Chapter 12
Drystan spent hours in the library with Ceridwen over the next few days, each taking turns reading aloud from books of myths and fanciful stories. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d felt so at ease, so…joyful. It’d been years. Before the loss of his family, that was certain. And while he should be focused on working his spells, preparing for his return to the capital only weeks away, he couldn’t find it in himself to begrudge the time he spent with her. She was a light in his dark world, one he hadn’t realized he needed. He should have been working today to make up for the lost time in the library, but the thought of seeking out Ceridwen claimed the full front of his desires.
He found her just outside the greenhouse, standing atop a stone bench and reaching toward the nearby wall as if she might climb it. How delightfully odd. And curious. Why would a lady need to scale a wall? Then he noticed which wall exactly it was, one that formed the base of his tower, a place strictly off limits to everyone, including his staff, but especially her.
Jackoby had mentioned seeing the young woman at the base of the stairs to his tower, though she never ventured more. He assumed it mere curiosity, but this? Surely she couldn’t know what he did up there. Drystan’s chest drew tight, his jaw stiff. He liked to believe their companionship genuine, maybe even the start of something more. She couldn’t be a clever spy, could she?
Her boot slipped on the edge of the bench. A scream cut through the yard as she fell, crashing hard to the ground.
All his worries from moments before vanished at the sight of her fall, worry surging forward as he raced for her. “Ceridwen!”
“Oh Goddess,” she groaned, pushing into a sitting position on the yellowed grass. The few snowflakes that fell the day before had long since melted.
“Ceridwen.” Drystan knelt at her side. “What’s happened?” he asked, pretending he hadn’t seen her failed attempt and subsequent spill from the bench. Perhaps in her panic, she hadn’t heard him cry her name. His heart still raced as he looked her over for injuries. No blood, but with the thick layers of her skirts and long sleeves, he could see little of her. Some of her hair had slipped free from where she had pulled it back, the strands draping along one cheek.
“I was taking a walk and fell.”
A lie, maybe to cover her embarrassment, but his desire to press her further vanished as she held her wrist and lifted it to him. “I fell on it.”
“Let me see that.” Gently he ran his gloved fingers along her skin, but even so, she winced. “You can’t play like this.”
It wasn’t a question. Still, she bit her lip and nodded.
Damn. What a predicament.
Ceridwen’s eyes turned glassy. Her nose wrinkled before she sniffed, almost like she was on the verge of tears. Did she worry he’d send her away if she couldn’t play for him anymore? His lips thinned. Most likely. He didn’t have the best of reputations, and that was the base of their arrangement. Though as much as he valued her music, he’d come to appreciate his time with her just as much.
The music, though… He needed that. His success depended on whatever strange magic held within her song calmed the darkness within him. At least he had a solution, even if it was one he hoped not to use.
“I can help you,” he said.
Ceridwen gasped as he withdrew a thin blade from a hidden sheath within his coat. The fine silver weapon was no bigger than a sewing needle, but all he needed for this purpose. He pulled free one glove and then the other, fighting the burn of embarrassment rising to his face as she looked at his scarred hands.
There would be questions after this. So many more than he wanted to answer, but he couldn’t leave her in pain, much less unable to play.
“Hold still.”
Ceridwen stiffened, drawing back from him as he ran the tiny dagger across his palm, leaving a red trail in its wake. Drystan set the blade aside on his gloves before dipping a finger in the blood rising to the surface of his cut. “Magic requires blood and shape,” he told her, trying to give the basest of explanations about what was to come.
“Blood and shape?” she echoed, her voice warbling.
“Don’t move,” he ordered. “Give me your wrist.”
Hesitantly, she held out her wrist to him, though he didn’t miss the slight shake in her limbs that likely wasn’t all from the morning chill. Drystan wasted no time before he set to work on her wrist, drawing shapes in blood upon her arm and mumbling under his breath.
Once, twice, three times, he made the pattern. Tingling warmth spread through his hand, seeping down from his finger onto her skin. The sharp intake of breath said she felt it, too, though she managed to hold still for him.
At the completion of the spell, the blood soaked into her skin, vanishing as if it had never been.
The working complete, Drystan pulled a cloth from his pocket and wrapped it around his wound to stop the bleeding. “How does it feel?”
She blinked, opening and closing her lips in silence before finally she said, “That’s where your scars come from.”
“Some of them,” he admitted. The ones on his hands anyway. He supposed now he might not need to hide them from her, assuming she didn’t decide to stare at them.
“And your wrist?” he asked.
A small smile pulled at her lips. “So much better. It’s a miracle. Like I never fell at all. But you…” Her gaze dipped to his marred skin, and he fought the urge to hide. “You cut yourself for me.”
The wonder in her voice did something funny to his heart. Even so, he commanded, “You can’t tell anyone.”
Her brows wrinkled. “But why—”
“Not how it works anyway. Those of us skilled in the arts can use blood and shape, combined with our will and sometimes words, to cast magical spells. But you knew that, or at least the magic part. The means of it… Well, the nobility, the royals especially, don’t like for it to be shared.”
She pursed her lips. “Why guard it so? It’s not like we commoners can use magic anyway.”
“Even so, the punishment for sharing such knowledge can be quite severe.” He had enough troubles on his shoulders as it was. Any more and the king might kill him rather than allow him back at court. Funny, though, that she would be curious rather than disgusted. “The blood didn’t bother you?”
She dropped her gaze, a small shiver racing through her features, but she said, “Not really.”
Perhaps it had, and she tried to put on a brave front.
Drystan rose to his feet and helped Ceridwen up, inquiring after any other injuries. Satisfied that she was well, he returned to his original purpose in seeking her out that morning.
“Perhaps I could offer you a tour of the greenhouse?” he asked.
“You like flowers?” A half smile twitched on her lips.
“All plants, actually. But I am particularly fond of the difficult ones.” He pulled a glove over his injured hand, the soft leather tight over the makeshift bandage underneath. It would do for now. “Does that surprise you?”
“A noble interested in gardening.” She looped her arm through his offered one, drawing close enough for him to catch the light floral scent clinging to her hair. “A most fascinating discovery.”
They entered the greenhouse together, traversing the rows and sections of plants.
“These roses are my favorite here,” he said. “I’ve grown them wherever I’ve lived for as long as I can remember. An odd hobby for a noble, I suppose. Most would leave the task to their gardeners. This place was a mess when I first moved in. The old caretaker kept some of the plants alive since the last Lord Protector left, mostly edible ones, but many we had to replant.”
Ceridwen’s smiles and compliments of his roses as they wandered the rows started a fluttering low in his stomach.
“I often got made fun of as a child for loving beautiful things,” he admitted, gazing at the roses again. “Even so, I don’t regret it. They brought me comfort when little else did.”
Old memories, and some more recent, tried to claw their way to the surface. A frown pulled at his features. Ceridwen placed her hand on his arm, the gentle touch dispersing the darkness like a gust of fresh air.
“They’re lovely. There’s a beauty in watching things flourish and grow. I’ve always enjoyed it myself, even the dirt under my fingernails.” She freed her arm from his and leaned down to better inspect some of the blooms. “It’s much better than spending your time in that tower.”
Drystan stiffened. “The tower?” He hadn’t imagined things when he had entered the courtyard. She was curious about his tower, trying to learn more. He both loved and loathed that about her.
“What do you do up there?” she asked with a glance over her shoulder, trailing her fingers across silken petals.
“What do I do?” What to possibly tell her to ease her curiosity? He decided to stick as close to the truth as he could. “I keep the monster at bay.”
She twisted around in a rush, her mouth forming a silent O. “You? Keep the monster away?” she asked incredulously.
A wry smile lit his face. “Do you doubt my ability?”
Her back straightened, and that fierce spark of conviction lit her eyes a moment before she spoke. “Of course I do. I saw the monster murder a man with my own eyes. I’ve heard the stories of it killing animals. Even here… I hear it at night sometimes.”
“That was quite the accusation.”
Her cheeks flushed.
“It could be so much worse, Ceridwen.”
Her gaze darted away, the color of her cheeks increasing.“Can you make it go away?”
Something about her look and the desperation in her request drew him closer. He stepped near, and her gaze snapped to him. She seemed to hold her breath, her form perfectly still as he reached up and brushed a few wayward strands of hair behind her ear.
“I try to contain it every night.”
“With magic?” she asked.
He longed to linger, to touch her again, but he stepped back, giving her space. “That’s a part of it.”
“If your magic is not enough, perhaps the city could help you. The mayor. The militia. Maybe organize a hunting party? The mayor is offering a reward. I’m sure people would help you.”
“No. They would not be able to help.” It would only put more innocents in harm’s way, and he had no desire for more blood on his hands. He’d seen enough of death and tragedy.
“How can that be? If it bleeds, it can be killed. I saw it bleed the night I was attacked.”
“Why so curious?” He fought the urge to reach for her again, to calm the edge of hysteria rising in her voice. “Shouldn’t you be afraid?”
“I am.” She twisted her hands in front of her, looking away for a brief moment before settling her gaze on him once more. “But one night when I heard it, it also sounded, well, sad.”
“Sad?”
“Yes.”
So perceptive, this young woman. She had no idea about the truth of the monster, and from what she’d seen and heard, she concluded much. Perhaps it was her talent as a musician, the ability to hear and understand without words.
“There is much you do not know.” Drystan glanced toward the tower.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her open her mouth and close it again. She reached for him and then lowered her hand, twisting it with her other in front of her dress.
“Come,” he said in an attempt to guide them back to safer, happier topics. “Let me show you the rest of the garden.”