chapter three #2
It takes me a moment to understand that he’s referring to the minister. No one talks about the minister like that. Not unless you have a death wish.
A knock makes me turn toward the back door. The first knock is followed by another, then three more in rapid succession.
Llyr rises from his chair. “Wait here.”
I frown. “Why?”
He throws a look over his shoulder. “How you have such a hard time removing your veil and using your voice yet can’t help questioning the tiniest of requests is a puzzle. I thought properties were supposed to be submissive?” His mouth tightens into a flat line.
“I’m a poor excuse for a property, and you know it,” I grumble as he disappears through the back door. I’m more like a caged wolf, the brace my sedation.
Rising from the chair, I walk over to the many weapons Llyr has on display for customers to buy. There are all shapes and sizes, and I’ve heard more than one person say he forges the best blades in all of Bronich. I sigh. What I wouldn’t give to carry a blade.
I reach toward a petite dagger with a hilt wrapped in soft leather.
Grinding my teeth, I push my hand slowly toward the hilt, allowing the pain to ripple through my body.
Another inch. The pain is intensifying, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, and the familiar nausea forms in my stomach.
Weary, I let my hand fall. There is no way I can touch that blade.
And it is not solely because of the pain.
The struggle of reaching for a weapon while wearing a brace is akin to the resistance felt when bringing two magnets with similar poles together. It’s almost impossible.
A glimmer of black at the corner of my eye catches my attention.
Where did that come from? I take in the many silver weapons, the forge, and the workbench, noticing a drawer slightly ajar.
There, where Llyr was standing earlier. Knowing full well I’m invading his privacy, I cast a glance toward the door he went through, and when I hear no footsteps, I pull the drawer out.
That’s what he gets for leaving me here alone.
A peculiar black dagger is half hidden under his other tools.
It’s a beautiful piece of work, made of one sleek piece of jet-black stone—so dark it seems to consume the light surrounding it.
My brows pull together. Why is it stuck here in the tool drawer?
Reaching toward it, I brace myself for the jolt of pain, but .
. . nothing happens. Slack-jawed, I wrap my fingers around the cool stone hilt. How is this possible?
I lift the knife, letting my thumb glide across the tiny carvings covering the shaft.
It’s a type of lettering—or maybe symbology is more accurate—I have never seen before.
Touching the edge, I let out a hiss and almost drop it to the floor.
The blade sliced clean through my glove.
Sucking on my finger, I stare at the drop of blood running down the knife’s edge. That thing is lethal.
Noticing a piece of leftover felt on the floor, I snatch it and wrap it around the knife’s edge. Before I can question my reckless decision, I shove the dagger into one of the deep pockets of my skirt, then push the drawer shut and tiptoe back to my chair.
A moment later, Llyr enters through the back door.
“What was that all about?” Leaning back in my chair, I wrap both hands around my mug and take another sip of the milk—now lukewarm.
He gives me a dismissive wave, mumbling something about a deal at the back door, and disappears into the kitchen.
I follow, seething. “Will you tell me anything at all?” I fix him with a hard stare as he prepares a cup of tea, then another. I told him the whole story, yet he hasn’t clarified a single thing other than the minister being in the wrong for infanticide.
“Your milk must be cold by now.” He takes the mug I’m still clutching and replaces it with one containing some sort of herbal tea.
I place the tea down on the kitchen counter and cross my arms in front of my chest. “It’s only fair that you give me some answers as well. Like, why was he wrong to kill it?”
I stare at his back in disbelief as he pushes past me, back to his workshop, mug of tea in hand.
Grabbing my own cup, I scurry after him.
“It’s only right for magic to be eliminated, so why was he in the wrong for taking down this creature?
If it had magic, I mean. People are burned all the time for less.
Besides, if it was a creature, it’s hardly any different from taking down game in—”
He spins around, his face a mask of fury, and I stumble backward, hot tea spilling all over. “Ouch!” I stare down at my wet glove. It’ll dry. He may have persuaded me to take my veil off, but there is no way he’ll convince me to remove my gloves, revealing my scarred hands.
“That’s a no, then,” I mutter, wiping my glove off on my skirt, my pulse quickening when I brush the dagger. I’d almost forgotten. “I just wish you would tell me why.”
“It is no more a creature than you or I, La?na.” His voice is strained, as if he’s exerting all his effort to keep his anger in check. “That is all you need to know for now.”
Is it? My brow furrows as I do my best to piece together the bits of information I now have.
No, it is not all I need to know. Llyr clarified nothing, only left me with more questions.
The Void he mentioned is as unfamiliar to me as the moonborn and the umbra, and who is this Mah he was praying to for help?
“But why does he do it?” I prod.
He faces me, his green eyes locking on to mine.
“La?na . . .” he begins, but I interrupt him.
“Why should I believe you over the minister?” I challenge. “You cannot expect me to take you on your word unless you tell me why.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And why do you have such knowledge about this, anyway?”
“I . . . La?na . . .” He cradles his mug in both hands, staring into the steam.
“Answer this, and I promise I will let it go,” I say.
When he doesn’t object, I continue. “The minister. Why does he go to such an extent to kill these moonborn babies and burn what must then be innocent people? If the moonborn are not dangerous, Mrs. Willox doesn’t deserve to be burned for giving birth to one.
” I stare at him. “What is our minister gaining from all this?”
“I never said they’re not dangerous,” he mutters. Then, a little louder, he says, “You would be surprised at the number of people who find a soul a fair price for power.”
I blink. Is he saying the minister is without a soul? That’s what he called him earlier too, isn’t it? A soulless son of a bitch. But how could he, who is so devoted to the Father, do such a thing? It doesn’t make any sense.
“But, the minister despises magic . . .”
Llyr huffs. “What he despises is anyone with more power than him.”
“What about the burnings?”
“Creates fear. And fearful people are easy to control,” he says.
“Create something fearful, then pretend you are protecting them from that very evil, and they will do anything you say. Fearful people do not dare to question, and they become as easy to herd as a flock of sheep.” He takes a sip of his tea.
“The people of Bronich are convinced the minister safeguards them from evil, while the reality is he eliminates anything that might shield them from the true evil: him and his minions.”
“You do not agree with his practice,” I say. “You say ‘they’ and ‘them.’ ”
He lets out a dry laugh. “I am not a sheep. And neither are you.”
“No, I’m property,” I say, my voice thick with contempt. “At least a sheep can run away if they want.”
“Yet they don’t. You try.”
I scoff. I appreciate his belief in me, but as little as I know about anything, I sure feel no better than those sheep he refers to.
“How can you be so sure about this? Why are you so certain the minister is the true evil?” I push. Although having seen firsthand the dark companions he keeps, I have a nagging feeling Llyr is right. “What if there’s more to this story?”
“Oh, there is definitely more to the story,” he says. “But you need to trust me on this one.” His voice is grim. “He is.”
I’m just about to open my mouth to argue when he pleads, “Please, La?na, no more questions. The affairs you are meddling in are not safe. The power behind the minister, the umbra, is better not spoken of—not by me, and certainly not by you.” His voice trails off for a moment, and then he adds, “And no more nightly excursions. Is that clear?”
Seeing the wordless plea in his eyes, I reluctantly nod my agreement. “I promise . . .” I thrust my chin forward. “As long as you keep your word and secure my freedom.”
He gives me a curt nod. “I will. And, La?na . . .”
I meet his gaze.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” He rubs a hand across his neck. “But you are valuable. I do not want you executed.”
I offer him a small smile. “Thank you.” I mean it. It’s not often that I’m valued. “And don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” I wave my hand, dismissing the matter. The only upside to the oaths we are bound to by the brace is that everyone thinks us incapable of thinking for ourselves.
A familiar tingle envelops my left forearm. “I better get going,” I say, lifting my arm. “Master Coperie is waking up.”
Not wanting to risk my master’s fury by being late, I wrap my cloak around myself and walk toward the door.
His hangovers often make him volatile, and I know firsthand any provocation will result in literal torture.
Besides, I’m not about to mess up now—not when I can almost taste the freedom I’ve yearned for since this cursed brace was locked around my arm a decade ago.
“La?na.”
I half turn, glancing at Llyr over my shoulder.
“I will keep my promise,” he says. “But I need a few days, perhaps a week.”
Replacing my veil, I nod—refusing to get my hopes up before it’s certain—and slip out the door.