Chapter 15 #3
“Jonras,” I said carefully as he stood, “what colonies does Antsan keep for its crafters?”
He touched his chin—Antsan fashion was the same as Canseren in that men shaved their beards. “I’ve never been to them myself. They’re across the channel, a grouping of islands. They ship them there by age twelve and they mostly govern themselves, so long as they fulfill the yearly tax.”
I nodded. “And what’s to keep them from leaving?”
“Navy, I suppose.”
Jonras thanked me again, then departed, leaving the infirmary empty save for myself and Physician Addsmuch, who made a joke about me giving him an early retirement and set to unpacking a small shipment of bandages.
I tried to imagine which land would be the best for a crafter like myself to grow up in—one where I’d be forced into an army, one where I’d be forced into a colony, or one where I’d lose half my heart to a prophesied king.
I intended to keep myself as busy as possible, so I swept out the infirmary and scrubbed the floor, pinching a rag into every crevice between stones until my hands began to chap and my back ached.
I was nearly finished when Sten again appeared, wordless when I greeted him.
He simply passed me a folded note small enough to fit into the palm of my hand—small enough to be discreet—and left.
The scab pulled the moment I recognized Renn’s handwriting.
Please come speak with me tonight. It’s important.
He didn’t sign his name, but he didn’t need to. I debated, but Renn possessed half my heart and claimed the rest of it. I feared I would always give in to him, even to my own detriment.
Yet tonight felt an eternity away, so I headed to the kitchens to help Beatty prepare for the evening meal.
I’d missed lunch. Instead, she assigned me to tomorrow morning’s bread, so I burned up my energy kneading lump after lump of dough until my wrists ached.
I soothed them with the craft and kneaded some more.
The kitchen was nearly out of water, so I hooked two buckets to a yoke and set off to collect more.
I might have missed the two of them had I not spied Jonras lingering near the outer wall of the bailey.
But spy him I did, and without thinking I scanned for his charge and found her sitting in the shade some twenty yards away on a little bench.
Renn knelt in front of her, talking easily with her.
I slowed my step long enough to see him reach forward and tuck a lock of her red hair behind her ear.
If he felt the sting that shot through my chest, he didn’t show it. Just as I ignored the wall-muted wave of redress punctuated by defensiveness that soon followed. Renn had his fingers in so many pies, how could I ever discern what he felt for what, or who?
I pushed away the hurt as I filled the buckets and found a thread of anger instead, painting it every color I could imagine. Anger at being trapped here, anger at Sesta, anger for Eden, anger for Rove, even anger at my conscription in the first place.
So strange, wondering where I might be now, had the queen’s letter never found me. I couldn’t bring myself to speculate.
It was well past sunset when I wound my way to the west tower, noting that Sten stayed some distance behind me, perhaps to not draw attention.
I kept my eye out for the Antsan delegation, changing my route once to avoid them, then climbed the stairs to Renn’s room.
I felt very much like a mule on a tether, exhausted and stubborn, yet unable to resist where the rope led.
Not wanting to draw attention with a knock, I simply slipped inside and closed the door softly behind me.
Candles and a lantern lit the space. But when I stepped around the little wall that bowed in to accommodate the stairwell, I realized I’d interrupted Renn dressing.
I think my surprise through the stifled link alerted him more than the door might have, and when he glanced over at me, my face warmed, even as I tried to grapple with the unseen bond between us, silently pleading to the embarrassment and lust lapping at the basalt wall to not give me away.
He wore soldier’s trousers over his breeches, both slung low on his hips, but he’d not yet put on his undershirt—it stretched between his forearms, moments from being donned.
Months of activity and good health had added meat to him, though his form was another sign that he was not blood related to King Grejor nor Prince Adrinn; his body was more svelte than theirs. Leaner. But certainly . . . appealing.
The part of my brain registering that sensuality had been in such disuse for so long, I hardly recognized it. As it churned like cogs in an old clock, I caught myself staring at him. Staring and unable to form the thought to not stare.
A smile tempted his mouth, but only sadness grazed the bond as he tugged on his shirt.
I was about to stammer out an apology when I noticed, at the last moment, the scar on his left side.
Only then did my senses order themselves, and I found myself across the room, beside him, lifting his shirt back up to examine it.
The spear wound he got three months ago. I touched it, and he flinched.
“Does it still hurt?” I asked.
“No.”
Only then did I sense his reciprocation through our bond.
Not of embarrassment, but desire. Swallowing, I pulled away.
Despite a few nights of sharing Renn’s bed, that was all we had done—share a bed.
Sleep. In truth, even before the arrival of the delegation, Renn had been surprisingly chaste with me, almost absurdly so.
I thought of his hand on Princess Azra’s back. Her hair in his fingers.
It made me mourn anew what we might have had. I withdrew from him, internally chastised. “Do you want me to heal it?” I managed to sound nonchalant.
He shook his head. “No. I . . .” He let out a nervous chuckle. “I want to keep it. A reminder, not to let my guard down. A reminder that . . .” He paused, seeking the right words. “That we all must sacrifice to save what we were, and what we are.”
The moment felt too tense, like the west tower’s foundation had split and its stones might crumble at any time. “That’s quite lovely.”
He looked at me like I’d just told him his favorite hound had died. “I’ve read a lot of poetry books.”
“I recall one about a . . . what was it? ‘Bullfrog of mine heart’?”
Humor glinted in his eyes at the memory.
Things had been so simple then, protected in the keep, his legs returned to him and his lungs mostly so.
He’d tried to entertain me by reading from a book of poems and a tome of biology at the same time.
It felt like years ago, now. Another lifetime. A dream.
He seemed unsure what to do with himself. Patted empty pockets, turned toward his washbasin. “Do you have everything you need, in your room? A basin, enough blankets?”
“I do.”
He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. That sore lurch—was that from me, or from him? With the wall . . . I couldn’t tell.
I cleared my throat. “You wanted to speak to me?”
He ran a hand down his face. “Gods, this is painfully formal.”
“I’m in your bedroom, Your Majesty. I’d hardly call it formal.”
“Don’t.” He pointed right at me, and that painful lurch thumped again. “Don’t call me that. Please, Nym. Don’t . . . call me that.”
My organs felt too heavy to keep up. I looked away.
“How have you been?” he asked.
I snorted. “Such a question to ask.”
“You’ve hidden from me,” he retorted softly. “Physically, and . . .” He touched his heart. Sighed. “I don’t blame you.”
“We can’t have this conversation again.” My tone was pleading.
“I know. I just . . . I . . .” He put his hands on his hips and tilted his face to the ceiling. “I don’t even know what to say to you without having that conversation again. It’s not a conversation that can just end, Nym.”
“I’m sorry.” I hugged myself.
“Don’t be.” He stepped closer to me. Held back. “I could always tell you anything. And now I can’t?” A whisper of a smile. “You certainly never had any issue with sharing exactly what was on your mind.”
The remark brought me up short. Like I’d been caught in a lie.
He noticed. “What is it?”
I started to shake my head, to dismiss it, but Renn was right—that had been me. Anything on my mind. There had only been truth between us from the start. It had been our foundation. And Ursa . . . I could almost hear her urging me to confess.
“Obviously . . . I’m not happy . . . with our situation.
” I pointedly didn’t meet his eyes. “But besides that, I’ve been .
. . lost.” The words came out quieter than I’d intended.
Like a prayer. I struggled to sort my thoughts and put them in some kind of logical order.
“The loneliness . . . I’m getting used to that.
” Renn opened his mouth to protest—I felt the defensiveness in his bond, the concern. I rushed, “Because of Ursa.”
It would all be easier were she here.
Worry marred his forehead. The wall I’d put around my heart merlon prevented most of it from echoing in my own chest.
“She’s always been there,” I admitted, hugging myself tighter. “Even after she died. And then she was just . . . gone.”
“Nym—”
“But I’m getting used to it. I am. And I’m so .
. . so grateful to be home.” Home as much as I could be.
Derren Castle was another new place, but however much torment it had brought me, it proffered safety.
“But then I’m . . . lost again. For so long I was a sister and a mother.
Then the castle healer. Then a prisoner.
” And a lover, I didn’t say. “And now I’m back, and I don’t know who I am anymore. ”
His glow flickered. “You’re still a healer.”
“I’m still a healer,” I agreed, “but it’s . . . not the same as it was. I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do with myself.” I turned toward him. “I’m not saying I wish you were sick again. I’m not saying that at all.”
“I know.”