Chapter 11 Sadaré #2
“It was nice speaking to you, but I need to go.” I tousle his curls as I rise, still keeping low, and he gives me a half smile, half scowl.
I smile back at him. “Come talk to me whenever you want—well, as long I’m not with Isha.
” I still don’t trust the god’s moods, never mind that the boy could overhear something between us that wouldn’t be appropriate at his age.
I give him a little wave. “See you soon.”
And then I duck away, skirting around the balcony, and steal down an upper hallway, not caring which. I only need to get out of the west wing before the sound of Isha’s loneliness draws me back like a treacherous siren’s song.
After that, I’ll find my way to the east tower. And perhaps I’ll even discover the source of his loneliness there.
THE ARCADE SPANNING THE SEA from the east keep to the east tower looks much the same as the one that leads to my quarters, except I gain entry through a pair of doors on the far side of the dining hall that I’d never noticed before.
No wonder, with the distraction of the feast that has always been on display—and Isha’s consuming presence.
The room is vacant and the table cleared this time, and I appreciate the respite, as ironic as it is.
My empty, gnawing stomach hounds me, and yet I don’t want to appease it.
Never mind that whatever food or drink Isha has given me has only been delicious and desperately appreciated by my body, and I haven’t noticed any memory loss or other terrible effects—I still don’t trust it, although I’m growing less and less sure why. Not to mention hungrier and hungrier.
The view from this arcade is different. Rather than looking out onto the River of Fire and the Pit of Hell, the south-facing windows reveal vast stretches of gray plains under a less-threatening sky that drifts rather than seethes.
It’s still overcast, but the clouds are brighter, as if there’s actually a sun hiding behind them.
To the north, the sky’s faint silver luminescence even blushes with a hint of gold—no doubt over the Blessed Isles.
On my side of the fortress, it looks as if the sun doesn’t exist.
Here in the underworld, it probably doesn’t.
The extra luminosity, as spare as it is, lightens my steps and lifts my mood, making me nearly skip down the arcade.
The door at the other side is also different from the one at the base of my tower, made of simple wood carved with vines and flowers instead of the fortress’s usual black lacquer and silver filigree.
Even though it’s plainer without the silver, it’s somehow brighter.
The door brings me into a room that looks like it doesn’t belong in the fortress at all, and the contrast hits me so strongly that I gasp aloud.
The walls are still made of bone, but they’re painted in vibrant swirls of green and pale pink—vines, leaves, and blossoms unfurling over the dead surface, making it seem alive.
No winding stairs fill the space like in my tower.
The room is open all the way to the top, stacked with windows that let in as much light as they can, more like the sky than any ceiling overhead.
I spin in a circle underneath, my head tipped back in wonder.
For the second time in a short span, my breath catches and my vision glosses with overwhelming emotion.
It almost feels like I’m outside—not outside the fortress, but in the mortal realm.
But nothing is truly alive here, I realize, after blinking back tears.
The scent of flowers doesn’t perfume the air, but musty decay.
Raised beds for an indoor garden ring the walls at waist level, except the plants are all dead, as if in defiance of the murals wreathing the walls behind them.
They haven’t been tended to or watered in a very long time, based on their skeletal appearance and desiccated brown leaves.
When I touch one, it crumbles into fragments.
Like in my room, there’s a bath, but it’s dry—filled only with dust. A large bed stands against a window as well, but it hasn’t been slept in for an equally long time. The coverlet is so dusty it’s more grayish brown than the pale green hidden beneath.
I wonder who lived here. And why their absence makes Isha play such music or stand here, still and silent, as if grieving.
Perhaps the bed should be my primary focus, but it’s one of the dead plants that catches my attention, drawing me to it.
It’s bigger than the rest, with twining, sturdy stalks that don’t yet look like they’d snap in the slightest breeze.
A large wilted blossom droops from the top like a bowed head.
I raise my hand beneath it and graze the tips of the down-turned petals with my fingers, fascinated for a reason I can’t name.
I almost pull away when several of the shriveled petals fall off in a rattling whisper, but some instinct keeps my hand in place.
And then a few small seeds sprinkle onto my palm as if shaken loose.
They’re as dried up and lifeless as everything else, but they feel like a parting gift—a final breath from the blossom.
I don’t have anywhere to put them within the scant, thin material of my gown, so I tip them onto my tongue and tuck them deep in my cheek for safekeeping.
If anything, I can give them a bit of moisture, even if I don’t have much to spare.
I’m terribly thirsty. I do my best to ignore it, as usual.
With that odd exchange concluded, I turn back to the room. “What can we do for you, hm?” I say to it as much as myself.
Perhaps the urge to tidy the place is ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me from going over to the bed and lifting the edge of the coverlet with a grimace. I give it a toss, and dust explodes in a cloud, making me flinch and sneeze.
“What are you doing in here?” a low, deadly voice asks.
I spin, dropping the edge of the coverlet, dust still drifting around me. I’m coated in it now, which makes me look all the guiltier as I face Isha. At the cold, hard expression on his face, my breath freezes in my lungs—until I sneeze again. I cover my mouth and stare at him, eyes wide.
It might be my imagination, but his lips twitch. He’s still a dark and menacing shadow that threatens the vibrancy of the room—and me. His presence seems to dim the light, even as his metallic gaze bores holes into me. Despite that, he’s no less beautiful than ever.
Did he somehow follow me? Or was he only coming here after his performance, like he has in the past?
The first possibility sends both fear and excitement sparking through me.
Being the object of his focus is frightening—especially if he’s angry—and yet it’s vital for my plans.
I hope my excitement has only to do with that, anyway.
But I have my doubts when the second possibility—the thought of him continuing to mourn the loss of whoever once lived here—smothers any thrill, leaving me sinking inside for some strange reason.
Perhaps because I’m failing to hold his attention like I desperately need to.
Or perhaps because there’s a less palatable, utterly irrational, and incredibly foolish reason.
I shouldn’t be jealous. I don’t care about Isha beyond charming him enough to release me.
I certainly don’t care that there was someone else here who was obviously important to him, never mind that it was so long ago.
Besides, I have more pressing concerns. I drop my hand and clear my throat, after working the seeds as deeply as possible into my cheek.
“I was just… exploring.” I sound even guiltier than I look. “And exploring isn’t wandering,” I add, in case he’s about to accuse me of breaking that rule.
His finger trails though the dust on a planter’s rim as slowly and deliberately as he would along my skin, such that I can almost feel it with a shiver. My eyes fix on his movement.
“So you had a destination in mind?” His tone is soft—too soft. The hair prickles on the back of my neck.
“No, I just hadn’t been here before.” I can’t help glancing around. “It’s lovely.”
Isha doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. He only rubs the dust between his fingertips, his jaw hard. Waiting.
I speak hurriedly. “One of the shades told me you used to come here, so I wanted to see it.” A partial truth, though I don’t mention which shade, of course, or that Isha was supposedly sad when he did. “I wanted to know what captivated you so.”
“Why? Because you want to captivate me?” There’s a faint note of sarcasm in his flat tone.
I swallow. “Yes.”
I must have sounded convincing, because the line of his brow softens. But when he looks up at me, his expression is chilling. “You could never be anything like her.”
What’s left of my stomach somehow caves in more upon itself. I struggle to moisten my tongue, highly conscious of the seeds wedged in my mouth even though I can barely feel them. “Who was she?”
He finally looks around the room and sighs, his frosty exterior melting slightly.
“My wife. Of half-divine lineage, with a penchant for the spring season. Ironic, I realize.” His flat eyes don’t share his brief sardonic smile.
“I took her from the mortal realm, assuming she would adjust eventually. She didn’t.
She was so despondent here that I let her spend half of her time away, but that only made her yearn for home all the more.
So in the end I freed her from her bond. ”
I thought I couldn’t be more surprised by him, but I’m being hit in unceasing waves. First I discover the small kindnesses he’s done for the shades here, and now I find he had a wife? Whom he tried to please through compromise, despite perhaps abducting her? And then, failing that, he let her go?
So let me go. Of course, I don’t say that aloud.
Instead, I murmur, “You loved her, so you let her choose.”
It’s still a mistake.