20. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Archer
Back in my bedroom, I decided I was drunk enough to risk calling on the god of death again. Approaching my writing desk, I deposited my third—or was it fourth?—empty bottle on its surface and retrieved my dagger from its drawer. I sliced my palm open in one smooth, quick motion.
“Mortius, I call on you, seeking information. What have you discovered in exchange for my curse?”
Minutes passed as I watched the blood drip onto my plush carpet. The servants were going to curse me later; I’d already spilled wine somewhere by the entrance to my room.
Nothing.
I didn’t have the energy to be angry anymore, just empty and numb. Isoria’s healing efforts were blissful relief, better than any wine, but they were equally temporary. Already, I could feel the curse trying to fight off her power and overwhelm me once more.
Lifting my blade, I sliced across my palm again. Slurred my words as I called for the silent god. Cut across my forearm. My bicep. My leg.
Eventually, I blinked blearily at the stained carpet and my torn clothes. This was for naught, and I was drunk enough that I was concerned about accidentally cutting something important.
With a muffled groan, I tossed the bloody dagger on my nightstand and collapsed into bed.
A scream ripped me out of a dreamless sleep, quite rudely, some time in the afternoon.
The servant darted from the room before I could get a good look at who it was.
Sitting up, I rubbed at my bleary eyes and glanced at my bloody dagger, still lying on my nightstand, and then at my sliced clothes and the shallow, half-healed cuts they revealed.
Hardly a horrifying sight, but I supposed I might have appeared half-dead, lying clothed and on top of my bed sheets.
The red wine stain in my doorway and the bloodstain in the middle of my carpet weren’t exactly helping matters, either.
I snorted at the comedy of the situation as I stumbled out of bed.
Thankfully, the maid hadn’t dropped the tray of food she’d brought, as she’d left that in my adjoining dining room before, presumably, coming into my bedroom to tidy up or see if I needed anything else. I’d left my door wide open, after all.
Vaguely, I wondered if she was rushing for a healer or would warn someone else that I was dead or dying. Misgiving coiled in my gut. I didn’t particularly want anyone to know of my dealings with the god of death.
Head pounding, I stumbled toward my washroom to clean myself up.
I stripped out of my ruined clothes, dumping them in the hearth and starting a fire despite the building heat of the day.
Lastly, I scrambled into a new outfit, gulped down some water and coffee, and devoured a couple pastries before Birch, the royal healer, arrived.
“All fine,” I’d said with a careless grin, waving him away. “I was passed out after a little too much wine.” I winked. “No need to concern yourself.”
He’d rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he turned to leave.
I glanced at the clock, suddenly wanting to utter my own curse. Evening was fast approaching.
Time to prepare to dazzle the court tonight on a scant few hours’ sleep.