Chapter 8 | Sephania #2
His bulky shoulders shrug. The man is half a head shorter than me but stout as an ale barrel.
He seems to have gained some weight, too, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing when the rough winters hit Nuhav.
It’s good to have an extra coat. “I don’t know where the lad ran off to but I’d fear bumping into him in public if I were you.
His anger and resentment for everyone has blossomed ever since Culiar’s death. ”
My shoulders sag. I understand. Bowing my head in shame, I say, “I’m truly sorry for that, Ant. I would like to apologize to you and Rirth—”
“Cul knew what he was getting into fighting a shadowgala, Sephania.”
“Still, I was the one who hand-picked him to participate. Told him it would be easy and he’d earn his freedom. I lied to him.”
Antones lifts his palm again, shaking his head, the expression on his face getting more frustrated as I keep talking.
“No. He accepted the bout knowing it was against a hated enemy of the Grimsons—Peltos—and because it was meant to be an easy one. It was.” Ant shrugs like it’s the easiest thing.
His response tells me he’s thought deeply about this.
“Luck doesn’t always fall on the side of the righteous, lass. That’s why it’s called luck.”
“Bad luck is a damnable thing,” Garroway says—his first words.
Antones raises a single brow. “That it is, half-blood.”
“My name is Garroway.”
Ant’s upper lip twitches. “All right.”
His clipped tone says he doesn’t give a shit about Garro or anyone else in Skar’s court. He’s humoring me because I used to live here, but Garroway was right: I am far from welcome here like a former sister of the Firehold.
Antones hasn’t even shown me into the greater living quarters or mess hall, preferring to keep us backed against the entry ladder in the first tunnel.
He studies my face and seems to read my worried thoughts. Face flashing with concern—the first hint of former fondness for me—he sighs loudly. “Honestly, girl, things have gone to shit since Lukain . . . left.” His big shoulders rise. “I’m not as good at this as he was.”
His expression has changed. The Antones I know is not a man filled with self-pity.
I want to ask if he can point me in the direction of the man who wrote the letter he delivered—the one telling me Lukain Pierken was still possibly alive, which changed the trajectory of my life and goals.
I recall Ant saying it was written by one of Lukain’s spies situated in Skar’s court. If so, Skar might know who it is.
I want to drill Antones for answers. At the same time, the struggle he’s clearly facing brings out the empathetic side of me. I hate to see him so down, with his shoulders sinking and his hair looking grayer by the month. “You’re right, Ant. You’re not Lukain . . .”
His gaze lifts, suspicion coloring his eyes.
“. . . and you shouldn’t try to be. Must you raise fighters in his image?
” I spit the words out, approaching the man and clasping him by the shoulders.
Our eyes lock, and his look surprised. “The man I knew preferred to pick out dresses at the bazaars as gifts for the girls here.” I smile roguishly.
“He also let them fuck in secret with the boys or with each other, so they could work out their frustrations of living as slaves to a harsh, dangerous taskmaster. As tired as it sounds, the Antones I knew was a nurturing man, not a killing one. A lover, not a fighter.”
Ant’s lips part. His eyes dance as they search mine. This close, he looks even older than I remember, aging much more than he should have in the half-year since I’ve seen him. Deep bags drag his cheeks. His crisp jawline has turned into jowls.
He looks mystified for a moment, staring into my stern, hopeful face.
Then he blinks and the truth of his existence seems to fall across his features all at once.
“There’s no room for lovers in this cruel world, Seph.
You should know that better than anyone.
We all must fight, at some point, to survive.
I can’t, in good conscience, let the children in the Firehold grow up weak and naive to the horrors that await them above these tunnels. ”
My body sags, my hands fall off his shoulders. I give him a light pat and sigh deeply. “Fair enough, old friend. Just watch yourself, okay? You’re looking old.”
He snorts, smiling for the first time. It’s a lovely sight, even if it looks tired and forced. “You would do well to do the same, Sephania Lock. There’s trouble brewing in Nuhav. People aren’t happy.”
I turn toward the ladder, knowing I won’t get further into the Grimsons lair and feeling fine with it. I’ve said my piece. When he says “People aren’t happy,” I let out a snappy cackle. “When have people ever been happy on the Floorboards?”
His wry smile reminds me of the Ant of old. “Right. It’s different now, though. The rumblings are louder, not just relegated to the back-alleys and rumor dens. I’m sure you can see for yourself at any tavern you visit.”
I nod and start to climb. “Thank you for the warn—”
“Ah! A tavern!” Garroway interjects giddily. “A fine idea, Master Graybeard. I could use a drink.”
“Hoy,” Ant grumbles, “watch your tone, grayskin, or Master Graybeard will kick your—”
“You’re a dhampir,” I cut in, looking down the ladder at Garroway’s shiny head. “You don’t drink ale.”
He smiles sharply up at me. And damned if he doesn’t wink again in that dashing way that makes my blood run hot. “I didn’t say what I wanted to drink, lass.”