Chapter 47
Durvla
I gape at myself in the mirror. I’m out of my depth in an ankle-length, midnight blue dress with translucent long sleeves.
An impressively forged something that I can only describe as a literal breastplate encases my upper torso, stopping just above my soft midriff.
My waist is cinched with a thick leather belt that rests against my hips.
The light material of the dress and the accessories accentuate the curves that I’ve always been determined to hide.
For the hundredth time, I tug closed the slit that comes up to the middle of my thigh.
Chiyoko grins and fiddles with the thin silver chains interwoven in the braids that Alys helped put into my hair. The intricacy of it has me questioning Chiyoko’s lack of magic.
I can only stare at my reflection in the mirror, at my kohl-lined eyes, subtle compared to Chiyoko’s generous application to her own. Her makeup gives her a fierce appearance … even as she steps back and applauds with the overenthusiasm of a toddler.
“What a work of art!” she exclaims. “And you look stunning! Like a …” She hesitates, deep in thought. “Warrior … ?” She fingerspells the word she doesn’t know: queen.
I laugh lightly and supply the sign.
Chiyoko repeats the sign, laughing as well. “You look like a warrior queen.” Her eyes twinkle. “Alright, one last thing.” She grabs another belt from her table of supplies and kneels.
“What are you—?” My words are cut off by a yelp that escapes me as she binds the belt tightly around my thigh.
Chiyoko glances up at me with a smirk. “You’ve lived for a decade with debilitating headaches, and you can’t handle a dagger sheath on your thigh?”
Her words startle laughter from me. So bold, but so true. Until I realize what she’s actually said. “Did you say a dagger sheath?”
Chiyoko stands and produces a dagger out of nowhere.
She holds it by the tip and flips it, catching it by the pommel, and I flinch.
“Relax,” she says. It won’t hurt you. It’s not like you have to use it.
” She slides it into the sheath now buckled to my thigh, and I once again tug the slit of the delicate dress closed.
“Oy, don’t hide my handywork,” Chiyoko scolds.
I pout at her, and she steps back, admiring me like I’m her masterpiece.
She’s dressed in skin-tight leather from head to toe, with a wildly elaborate breastplate that’s certainly more artistic than it is protective.
There are metal bracers on her forearms, and tall boots that stop just below her knees.
She is every bit formidable. Her blue and brown hair is pulled back into a short ponytail and secured with a silver circle hairpin in the shape of a raven’s wings.
“You look like someone I wouldn’t mess with,” I say, and she grins.
“Good. Let’s get out there, then.” She grabs the small metal statue she’d been working on last night: a little highland cow with a painted crown of flowers across its head. It would make a lovely toy for a child, if the horns weren’t pointed.
Everyone else already left a while ago, but Chiyoko was determined to complete my ensemble before we headed out.
When we arrived last night, there was hardly anyone around.
Now, the streets are filled with villagers of all ages dressed in colorful costumes or warrior gear.
Children run by with play swords and hobby horses, one running into me.
The small girl stops and tips her face up to me with large brown eyes that remind me of Taig’s.
“You look pretty!” she exclaims, shoving curly blond hair out of her face.
I manage a smile, swallowing. “Thank you. So do you.”
She twirls in her leather skirt and armor until a little boy taps her on the shoulder, then they run off to join the others.
Chiyoko nudges me with her shoulder. “You alright?” she asks.
I lift my hands for a moment, nearly forgetting that we’re in public again. No more signing. I smile and nod.
The village has been transformed, decorated with metal statues that glimmer in the afternoon sunlight, coats of armor, and humanoid figures made of hay.
Osheen appears, dressed in leathers with a bow and quiver. I’m reminded of his hunting skills, which far surpass mine and always will. His eyes widen as he takes in my ensemble. “Wow,” he says.
“You can say that again,” Chiyoko agrees.
“It suits you.” The smile returns to his face.
I glance back and forth between the two until Osheen’s last comment brings me pause. I raise a brow at him. The outfit is edgy, fearsome, and sensual—everything I’m not. My mouth remains shut.
The festival is vivacious and filled with more activities than I could even handle.
We spectate a few terrifying swordfights.
Plenty of blood is drawn but no lives are taken, thank Rhianu.
It’s all in good fun. Chiyoko wins an art competition with her highland cow statue and flaunts her ribbon to everyone that comes close.
Chiyoko introduces Osheen and I to an array of foods typical of Dubh Carrig. Osheen gorges himself on roasted pork, white pudding, and a spicy potato stew that is the most delicious stew to have ever graced my tongue. I want to smuggle a pot of it into my pack.
Alys and Haruka join us, bringing along pieces of delicious currant cakes wrapped in cloth for us to munch on. The spices explode on my tongue, and I hum in pleasure. It beats Eefa’s lemon cake by a landslide.
By the time the sun begins to sink below the mountains, my belly is full, my soul refreshed.
A massive bonfire is lit in the center of the village, smoke billowing into the darkening sky, energetic embers jumping off the main inferno.
A ghost of anxiety settles into the pit of my stomach. It’s almost time for us to leave.
And I still haven’t seen Kilkenny.
His absence leaves me surprisingly unsettled. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to his broody presence nearby in the past few weeks.
Chiyoko links her arm with mine and tugs me toward the bonfire.
With each step, the bass of the drums booms heavier in my chest, the rhythm lively and captivating.
The dancers cast wavery shadows as they move about.
There’s drinking, clapping, and stomping.
A far livelier occasion than even the Feast at Paramount.
As the music continues to resound in my chest, I can’t help but bob my head in time with the rhythm as adults and children alike dance around the roaring flames.
Despite the merriment, an ache is building in my head. It’s been a long day, and my feet are getting sore, so I find a seat on a thick log. Osheen sits beside me as Chiyoko runs off, disappearing into the crowd.
With a smile, Osheen bumps his shoulder lightly against mine and says, “Are we alright, you and I?”
Returning his smile, I nod. “We’re alright. We just have some reacquainting to do.”
“I can work with that.”
Chiyoko reappears, shoving a cool mug of ale into my hand before yanking Osheen off the log.
He resists, but she’s deceptively strong and yanks him up and toward the crowd of dancers.
Osheen cranes his neck to look back at me, a desperate plea for help written all over his face.
With a grin, I wave innocently and quickly sign one-handed, “Have fun.”
He points to me, making a playful threat, but I only shrug and sip the ale.
Chiyoko exudes exhilarating energy as she does a jig around Osheen, one hand on her hip, the other in the air.
Her legs move with impressive speed in tempo, up and down, back and forth.
She jumps and twirls and sways her hips, her movements as free and assured as the bright smile on her face.
All the while, Osheen stands there, straighter than an iron rod, clearly not knowing what to do with himself.
His face turns progressively redder in the firelight, matching his hair, as Chiyoko grabs his hands and swings them around in an attempt to get him to move. I can’t stop the laughter that swells in my chest and slips past my lips. The sight is so absolutely chaotic and so wonderful.
The heat of the flames, the crowd gathered, the music thumping in my chest …
Like a rock, Taig drops into my thoughts.
His sweet face leaves me almost breathless.
I’ve had so much fun today and I have no idea how Taig is managing.
I pray that he’s safe and sound, that the rebels who rescued him made it to the Verge.
That they know how to take care of him and how to handle him. My chest constricts.
It is so wrong to be in this merry setting without him by my side.
I’d love to see the awe on his little face.
But now … Is he scared? Confused? Does he miss me?
Does he even remember me? The heaviness in my chest grows and I rub my hand against my collarbone.
I need to put some distance between me and this scene.
I set my mug of ale down and massage my throbbing temples.
As soon as I get to my feet, I run into one of the hundreds of people clad in black.
The man grabs my arms to steady me, and once I right myself, I take in the leather armor, the series of laces and belts strapped across his torso and hips, and the sword hilts peeking over each of his shoulders.
Kilkenny.
The top half of his hair is pulled back into a bun, and he’s shaved the beard that grew over the past week, taking about ten years off his age despite his silver streaks. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face.
“Always crashing into me,” Kilkenny says once he lets go of me. There’s a faint spark of amusement in his eyes, though something changes as he takes in every detail of my attire. His focus lingers on the dagger strapped to my thigh.
The tips of my ears burn. I pinch the slit of the dress, and his face lifts to mine.
“That dagger isn’t going to do,” he says.
A surprised laugh breaks away from me. “Killjoy …”