetually on the brink of making a run for it. Are you going to be comfortable in this?’
It was too delicate.
It was too pretty.
‘I … I don’t think …’
‘Wonderful,’ he testily interrupted, turning to hang the tunic back where it had come from. ‘Tell me right away next time, or we’ll be here for the next three days. Anything you did like about it?’
I opened and closed my mouth a few times as he efficiently rifled through the collection. ‘The … the fur. I didn’t mind that.’
He pulled back his hand. ‘How about this?’
Deep, mossy green. Sturdy leather trim. Leather patches on the shoulders, too, and again that fur at the cuffs, a gentle, brownish white.
‘That’s much better,’ I said and flinched at the sound of the words, the entitlement. ‘I mean, also very good. I mean—’
‘—not perfect yet,’ Durlain finished, unmoved. ‘Excellent. What bothers you about it?’
‘The … the leather, I think. And it’s a lot of colour. I’m not used to—’
He pulled out a third tunic.
It was a deep, warm brown – like the linen shirts Kjell had soaked in walnut dye, the comforting colour of our Hjarn Bay years. No embellishments but a gentle pattern woven into the wool at the hems. Fur lining the inside, sitting plush and snug at the cuffs and collar.
I’d never seen anything like it before, and yet it looked achingly familiar, like a long-forgotten whisper from the past.
I was reaching out before I’d decided to.