Chapter Twenty - Tour of the Veil
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tour of the Veil
HER MORNINGS CHANGED significantly after her first trip to the Veil.
It was no longer just her and Corvin at the breakfast table anymore.
The first morning after the events of The Veil she was surprised to find Dorian already at table, Corvin on one side and Sir Wulf beside him.
The latter gave her what could only be described as a wolfish grin as she tentatively sat opposite him, his green eyes sparkling with mirth.
Dorian had provided her with no further explanation as to why his knight could turn into giant wolf, despite her questioning.
He had merely grinned and said, “ask him.”
Like the other mornings she had expected Dorian to lift his plate and leave.
But he had offered her a polite ‘good morning’ and returned to reading his book.
She had smiled and pretended not to notice the small upturn at the corner of his mouth.
Something had shifted between them. It was like walking along a frozen lake and realising that the ice you thought would break had been solid enough all along.
There were still the cracks, the little lies she had kept from him, the secrets.
And Todric.
She was not safely across the lake yet, but her visit to The Veil had revealed a different side to the prince. A man who cared about his people, who sacrificed to keep them safe. Pushing thoughts of her cousin from her mind she turned her focus on Wulf, “so you’re a wolf.”
“It’s pronounced Wulf,” he replied, lifting one of his sausages and biting the end of it.
Rosamund narrowed his eyes at him, “you know what I mean. How?”
“Magic,” he whispered mysteriously.
She rolled her eyes, “you’re not going to tell me.”
“Correct,” said Wulf cheerily, he took another bite of the sausage, “but, if you agree to some lessons with me, I might tell you a few things.”
“Lessons?” she asked curiously, her eyes flicking to Dorian who had continued to look intently at his book.
He had yet to turn the page since she arrived.
“Fencing,” said Wulf as he brandished the remainder of his sausage, “swordplay, that sort of thing. Dorian said you might be interested?”
The prince raised his book higher to cover his face. She smiled and turned back to Wulf, “I would, though I’m very out of practice.”
“Oh don’t you worry Lady Rosamund,” said Wulf with a grin, “I’ll have you expertly handling a sword in no time.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her which resulted in a most unladylike laugh. The book snapped shut.
“Wulf.”
“Dorian?”
“Stop flirting with my betrothed.”
“Well, someone has too.”
Wulf winked at her as Rosamund broke out in a new round of laughter. Dorian rolled his eyes and before he could return to his book Rosamund had asked, “how’s your arm?”
He flexed his fingers, “better.”
She had marched him straight to Corvin when they had returned from The Veil.
The old Seneschal had taken another look at the wound but had declared that all it needed was a new bandage.
Rosamund had been pleased until Elira had burst into tears at her ruined coat.
That, and her despair at having been found out as ‘not Rosamund’ almost immediately by Rowan and Mrs Hawthorn.
“In fact,” said Dorian as he rose to his feet, “what would you say to continuing our tour?”
“Let the girl eat,” chastised Mrs Hawthorn.
But Rosamund was already on her feet, reaching for a pastry and wrapping it in a napkin, “I’ll grab my coat.”
The days following that they skipped breakfast in favour of grabbing the pastries directly from the bakery.
There had been one memorable morning where they had returned to Margot’s tea house, and she had been reintroduced to the owner and Hugo properly.
Rosamund apologised for the deception, but the white-haired woman had grinned slyly, “Och I kenned that the moment you came in.”
“I didn’t! You could have warned me Margot,” Hugo had exclaimed with beetroot red cheeks, as Meredith and Gnash ran about play fighting with their spoons, “and I was trying to get you a job! Oh my goddess.”
Together, they would walk through the city.
Dorian striding ahead as he provided her with a history of the buildings he was showing her.
Rosamund, pastry in one hand and an umbrella in the other, would trail along behind him, listening.
He would tell her about the architects that built it, the magic that had been woven into the stone and wood, the people that lived and worked there.
He remembered them all. The more he spoke the more animated his arms would become, pointing out the details of the stonework or reaching up to move some errant piece of foliage out of the way.
She liked seeing him like this. It was one of the few times she had seen the frown fall away from his face.
His brow would soften and his shoulders would pull back, as if some burden had been lifted from them.
It made him look even taller than he already was.
To her surprise, one of the first places he had shown her was the Quiet Baths, a series of naturally heated springs surrounded by dark granite.
The steam filled the vaulted chambers that contained them.
He explained to her how the various gemstones imbued into the stone kept the water clean.
Rosamund had tried not to look at the various members of the community walking by her completely naked.
He had told her that many of the residents used the pools after working in the mines, the waters easing their muscles and joints.
“Do you come here often then?” she had asked casually and kicked herself internally when she felt him tense beside her.
“No, I uh, I don’t,” he said looking away from her, “but you said how much pain you were in, after the fight,” Dorian had said, “somewhere like this might help?”
“It would,” she said gratefully, though as she looked around, she added, “although, maybe when it’s a bit quieter.”
He had snorted a laugh and whilst glad to see the frown disappear, she was disappointed she did not get to hear the giggle again.
The next day he had taken her to the Hearth Market.
The busy line of shops she had seen on that first day was nothing compared to the many winding alleys and streets.
They passed by stone masons, glass blowers, woodworkers, and weavers, stopping briefly to watch each one at work.
Everything looked like it was made to last, and nothing was left to waste.
The woodworker who made tools and furniture would use the final cuts of wood to create little wooden statuettes.
Dorian had seen her admiring one of the little wooden dogs and the next morning at breakfast she had found it on the table at her place.
Gnash had immediately claimed it as his own, but she had smiled gratefully at Dorian as he peered at her over his book.
Sometimes the wolfhounds would join them on their walks.
They would run from the gates they guarded for their treats from Dorian.
They had been wary of her at first, but Dorian had encouraged her to throw one of them a chunk of her own pastry and since then they had greeted her with licks and snuffles.
“What are their names?” she scratched one of them behind the ears and it stuck out it’s tongue.
“That’s Acher,” he pointed to the one she was petting, “Styx,” who was trying to snatch Dorian’s pastry away, “and Leth,” who was chasing his own tail.
“They’re so cute,” Acher dropped down to present his belly for rubs.
“They are vicious, highly trained guard dogs who would tear a man limb for limb for trespassing here,” said Dorian with a serious frown, but then broke into a smile as he threw Styx a treat, “but yes, they are also cute.”
Seeing how interested she had been in learning about the gemstones he had taken her to the Stonewrights Guild Hall to meet with his apprentices.
The large building felt too big for the handful of people that worked there.
The guild master, a stout freckled woman called Gemina explained that even with Dorian’s tutelage only a small number of people could even begin to learn inscription.
It required a latent talent in the person, though it did not always manifest immediately.
Dorian had taken the opportunity to give a demonstration on a new inscription he had been teaching one of them.
He gently corrected their work, explaining where they had gone wrong and praising them when they were successful.
The way Dorian spoke to them, she could see how proud he was of them, their work, their progress.
She could have spent hours listening to him, watching them inscribe the gemstones, testing them.
But Dorian pulled her out the door proclaiming there was more to see.
As they headed down the street to their next destination she pointed to a tall thin tower ahead of them, “what’s that?”
“The Watch.”
She followed him up the winding staircase that spiralled around the white tower which darkened the further up they went.
When they reached the top two guards nodded to them before returning to look out at the district below.
Rosamund stared in wonder as the dark buildings sprawled out ahead of her to the wall beyond.
The Veil was not as big as the other districts in Aurelmere, and to anyone looking down at it, they would think those dark roofs were dull and decrepit.
Though she knew from the ground that the reality was quite different.
“Another illusion,” she had whispered.
She had turned to see him smiling as he took it in. Leaning against one of the wooden posts that reached up to the thatched roof.
“It doesn’t always work,” he said quietly, “but it fools most of them.”
She turned her back on the view, sitting on the stone wall of the watchtower, “not the men we fought.”
“No,” he sighed.
“Do you know who sent them?”
He shook his head, “whoever it was used an intermediary, so, it could be any of them.”