Chapter 28 #2
“Morning.” He stretched, getting out of bed. Deep in the depths of the building, there weren’t indicators that it was morning except for the stale taste in my mouth.
He nudged his head toward a door where I quickly went to find a modest bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was nicer than expected. A small shower, a pedestal sink, toiletries, and a small stack of towels. Quickly washing up, I used the mint paste to remove the staleness.
Once I was done, he started for the bathroom but stopped mid-trek at the knock on the door.
“She needs to leave, Cirrian,” Sayier’s coarse voice provided. “I’m opening the door. Don’t make me retrieve her.”
He leveled a cruel glare at the door that felt like the precursor to words that would only make the situation worse.
“I’ll come back later today,” I rushed out. His eyes stayed on the door, but he nodded. His lips were pressed into a severe line and his wave had a finality to it that I didn’t like.
“How long is the stay?” I asked.
“Three days.” Whatever my face revealed, he tacked on, “My judgment is tomorrow.”
“That’s not three days!”
“It is.”
Did time pass differently in Umbryth? “The day we arrived, yesterday, and today.” I lifted a finger for each day.
“That’s not three full days.” As if a few hours would make a difference.
But it could put some distance from their anger with him breaking the rules, making them more amenable to leniency.
How could he sleep so soundly when the fate of his life would be determined tomorrow?
“What’s the best case?” I asked.
“A Quelling, which is like probation. An appointed time of magical restriction when I’m forbidden to leave Umbryth except for collections. So, I wouldn’t be able to see you.” He looked away. “That may the cruelest of the punishments,” he whispered softly.
As I moved toward him, Sayier gave in to her impatience, opening the door wider and tugging me out of it, letting the heavy door slam behind us.
Nudging me ahead of her, the sword at her waist, which she surely was well skilled at using, made me think twice about challenging her. Her determined steps echoed through the halls, and her stern look didn’t invite conversation, but we shared a common goal.
I stopped and turned to her. “Is there a way for me to speak with the Bavelon before judgment?”
I wasn’t sure how I’d missed the cues, or if there weren’t any, but her eruption of anger surprised a gasp out of me when she pushed me against the wall, her fingers grasped tightly around my neck, fury brightening her eyes and eclipsing her beautiful face.
“How do you not understand the seriousness of this? You don’t just speak to the Bavelon as if they’re your friends,” she spat out, her voice breaking with the heavy anger in it. Her brother was the one who needed this lecture, not me.
Despite my clawing at her hand, it was only when her nails broke my skin that she seemed to realize what she was doing. Releasing me with a thin apology, she turned away from me. I was privy to the full spectrum of emotions that ended in sorrow.
“You’re an ephemeral. Of course you have no idea what is going on,” she mumbled to herself. Ephemeral was taking on the weight of an insult. Her softened eyes and relaxed demeanor landed the word nescience.
“You’re upset. I understand that. But don’t ever touch me again,” I warned, massaging my neck. Her anger was misplaced, but it needed to be directed elsewhere.
“Why would he risk death for you?” she asked in a brittle voice. The plea begged for an explanation that would make sense. I didn’t have one to give. I hadn’t realized the severity of their punishments or that death was a possible penalty. Why would Cirrian kill Diehle and save Amelia?
“Is death guaranteed? What about a Quelling?”
“Quelling? Like the three other times he’s been given it,” she said. She strode away quickly as if she couldn’t bear to look at me. Following her up the winding stairs, I thought the lights seemed dimmer than before. The space was colder and more stifling in the magic-thickened air.
Keeping my distance, I followed her back to my lovely prison.
Pointing at my clothing, which was the same from the day before, she said,“Get changed, then we can talk.”
Nothing about her even, emotionless voice made me feel optimistic, but I chose to find some hope in it, anyway.
Pointing me toward a closet and dresser, she then left the room.
I found heavy tunics, close-fitting pants, a long-sleeve black wool dress, three shifts, and underwear.
Having chosen a simple tunic, I met her outside, where she was walking the length of the long hallway, passing closed doors.
There were no signs of life other than her booted steps across the floor.
Her piercing eyes met mine with appreciation for my clothing choice, as if I’d passed some test.
“Let’s talk.” She extended her hand.
I considered it for a long time before asking, “Where are we going?”
“Dining, for food.”
“I’d like to go outside of…” I had no idea what the structure was and didn’t want to offend her by calling it a luxury prison.
“Unofficially, it’s the Stay.”
“Officially?”
“Vangar,” she provided, her hand still out.
“I’d like to eat somewhere other than the Stay.”
Her mouth twisted at the suggestion, I assumed seeing it for what it was.
“I’ll still need your hand so we can travel outside of it.”
“Can we walk?” I asked. “Or fly?” I tacked on. It would give me an opportunity to see the lay of the land and possible routes for escape.
Sayier’s lips curved into an amused smile.
“Fly? I don’t have wings. Those are gifted to the Legion,” she said in answer to my raised brow.
“The protectors of the Laytherium,” she added.
From the hitch in her voice, there was animosity.
I couldn’t determine if it was because she didn’t get the job, or if the wings were something she believed they all should have.
From her attire, I gathered she had an official uniform, and since she was the one who sort of arrested her brother, I figured it was within that capacity.
“Walking it is.”
She nodded and led me through winding corridors until we reached a heavy door that opened to the outside world.
Gasping from the blast of cold air that felt like tiny needles against my face, I eyed the path ahead, which looked just as treacherous as it had from my window—a narrow trail snaking down the mountainside with sharp drops on one side.
“Watch your step,” Sayier warned as she navigated the path with practiced ease, humor dancing in her voice. I’d foolishly chosen this option. My boots slipped occasionally on loose rocks. Luckily, the light dusting of snow didn’t accompany any frost.
Wind whipped around us, tugging at my clothes and threatening to push me off balance.
“This”—I struggled to find the right words as I nearly lost my footing yet again—“was not the wisest choice.” Pride was a stupid hill to die on, especially one shaped like a mountain.
I wasn’t too proud to admit when I was wrong.
Fifteen minutes into our descent, my legs ached and my fingers were numb despite tucking them into my sleeves. I regretted not accepting Sayier’s magical transport. Pride would not come before my fall.
“Is it too late for the magical transport option?” My voice was thin and reedy.
She stopped. The smirk she turned on me was when I saw the familial resemblance.
It pricked at the defiance he adored and tried to evoke from me.
It wasn’t enough for me not to take her hand.
Secured against her, I felt heat radiating from her.
Magic spiraled around me with a delicacy and unique command.
Plunged into brief darkness, I next found myself next to Sayier in the middle of a street where the weather was warmer and the sun shone brighter over the area. A kind reprieve from the prison.
She took the lead as we passed homes with steeply pitched roofs and ornate woodwork reminiscent of Victorian architecture, and others with exposed timber frames and plastered walls like Tudor homes.
Smoke curled from stone chimneys, and warm light spilled from windows framed by intricate latticework.
Not the sameness of homes with strict HOA requirements.
These had personality, texture, and an old-world feel.
“Is this where the other shadow gods live?” I asked, catching up with her.
“Very few. This is where the lesser gods live,” she said. Though her face didn’t show any judgment or derision, it was apparent in her voice. “The shadow gods’ offspring prefer to be regarded as noble gods.”
I would think so. Lesser gods. Really?
“They’re the product of shadow gods mating,” she said.
“Often their magic is equivalent to that of ephemeral witches.” We walked on cobblestone streets lined with shops displaying goods behind glass windows.
People moved about their business, most dressed like me in simple tunics and pants, and dresses similar to the one I wore to visit Cirrian.