Chapter Nineteen #2
Near the front window of the shop, a shelf filled with various species of pinned and framed butterflies and moths catches my attention. Yet try as I might, ignoring their conversation in a shop this small will be impossible.
“I hope your work and service to Erus doesn’t consume all of your time,” Gladir says. He sounds genuinely concerned.
“For now it does not,” Cyran replies with a small, deep chuckle. “But it will not be long before it does.”
Wait.
Cyran can laugh?
How is it I’ve seen more personality from this fae in the last five minutes than I have in the last five months?
“In that case, I pray your tasks are neither treacherous nor tedious,” Gladir says, his voice a warm rumble. “Embala worries about you.”
I pause, focusing my incredulous stare upon a white-winged butterfly pinned against a colorful hand-painted rendering of the night sky.
“How is she?” Cyran asks, the words soft and low.
“She misses you still,” Gladir answers and there’s a poorly masked note of hurt.
I become statuesque.
I dare not move.
I dare not breathe.
I dare not blink.
After spending months knowing little to nothing about this fae, hearing this—hearing he may have been involved with Gladir’s daughter—it feels like a violent invasion of privacy. What I would give to be able to ferry into the street and let them have time.
I glance at the door.
There’s no way I wouldn’t be noticed.
“But she understands,” Gladir adds with a sigh. “She’s in Ebongard currently. Procuring consignment agreements with first-time clients.”
The day I visited Cora…
His words were personal.
Did he and Embala experience the same kind of cruelty as Cora and Eve? Cyran romantically involved with a demi-fae… Gladir makes it sound like whatever stood between them has ended. Was it because of perceptions and unsolicited opinions?
“She’s due to return this evening if you’d like to join us for dinner,” Gladir offers.
Cyran heaves a quiet, long sigh. “Unfortunately, I am unavailable. Please accept my regrets.”
“Of course, of course,” Gladir says, disappointed. “Forgive me Captain, I’ve stolen enough of your time. What brings you in?”
Boots scuff on the wooden floor as Cyran turns. “Lady Ves has prompted our visit today,” he answers.
Reluctant to turn for reasons I don’t know how to explain, I force a practiced smile upon my face. As I turn from the shelf, away from the collection of pretty insects, I lower my hood, careful not to lose my newspaper.
“Oh.” Gladir’s brows raise as our eyes meet. “Forgive me, I didn’t even see you come in.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as I approach. “You… you had the peculiar glamouring ring.” He points a finger at me.
“I did,” I reply with a nod.
I’m more impressed he remembers the trinket than my face considering I’m a walking clone of Celesta. I’m inclined to think the latter more memorable than the former, especially in a city with a temple dedicated to her.
A charming smile sweeps across his face. “Tell me,” he says, the sound breathy. “Did you ever use it?”
“I did,” I repeat, with a laugh.
“And were you changed? How were you changed? Did it grant you any other abilities or bestow a blessing or curse?” He pitches himself over the counter, leaning in my direction as I stop beside Cyran.
Wild, burning curiosity flares in his brown eyes as he waits for my answer. I can’t help but laugh.
“I was changed. Though I can’t say to what degree aside from dark hair,” I answer, letting my fingers curl over the ledge of the counter. “I never had the opportunity to peer at myself while wearing it. As for blessings or curses, neither—that I’m aware of.”
“Amazing,” he says with a small shake of his head as he studies me.
“I was concerned it might be hiding its curse—much like it hid its ability. Glad to hear this wasn’t the case.
Next time you come by, bring it with you—if you still have it—we can study it.
I’d love the chance to learn more about it. ”
With it sitting in the castle stronghold, I see no reason it can’t be sent to Gladir for further study. Learning more about its capabilities might prove useful.
“I’ll see about having it sent to you,” I offer, giving him a small smile.
“A-and did you ever end up finding the bloodstone you sought?” he asks. “I managed to find a piece. A dagger.”
My jaw falls open.
“It’s the oddest thing,” he says as he straightens himself. “It’s been at least a century since I’ve gotten a request for bloodstone. But after you left, another came in asking for the same. When you didn’t stop back, I sold the piece to him.”
Ryc…
“If you’re still in search, I may be able to procure another piece,” he says. “I’ve a reliable curator who’s recently returned from Cerwiden.”
Cerwiden?
“How did they travel between lands?” I ask.
If it’s possible to travel between Eldoterra and Cerwiden, I must know how. I may need to make the journey myself. As far as I’ve known, the distance between the two shores is too great to ferry.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” Gladir says with a shrug. “It’s not something the curator shared. All I know is it took them a month to get there and a month to return.”
Four weeks of journey in one direction.
Likely by ship then.
That sounds miserable.
And less than ideal. I don’t have that kind of time.
I heave a sigh. “I see. Thank you, Gladir,” I say. “Also, with regard to your offer, no. I’m no longer in need of bloodstone. But I shall keep you in mind should that change.”
“Glad to be of service,” he deigns. “Thank you both for entertaining an old fae’s questions. Now that I’ve stolen precious time from you both, what is it you require?”
As I reach into my cloak pocket, Cyran pulls the newspaper from under my arm and tucks it beneath his. I glance at him as I fish out the necklace and set it upon the counter.
“Cyran tells me you’re skilled in working with spelled silver,” I say. “I’d like to have this reforged.”
Gladir lifts his eyes from the necklace to mine. “I haven’t forged anything in quite some time,” he says, concerned. “Let alone worked with spelled silver.”
Pulling his glasses from his face, he sets them beside the demonic gauntlet and reaches for the necklace.
He picks it up by the pendant and, shifting, reaches again, pulling a handle from the wall on his right.
A thick, domed piece of glass fastened to an accordion-like arm stretches across the counter to sit between us.
It’s a magnifying glass, I realize.
How old is this fae for his sight to be less than stellar?
He studies the piece with creased brows and pursed lips. “What are you wishing to forge?”
“A ring,” I answer.
Brown eyes flick over the glass, meeting mine briefly.
His attention returns to the necklace, turning the pendant over to the side with the engraving.
“A gift of silver?” he asks.
“Yes.” I nod.
“The enchantment on this piece is… interesting,” Gladir says, his eyes narrowing. “Who would create a spell like this?”
The tone of Gladir’s question and commentary inspires unease to settle in my chest. Interesting can mean a myriad of things.
Many of them less than good.
What kind of old magic enchantment did Celesta design?
“The runes…” Gladir shakes his head in confusion. “They speak of blinding the gods. No…” he shifts his head, as if he’s listening and no longer studying. “Not blinding… rendering the gods blind to the wearer.” He lowers the necklace, lifting his face. “Where did you get this?”
“A gift,” I answer. “From my mother.”
“And you want to turn this into a gift of silver?” Gladir asks, wary. “Would you rather not keep it?”
No, the necklace served its purpose.
I’d like to give it to Ryc.
It appears the enchantment Celesta bestowed upon it was never about reuniting my soul with my flesh. Not in any literal sense. It was about being able to move without interference from Netharis. Being hidden from the gods’ view… that’s useless now. They know I’m here.
“If possible, I’d like it to match the band I’ve been given,” I reply as I remove my ring and set it upon the counter.
The glass squeaks as Gladir pushes it toward the wall, the arm contracting. He pauses as his eyes fall upon the counter.
“You’re King Alaryc’s mate?” Wide brown eyes meet mine.
I don’t quite understand how he arrived at such a truth but I nod.
“Nektos and her weaving ways,” he scoffs in disbelief. “She would have it I be asked to forge a mate for the ring I helped create centuries ago.”
My head swivels to Cyran. “Did you know this?”
He shakes his head, the expression on his face as equally bewildered as the one upon mine.
“This was long before the Captain stood in King Alaryc’s service,” Gladir laughs. He picks up the ring, returning it to me. “I still have the drafted plans. I can use those for this.” He lifts the necklace slightly in emphasis.
“Then you’re willing to reforge it?” I ask, slipping the ring onto my finger.
“How can I say no?” Gladir says with a small smile. “I’ve never been one to deny Fate, and at my age, I’m not going to start now.”
?????????????
The delicious heat of the bath sinks into the core of my being, and I loose a long, stress-relieving exhale. Letting my head fall back, I close my eyes as my skin pebbles and I breathe deep.
“Hey,” a voice calls from the bedroom proper. It’s Eve.
“In here,” I call over my shoulder.
She pads into the bathing room. “You’re up early. I expected you to be in bed still.”
She crosses the room, lowering herself to the floor beside the tub. Leaning back, she rests her head upon the lip and stares at the ceiling. I follow her lead in relaxation and let my head fall back.
“What has you awake this early?” she asks.
“The failure to be explicit in my wording,” I reply and she chuckles. “I asked Cyran to bring me to a silversmith to forge Ryc’s gift.”
Her head falls to the side, toward me. Ice blue eyes meet mine.
“You’re really doing this…” she says, her voice soft. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I knew you would. I just… it feels surreal after everything.”
“I love him,” I say quietly.
Eve smiles. “I know you do,” she says. “I see the way you look at him. Everyone sees the way he looks at you. You’ll both be the bright and shining example of what Nektos promises.” There’s an underlying hint of bitterness in her tone, well hidden.
“You’re upset.” I lift my head.
She sighs. “Yes, but no.” She lifts a hand to rub at her brow. “Not at you. Not at your king.”
But at Nektos.
At Fate.
“Oh,” she says, straightening her arm. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I finally heard from Druka.”
I sit up, careful not to cause water to slosh over the side of the tub. I don’t think Eve would appreciate an impromptu bath.
She pulls back her dark sleeve, revealing the ebony skin of her arm—marked with new Malbolge runes. A string of three runes lie near the bottom of her left wrist.
“Vessel of the Veil.” She reads the runes aloud. “No idea what it means. She’s still not answering through the channel.”
Delicacy be damned, I rush the side of the tub, eyes wide as I snatch her wrist. Water spills over the side and Eve recoils with a shout.
“Ves, what in the hells?” she cries, peeling herself away from the tub, yet she remains trapped in my grip.
“What have you done?” I breathe, rubbing a thumb over the inked runes.
She stammers, confused.
“This isn’t Druka,” I hiss, meeting her stare. “This is a House Brand, Eve.”
She snatches her arm from my slick grasp, drawing it close to her chest. “What do you mean?”
“A House, Eve. A demonic House.”
“How is that even possible?” Eve gives a bewildered laugh. “I haven’t signed any contract. Hells, I haven’t even seen a demon here or in my dreams—other than you.”
My mind races.
Tens of thousands of Houses exist in the hells.
I know the most pervasive, the most powerful, and the most profane—a tiny fraction of what exists. It is more than possible a House I’ve never met or seen carries the insignia of the veil.
“When did it appear?” I ask, my voice lost to the roaring of my heart in my ears.
“When you were in Nyluma,” she answers.
Pulling the stopper from the tub, I climb out, caring little about soaking the tile. I snatch a towel from the shelf and hastily wrap it around me.
“I didn’t think much of it,” Eve says, rising to her feet. “There’s been no change—no additional change—since.”
I stammer, a cornucopia of incoherent sounds.
I don’t know what to do, or say, or think.
I don’t know what this means.
But the sudden appearance of Malbolge runes on a person isn’t good.
I lift my hand to my brow and pause midway, my eyes widening.
“Ves…” Eve breathes my name as her eyes grow wide.
A tiny vine curls around my left wrist, small leaves springing open. Tinier buds pop, revealing indigo petals glowing with a soft blue light.
“What is this?” Eve asks, drawing closer.
Staring in silence, I purse my lips as I search for words.
And fail.
With a tight sigh, I rip at the vine and it vanishes in a burst of dark blue smoke.