Chapter 19 | Sephania
Sephania
After an eventful evening having my insides punished by Skartovius Ashfen and then acting as the Lady of Manor Marquin for his court, and nearly watching Garroway get trapped in his own damned mind, I’m hoping tonight will not be so eventful.
When I wake up hours before twilight, however, I know that will not be the case. My mind whirls with anger as I sit up in the cushy four-poster bed.
I’ve slept in one of Lord Ashfen’s lavish guestrooms. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had such a comfortable sleep, and I’m hoping it’s signaling a new age—one where I’m no longer sleeping on a prison cell cot or the roughshod beds of the hideaway houses Skar owns across Olhav.
I can get used to this, I think as I glance at the puffy pillows and heavy mattress surrounding me like a fort made of clouds. “A queen deserves comfort,” Skar told me last night before seeing me to sleep. Maybe he’s right.
My sleep was dreamless, thankfully. I’m a bit perplexed why I’ve woken up in a fit. Frustration sits close to the surface, and when my stomach grumbles I wonder if hunger is not the source of all that ails me.
Dressed in little more then a lanky shift, I pad my way through the elegantly corridors of the manor, down the main stairs, and march toward the basement to the servants’ quarters.
I scoff at myself as my feet make light sounds on the crimson rugs and marble floors.
My eyes glance down at the shift hanging precariously on my body.
Not looking like much of a fighter these days, am I?
All this comfort Skar insists I deserve, it’s a far cry from the dingy cells of Sutlis Spire and the smelly leather garb of the Firehold.
The thought evokes shame inside me. I’m not meant to be a pampered princess. I’m no damsel, and I don’t wish to be treated like one. Try telling Lord Ashfen that, I think wryly as I push out the eastern door.
My eyes squint against the orange sky, a blazing ball of fire settling behind the mountain peaks in the distance. It takes me a moment to recognize the fireball as the fucking sun, and I’m appalled at how long it’s been since I’ve seen daylight.
In Sutlis Spire’s cells, everything remained dark, day after day.
The cells held no windows, I assumed because the Judgment Ward was used to having vampiric prisoners who would be fried by the daylight.
Even when meeting Chronicler Kleora to weave my tale, I was questioned at nighttime, with only a candle to light our verbal journey.
Truehearts weep, I miss that damned fireball, I think as I make my way to the first white tents I can find. A breeze wafts across my face, and a white-robed servant glances at my chest and pebbled nipples before meeting my eyes—showing no shame in doing so.
I clench my teeth. “Do you have any human food in there?”
He folds his hands together, frowning at me. Another servant walks up to him, and they speak to each other by connecting their hands and drawing figures on each other’s palms.
One of them nods, motions for me to leave, pointing toward the back of the manor.
Confused, I depart, with one of the mutes following me.
Once inside, he sets me in a small room with a wooden table, bench, and shelves.
The room is naturally chilled by cold stone walls, and I realize I’m in a freezer of some kind. Foodstuffs line the shelves.
I fight off the chill, sitting at the servant’s request, and wait. Ten minutes later, an acolyte walks in and sets down a steaming platter of eggs, meat, and crumbly cheese.
My mouth waters. Before I can look up to thank him—tearing my gaze reluctantly away from the platter—he’s gone. I dig into the food like a barbarian, wincing from the greasy hot meat burning my fingers. I don’t even know what type of animal I’m eating, but I couldn’t care less.
Yes, I think as I happily eat, hunched over like a goblin in the kitchen freezer of the manor, I could certainly get used to this.
The sun sets and the mansion comes alive with vampires greeting the moonlight. I find Garroway biting into a half-loaf of bread as he makes his way down the stairs. I’m dressed in my leathers now—cleanly washed and scrubbed—and he is too.
My brow threads as I tap the newel of the handrail running up the stairs, while Garro lazily makes his way down. “Bread, Garroway?”
“Hot off the fire, lass,” he says with a cheery smile. “I woke up feeling adventurous today.” He wags the bread in the air.
“Thank the True you’re not incapacitated from your beast-charming last night.”
“Quite so, little honey badger.” He reaches the bottom of the steps and joins me to walk through the manor. A draft swings in from the nearby windows, whistling to the high rafters and shaking a chandelier above us. “I was out for a fortnight, it felt. You’re saying it’s only been a single day?”
“Indeed.” I nudge my chin to the half-eaten bread in his hand. “I thought vampires drink blood for sustenance.”
He bobs his brows. “I’m a dhampir. I can do both.”
I’m surprised to hear that. “Wait, you can subsist on actual human food?”
His chuckle turns into a full-throated laugh. “Don’t sound so surprised, badger. How do you think I survived in Nuhav so long, living in the alleys? Did you imagine I just murdered a helpless child anytime I felt hungry and supped on their blood?”
“Well . . . yes.”
Garro snorts. “For shame, you think me such a monster.”
“You are!”
“True.” He shrugs, pouting. “Human food doesn’t nourish me as much as blood, I’ll admit. But I do so enjoy the taste. Have you tried this fucking bread, girl? The acolytes do it right in this dreary palace.”
He hands the bread over, a large crescent bitten into the end, and I smile at him before dipping my head to nibble at the crust. Around the mouthful, I murmur, “It is quite good, love.”
“Please don’t say ‘quite good.’ It reminds me of Skartovius. I don’t want to see my master when I gaze upon your beautiful face. Especially not first thing in the morning.”
I scoff, smirking. “It’s past twilight, Garro. Hardly morning.”
“Morning to a dhampir!”
We chuckle together as we make our way outside, not headed in any specific direction and not caring. My inexplicable anger has abated being in Garroway’s presence, which I’m grateful for. He has that effect on me.
“Speaking of the lord of the manor, where is he?”
His shoulders rise. “He left early. You didn’t see him on his way out?”
I pat my belly, pretending like it’s bloated. “Was busy stuffing my face also, in fact.”
“Good. It’s always a good idea to thicken you up.”
I throw my arms out wide, looking at them. The deep groove of the muscles I’d trained all my life to build have softened some, it can’t be denied. “I’m already thick. Too thick, probably.”
“Never thick enough,” he replies with a mischievous wink.
While I blush like a child, he leads me around the manor toward the stables. I’m letting him take the proverbial reins because I don’t want to make decisions tonight. At least not now. I’m fine following the dhampir’s footsteps for a while, listening to him jest about life as a half-blood.
“Master says he needed to shore up allies for the cause, in preparation for your illustrious meeting.”
“Illustrious meeting?” I scoff. “You mean the one that’s a farce, with Overlord Barnabac?”
He dips his chin severely. “Just so, my lady.”
We stop at the stables, watching the stalls where horses whinny and rustle. A half-blood stableman marches out of the barn toward us.
“So I guess we have the evening to ourselves,” I say.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t be too heartbroken over Master Skar’s absence.”
“Are you fooling, Garro? I can always use some time away from that possessive, overwhelming man. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“Only thing that keeps you off his cock, too. Distance.”
He laughs and I flush with warmth. I open my mouth to retort, but then the stableman is there and I bite my words off, annoyed but also tingly. He knows me too well.
Garroway speaks to the groom and the man wanders off to gather two horses from the stalls. He attaches the bridles, draws them out by the reins, and moves to strap them to the carriage cart off to the side of the barn. A minute later, the carriage is ready.
“Where are we off to this brisk evening, lass?” Garro asks. He steps onto the bench of the carriage and holds his hand out to help me up.
Looks like I have to make the decisions after all. I join him and sit back, letting him handle the reins of both horses. “Military Ward, cub. I’d like to see how the Chained Sisters’ newest member is doing.”
“They are treating me well,” Sister Cyprilis tells me as we meander through the garden and flat prairie near the Chained Sisters’ abode.
The dainty vampiress still looks frail, but there’s a new determination in her lackluster red eyes. She’s not been here long, yet I can tell her resilience and endurance for pain is high.
Despite looking like a girl barely into adulthood, Cyprilis understands the world far better than most. Likely better than me, after being forced to birth three whelps that she can no longer see for fear of killing them with her vampiric whims.
It’s a tragic situation to be in, and I’ll never stop feeling awful about it, as if it’s all somehow my fault.
Cyprilis reads my face as I walk alongside her, smiling coyly.
“Your mother is a taskmistress, but I think it’s for the best. Iron Sister Keffa is kind—surprisingly adept at handling vampires, though I am one of few in the sisterhood.
She provided me blood just this evening. I didn’t ask where she procured it.”
I let out a small laugh. “I’m glad to hear you’re getting along well with them, Cy. And the other Sisters? Do you find them agreeable?”
Her bony shoulders rise. “As agreeable as one can imagine. The younglings give me wary glances whenever I walk into the main room. They mostly have questions for me: What’s it like being a vampiress? Do I feel strong and mighty, or evil and wicked? Those sorts of things.”
Cyprilis wears the clean gray robes of her sect well. She’s bathed, too, no longer stinking of the streets. A lot has changed quickly—her uplifted mood and demeanor being the most obvious signs.
We stop at the trickling creek, and I glance over my shoulder to see Garroway keeping a respectful distance. He scans the surrounding hills and roads in the distance for any signs of trouble.
Like Vallan, who used to escort me when I’d talk to myself.
The roots of my fabricated friend, Jinneth.
I still miss Jin’s twanging voice in my head, and think of her near daily, especially when I walk the routes that colored my tall tale to Kleora.
How I wish she was real and not just the voice of a mad-touched, broken woman.
We stop at the creek and stare down at our reflections in the water. I’m unnerved when I blink and realize it’s only my reflection I see. My head snaps to my right, a gasp on my lips as I briefly wonder if I’ve gone truly mad and Cyprilis is a figment of my imagination in the same way Jinneth was.
“Everything quite all right, Sephania?”
I breathe out heavily. Right. Vampires and their reflections—or lack thereof. Skar told me once that a vampire could show their reflection if they had strong enough blood to force the image. It took control to do, and a vampire’s natural state showed no reflection in mirrored surfaces.
“They say it’s because of our tarnished souls, our evil, corrupted ways blinding us to reflections of light,” Skar had said at the time, scoffing.
“I think it’s horseshit, and I’m not afraid to admit we have no fucking idea why we don’t show in mirrors.
Perhaps if we had a Knowledge Ward in this damnable city still, we might learn why. ”
I had rolled my eyes, smiling at Skar’s outburst. He never shied away from criticizing his home of so many decades. And, even more, of chastising his own people.
“I’m fine,” I tell Cyprilis. “Just remembering.”
We fall quiet. The silence is companionable, and I listen to my slow heartbeat. I can hear no heartbeat coming from Cyprilis, of course.
“Say, Sephania, might I ask you something?”
I blink over at my friend. “Of course, Cy.”
She leans closer, glancing behind us at Garro twenty paces back, kicking a rock from boredom. Her face takes on a sudden fright. “I overheard some of the girls speaking about your, erm, power. I spoke to the Iron Sister. I was wondering if I might . . . taste it.”
I inhale sharply. “Drink my Loreblood? But—”
“Can you not guess, my friend?” Her eyes glitter, either looking dewy from the moonlight or from unshed tears. I think I know which.
“Your children,” I whisper.
She nods firmly, clasping her hands together like she’s in prayer. “If there’s any chance it might sever my bond to the bastard who turned me, and rejuvenate my humanity so I could see them again and not feel bloodlust . . .”
I put a hand on her thin shoulder as she trails off and averts her gaze, sniffling. “I understand, Cyprilis. I will do this for you.”
Her gaze shoots up, hope like a sunrise at dawn splayed across her face. “Truly?”
My nod is severe, deep. “But I’d like something in return.”
The knot returns between her brows. “Anything, just name it.”
“I want a detailed and complete list of the people who did this to you, Sister.”