Chapter Nineteen - The Reverie #2
“That’ll be the Willow Wart.”
“Willow Wart?!” his nose scrunching up in disgust before he quickly spat it out in the bucket, “that’s a weed!”
She didn’t bother to hide her chuckle as he spat again into the bucket, “it’s a very useful painkiller though. Found in almost every garden if you look hard enough.”
“It’s disgusting,” said Dorian huffily, and then after a pause grumbled, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she leaned back against the wall, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, and her own pain starting to return.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out more of the herbs, throwing it into her own mouth. The sour tang of the willow wart was quickly chased away by the fresh taste of mint. Dorian watched her, “were you hurt?”
“I haven’t moved like that in a long time. I’m running on Margot’s pomegranate tea right now and nothing else.”
“…and when was the last time you used your power like that?”
She snapped her head round to look at him to find a genuinely curious expression on his face. There had been some ridiculous part of her that had hoped he would not have noticed. That in the chaos of the fight he would not have seen. Like most things of late, she was not so lucky.
She cleared her throat and looked out towards the gardens, “I’m not sure I’ve ever used it like that before.”
Rosamund felt him shift on the bench beside her as he stretched out his long legs.
“So, you saw.”
“I did,” he said casually, “but then, I already knew.”
“You knew?”
He gave her a wry smile, “Suspected I suppose. I didn’t know for sure. But there are not many temples that have forget me nots suddenly popping up between the tiles.”
“You didn’t say anything!” she asked in disbelief, “you could have avoided all this. You could have told them I was a witch and be rid of me. Why keep it to yourself?”
A couple of times he opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.
An almost pained expression crossed his face, until eventually he sighed and said, “because I would have to marry eventually, and if I had too then it needed to be someone who was desperate to keep themselves safe too. And I knew if you ever did find this place, it would be useful information to have over you.”
That was it. Pure practical consideration. She was not sure what she had expected. Some compassion perhaps; some desire not to see her burned like that woman.
“Oh,” she said softly, not quite managing to hide the disappointment in her voice as she turned away from him again, “right. Of course. Blackmail. I keep your secret, you’ll keep mine?”
He shifted again on the bench beside her, “mutually assured destruction. If they ever found out what I did here, they would have every reason to send me to the tower.”
“Well they wouldn’t and won’t hear it from me,” said Rosamund firmly, “I’m not a spy.”
“No,” he said with a sigh, “I didn’t think you were. Or, if you were, you weren’t a very good one.”
A laugh burst forth from her, and she saw that the corner of his mouth had pulled up slightly.
“So everything I heard about you. Everything that they think about you. It isn’t true? You lie, you put on this mask, you keep Blackthorn Hall a ruin so that Osric and any other visitors can tell everyone how awful it is,” she said, “the decrepit mansion of the Prince of Death.”
“Yes,” he made a face, “sort of,” he turned to her, “my blessing from the goddess is the domain of death. You more than most know that.”
She nodded and remembered the chill that had travelled up her arm when their hands had touched. She also remembered that she had held it back, pushed against it.
“But you can do other things too,” she gestured to the glowing gemstones in the bucket, the unusual flush in his cheeks made her smile despite herself, “and you’re teaching others.”
His eyes widened again and he slumped a little down the wall, mumbling, “maybe.”
“It’s very impressive,” she conceded, allowing a little of her awe to enter her voice.
When she turned to glance at him, she saw a pleased smile on his face, “how did you learn to do that?”
He shrugged, “same way I can draw the life out of others, wither limbs, and call upon the shadows. I just…can. It’s instinct. Will. I will it and it’s done. Same as you.”
“But you’re teaching others,” she said quietly, “how?”
“Only the inscription. Once you know the right symbols then with practice you can channel a little of the power. I still need to make the gemstones,” he explained.
“Sounds exhausting,” she whispered.
“It is,” he said quietly, “but it helps. And as long as it does, I’ll keep doing it.”
He became lost in his thoughts again. Lost in whatever misery was encroaching on him, whatever dark thought had followed him.
What he did was impressive, and she could see how the responsibility of it weighed on him.
Not just the gemstones. The Veil. Keeping it a secret, keeping it alive.
Living and enduring the lies that were spread about him and his region.
The regions, she thought with widening eyes, If this is the veil, what was the Umbral like?