10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
S omething jostles me awake.
My eyes flash open and I lurch forward, nearly losing my balance. The arm across my stomach stops me from falling.
“Morning,” a smooth, airy voice says. Asheros. “I trust you enjoyed your beauty sleep?”
“Gods-damn it,” I mutter under my breath.
I fell asleep .
On my enemy, no less.
And this whole time, for however long I’ve been unconscious, he’s been holding me close. He could have done whatever he wanted to me, and I would have been too slow to react.
Ceren’s voice rings through my mind in admonishment.
“Always be on your guard. Never trust your enemy.”
I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting Asheros and that grin of his slip through the cracks in my shield, dismantling my defenses. He’s my kidnapper, the one responsible for the deaths of good, honorable members of the Guard.
My enemy .
He stands in the way of my duty. And I still don’t know his true intentions. He could very well be deceiving me, attempting to earn my trust, to then betray me in the end.
That show of vulnerability in the woods was a mistake.
Besides, it doesn’t change anything. My duty lies in Illnamoor.
“If I’d known you’d be so displeased, I would have been more careful not to wake you,” Asheros jokes, his tone light. His words pull me from my thoughts. “Perhaps I’ll take it upon myself to smooth out this portion of the road.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes.
Asheros laughs, the sound rich and full. It’s like the sweetest of berries, the kind that melts the moment you place it on your tongue. Refusing to obey, my mouth curves into a small smile.
“Well, it seems you’ve chosen the perfect time to wake,” he says, amused .
That instantly piques my curiosity. “How so?”
“We’ve just about arrived at our destination.”
“And where is that, exactly?”
The amusement doesn’t fade from his voice. “You’ll learn soon enough.”
“So you’ve said, every time I’ve asked.” I cross my arms, turning my face halfway to his so I can see him out of the corner of my eye. “I’m starting to wonder if I ever will.”
Asheros’s lips part into that sinful smirk. “Do you doubt me, Bladesinger?”
I fight the grin tugging at my mouth. “You haven’t given me much faith.”
He places a palm to his chest, feigning pain. “My heart bleeds.”
“Perhaps I’d believe you without all the dramatics,” I say, waving a hand.
Asheros laughs again, and damn him, I laugh, too.
We break through the last of the tree line and approach a manor house. It’s not nearly as grand as the manor I grew up in, the home of the Head of House, but it’s stately all the same. Constructed of precisely cut stone bricks, the building has a perfectly symmetrical angled roof made from similarly colored stone tiles. They glint a reflective gray-blue in the light of the setting sun—meaning there’s steel mixed into the material.
While the manor itself is evidence enough that whoever lives here is wealthy, the steel-infused roof tiles make it obvious. The more metal one has in their possession, the wealthier. To have metal as part of something immovable, like a home, says much, if not more about a family’s status.
As we near the manor, I make out more details. Finely trimmed shrubs line a cobblestone pathway that leads to the entrance. Thick ivy climbs the manor’s stone walls, reaching all the way up to the roof. At the center of the fa?ade sits a small set of steps that open to a heavy, well-crafted wooden door. Even stripped of its bark, I can tell the wood is native to the area, most likely harvested from the very forest we’ve traveled through. Those same tall trees form a protective barrier around the backside of the manor though there’s not much before it gives way to a much larger clearing.
There must be a town nearby—perhaps Ethelwyn.
Once we get closer, Asheros tugs the reins, and the horse slows to a stop. He dismounts and offers a hand to me, but I don’t take it. Swinging my leg over the horse’s back, I hop off. My feet touch the ground, landing in the soft grass.
Asheros doesn’t comment on my refusal to accept his gesture. Instead, he turns to the others, who, like us, have dismounted their horses. Taking our mount’s reins, he walks the animal over to Orim. They nod to each other. Asheros must pass on a wordless command, because Orim and Ronan lead the horses behind the manor.
“Come,” Asheros says to me, motioning his head toward the wooden door.
Taking a breath, I do. I walk slowly, though, and do my best to take in my surroundings should I need to describe them at a later time. Savell, Gryska, and Kheldryn follow at my heels, arranged around me like a semi-circle.
I let out a breathless laugh. They seem more concerned about me trying to run than Asheros. Granted, I would be, too, if I was in their position.
At the top of the small set of steps, Asheros pulls open the wooden door and waits for me to enter. Once the others pass the threshold, Asheros lets the door close behind him. I wander deeper inside, surveying the space.
We’re in a foyer. Flanked by two doorways on either side, a staircase leads upward to the next floor. The door to my left is closed, but the one to my right is open. When I step into that room, my face is warmed by the heat of a fire burning in the hearth. There are two large armchairs on either side of the fireplace adorned with light-blue cushions that seem to be made from a plush material. There are end tables by each one made from the same wood as the door. Matching bookcases line the far walls. Where I’d expect to see dust between volumes, I find carefully tended shelves. Two shiny, golden paperweights sit atop the books, evenly spaced apart, gleaming in the low light.
My mouth perks up when I see them. The paperweights must be made of gohlrunn —a weighted gold alloy used for crafting expensive items that hails from Cryssa’s home Court, Gold.
Longing aches in my chest.
I’d give anything to be back at High Keep with her and Viridian.
Though they’re light, footsteps echo on the stone floor.
“Where are we?” I ask without turning around.
There’s a heavy pause, and then someone clears their throat. “My family’s home,” Orim says.
I whirl around, brows drawn. “Your family has a home here?”
Asheros’s mouth parts into that smirk. “Don’t tell me you thought they were all from the Silver Court.”
My jaw tenses. Aside from Gryska, whose name and accent make it clear that she’s not from mainland Inatia, I assumed the rest of Asheros’s inner circle were from his Court.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“Brennor…” Orim’s last name. My eyes widen in realization. “How could I have been so blind?” I mutter to myself. Aylen Brennor is the male who oversees operations at the Wynterliffean Mine. Given its proximity to Illnamoor, the Steel Court’s capital, it’s named for my family, House Wynterliff.
That means…
Orim must be related to Aylen. Better yet, we’re somewhere outside of Illnamoor, near the mine. All this time, I thought Asheros was taking me somewhere far from where I needed to be, when in truth, he’s practically bringing me to my mother’s Court himself.
My head snaps to Orim, voice sharp. “Does your father know we’re here? ”
“No,” he says, cheeks reddening. “My parents have an apartment in the city where they stay during the mine’s slower season.”
At that, I direct my glare to Asheros. “Are you truly that stupid?”
“What?” he asks, raising his hands. As if he’s oblivious.
“Don’t play that game.” Marching up to him, I jab my finger into his chest. “You know exactly what I mean. For someone who doesn’t want to be discovered, you’re walking a dangerous line by keeping me this close to Illnamoor.”
“For someone who supposedly wants to escape,” Asheros retorts, his voice matching mine, “you seem very upset about that.”
I ball my hands into my fists and scoff. “You’re quite mistaken.”
“Your little outburst suggests otherwise.”
If looks could kill, the one I shoot his way would have burned him alive, leaving nothing but a trace of dust.
The male must have a death wish, because he continues, crystalline eyes blazing. “Anyone who comes looking for you will assume that I’ve taken you far from this place. As you’ve said, it would be stupid of me to hide you here, so why would anyone bother to search this area?”
Forcing an exhale, I cross my arms, fists still clasped tight.
Gods-damn him.
He’s right.
I think of what I would do if I was leading a search party with limited resources. I would focus our efforts on the areas we’ve deemed to be highly probable as our target’s location. Areas that are the most strategic for the kidnapper and provide them the most security. Thinking that way, I would focus on places that are familiar to, or connected with the kidnapper somehow, but unknown to, and isolating for, the hostage.
Asheros’s logic is so obvious, it’s downright infuriating. I wouldn’t waste my resources here, so why would anyone else? Closing my eyes, I slow my breathing. My arms fall to my sides, and I unclench my fists.
“Where will I be staying?” Though my voice has lost its aggression, my words are clipped.
“The bedchambers are upstairs,” Orim says, his tone gentle. “Would you like me to show you?”
“No, I’ll be fine on my own.” I don’t give him an opportunity to respond before I cross the room in swift strides. I do, however, catch the warning glance that Kheldryn gives Asheros, but by the time I can react, I’m already climbing the stairs.
Anger at my lack of composure burns the back of my throat.
Damn it.
I let my feelings show.
As if to further emphasize that fact, what’s left of my frustration seeps into my feet, pounding the steps.
At the top of the staircase is a long hallway lined with intricately-carved wooden doors. Each depicts its own forest scene, complete with woodland animals and creatures. I pass the first two doors without really looking at them and trudge past another that’s carved with a drawing of a friendly-looking troll—a much less menacing version than the one we encountered on our journey here—that is unknowingly being stalked by a grinning fox.
My movements slow, and I approach one of the bedchambers. The carving on this door is of several gnomes taking shelter from the rain while huddled beneath a spotted toadstool. Something about the carving softens my expression, and before I realize what I’m doing, I step inside.
Pressing my back to the wood, I close the door behind me. There’s a decently sized four-poster bed in the room’s center with identical rustic end tables on either side. Steel candelabras sit atop them with cream-colored candles. Two windows, one on either side of the bed, overlook the grounds, and there’s an adjoining washroom. To the left of the door, against the wall, is a dresser that comes up just past my waist.
The chamber is comfortable. Beyond comfortable, even. Having spent the past few decades living in the Guards’ quarters at High Keep, I haven’t stayed in a room like this in years.
But at the moment, comfort isn’t what I need. Raising my hands, I curl them into fists. At High Keep, whenever I was upset, I would train with whatever I could get my hands on first—swords, daggers, spears. Here, there’s nothing. No training dummies, no wooden posts for sparring, nothing that I can hit.
I itch to move, my body thrumming with the need to expel this energy. Crossing the space to the bed, I pluck the pillows from beneath the finely woven blankets. They’re free of any lumps and fluffed to perfection. Gripping a pillow in each hand, I bring them to the dresser and place them on top, positioned so they sit vertically against the wall. Hopefully, the combined thickness of both pillows is enough for what I need, but I have too much confined aggravation to care.
Lowering into a fighting stance, I level my fists with my eyes, and shift my weight to the balls of my feet. I land a punch to the center of the pillow, hard enough that my knuckles collide with the stone wall behind them. I throw another punch.
And another.
And another.
Each strike is harder than the last, my punches following in rapid succession. Though the pillows soften the blows to a degree, the force of my fists hitting the wall, over and over and over, means I’ll have bruised fingers to explain tomorrow.
Despite the bite of pain, I keep going. Damn Asheros and that smirk.
Punch.
Damn Viridian for asking me to leave High Keep.
Punch.
Damn my mother and her idealized expectations.
Punch .
And damn me for being too—
Weak.
I pull my hands back and unfurl my fists to inspect my knuckles. They’re cracked and bleeding, a mess of red smudged across my skin. Spotted with bright, fresh blood, the pillows are no better.
But the truth strikes harder than any blow ever could.
I’m a failure.
I should be in Illnamoor by now, standing by my mother’s side. Instead, I’ve been letting my fear, and whatever feelings I’m developing for Asheros, rule me.
“Emotions distract you from your duty,” Ceren had told me years ago. “Do not let them. Your duty to the crown comes first, above all.”
Asheros Larmanne is nothing but an emotional obstacle I must remove from my path.
My duty depends on it.