Chapter 31 #3
“Four?” I knew he was bookish, but it’s difficult to mesh this Desmond with the one who slaughtered fomorians and dragged their corpses like it was just another day in the Prince of Death’s life.
“For years, I wanted to study at the College of the Arcane to access their library. When I told you at Norwynhald that I don’t tell stories, I was being particular with my semantics.”
As fae often do, I think.
“I’m not inclined to tell stories about myself because they’ll always be manipulated by my emotions, like looking at my reflection in a tarnished mirror.
Yet no one can dispute that stories hold power.
They’re a testament to history, and the College of the Arcane’s collection is unparalleled.
” The faintest smile curls his lips. “Or so I’ve heard. ”
It’s hard to decide what surprises me more about his admission—that he made it at all, or that he’d rather be a scholar than a prince. It reminds me of the forsaken dream he confided in me. He wishes he could be free of his duties and travel the world, just like me.
“Yet you’re entangled with assassination attempts and a tomb raid, all to protect your people,” I reply, a gentle prod in hopes he’ll confide more in me.
I still don’t know his Gift, nor what he wants in Olin’s tomb.
He had translated a riddle about an arrow in one of his books, but what would he want that for?
Desmond turns the page as his smile dies. “It would seem these are the circumstances I’m stuck with.”
“Screw the circumstances. Go to that college after this. Bet the assassins won’t know how to find you there, anyway.” I know how impossible it sounds, but I want him to follow his dream. I fervently feel that he deserves to.
He stills, pensive.
I try to stifle a yawn, but fail and lean my head against the wooden wall. “Where I was born won’t stop me from getting the life I want,” I murmur, drowsiness making me candid. “Even if it takes me years to learn how to defend myself, I’ll find a way to join the adventurers’ guild.”
“And that’s one of the few sentiments I admire about you,” he softly says.
Few. I scoff. “You’re terrible at giving compliments.” Even if the tone of his voice suggested he meant it as one.
“I could count on one hand the number of people who I have even a shred of admiration for,” he replies, like that’s supposed to make it any better. “And perhaps. . .”
“Perhaps?” I ask, raising a brow.
His hands tighten around his book. “Perhaps I admire more than a few things about you,” he quietly says, not meeting my gaze.
My chest squeezes, and any retort I planned to make dies on my tongue. What else does he admire about me? Maybe I should ask, but I’m afraid to. Why does that scare me?
We fall silent. I look out the carriage window but see the same monotonous expanse of forest. “Wake me if there’s something interesting outside.
” I close my eyes, but I can’t get comfortable.
If I lean back, every pothole the carriage clambers over bumps my head against the wall.
After a rough bang, I give up and slump forward against my knees.
“My shoulder is yours,” he suddenly says.
“What?” I jerk up, almost whacking my head on the lantern.
He takes off his burgundy doublet and folds it, offering it with cautious hesitation. ”If you want it.”
“Thank the gods,” I mutter. I position the jacket-pillow against his shoulder and settle against his side. His body is warm, and I begrudgingly admit to myself that his steady breathing soothes me. “You smell good,” I murmur, breathing in the aroma of mint soap and clean linen.
Desmond chuckles, low and quiet. “You don’t smell so terrible yourself.”
“Oh?” I smile. “What do I smell like?”
There’s a crinkle of a page turning and a pause before he says, “Like sunlight.”
My cheeks heat. He could’ve said that I smell like the lavender soap that Nog leaves in the armoire each morning.
What am I supposed to say now? What does sunlight even smell like?
It should be easy to banter with him, and yet the more we speak, the more I find myself too taken aback to think.
I close my eyes and let each of his soft exhales lull me closer to sleep.
“Get your asses out of the carriage!” Auri calls out, jolting me upright. “We’ve got a problem.”
I rub my eyes, but it does nothing to dispel my grogginess. “How long was I out for?”
“Four hours,” Desmond replies. He takes the doublet back when I hand it to him. I must be muddled with sleep because I swear he pauses, pressing it to his nose and lips, before he puts it on.
They should’ve woken me for a turn on the horses. Four hours is a long nap. No wonder my neck is so sore.
At some point, Min swapped places with Finnian because he sits across from us, rubbing his face.
I follow Desmond out of the carriage, but pause mid-stretch. Two mountains loom over us with a narrow pass in between. The snow-capped peaks aren’t within sight. It’s as if the mountains became the very sky, a stairway to the heavens.
Then I notice why we’ve stopped. The mountainside is peppered with large, round holes, too symmetrical to be natural caves.
Lindwyrm burrows.