Chapter 31
Blowing out the lantern, Ilys watched the room fall dark. She laid awake, hyper aware of him on the other side of the room. The energy between them taut as a bowstring until morning broke.
When the light finally crept in, she found a blue dress draped over the chair. New and plain, but finely made. The innkeeper must have brought it at his request. She found she liked the color against her skin, so unused to seeing herself in anything but ceremonial charcoal.
He had not spoken of it nor looked at her as she dressed. A silent offering. A peace he did not know how to speak aloud. Ilys offered him a silent nod as she mounted Spire, not knowing how to voice thanks for a gift given so quietly.
“How much further until the entrance?” she asked, her voice low.
“We will not reach the Veilmarch for days,” he replied without looking at her, his eyes drawn instead to the glow ahead.
Music carried on the night air as they rode into the next town, the square alive with fiddles, clapping, and the smell of fire and ale. The space illuminated, lit by lanterns strung from corner to corner while garlands of greenery mixed with preserved blood-red dahlias hung from the roofs.
It reminded her of her first march, of the night she had met Owin. The night he had smiled like a savior before finding her out and taking her prisoner. Her first dance and her first true betrayal.
She felt Death’s eyes on her now, heavy and unblinking. Needy.
“How can they celebrate,” she asked, “when three towns away there is slaughter?”
He swung down from his mare in one fluid motion. “Right,” he said shortly, then turned back to her. “Get down.”
“There’s light still, we could make more distance—”
“No.” The single word snapped like a whip. He seized Spire’s reins. “We stop here.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulse quickening.
“Rewriting a memory.”
She stared at him, heat licking her skin at his gaze.
Then, she swung a leg over the saddle and let herself drop to the earth, wandering over through the warm bodies chattering, laughing, and singing.
Morbidly fascinated by the cool contrast to what she had witnessed other warm bodies commit just a day before, she inhaled every detail.
Children held hands in a lazy circle, turning the wheel of their form. High pitched giggles floated towards her and it pinched her tired heart. She missed Hanna.
Enthralled with the scene, she crept towards the table filled with clay cups frothing with amber liquid. She sniffed the drink suspiciously and, not finding it too unkind to her nose, lifted it to drink deeply. Wheat and honey slid down her throat, loosening her spirit.
The music shifted to a brighter, faster sound. A couple broke into the center of the circle, spinning and stamping in perfect time. Another pair followed, and another, until the space grew crowded with cheers and clapping.
Then the crowd parted. Ilys stood alone at the edge of the square, the only one not yet called to the center. A daring smile ghosted across her face as she stepped forward.
The fiddler caught sight of her and changed his tune to match her pace, quick, untamed. She began to turn, hesitant at first, then faster, her skirts snapping around her legs. The crowd whooped. Ilys clapped to the beat, spinning until the air burned in her chest.
When she caught sight of him at the edge of the light, she stopped, hair falling wild about her face, breath ragged.
Death watched her, still as stone. A laugh slipped from her, sharp and strange in her own ears.
She turned again, this time toward him, daring him to move, to stop her, to do anything but watch.
And he did watch—hungrily—as though she had been meant for this moment all along.
Before she could think better of it, a laughing woman grabbed Ilys’s hands and spun her into the circle. They whirled together, skirts and hair flying, the crowd clapping in time. The music quickened, wild and bright, pulling Ilys along until she perched breathless.
Then a man stepped forward, catching her by the waist and sweeping her off her feet.
For a dizzying instant she flew, suspended in the hot air of the square, before he set her back down with care, one of his hands firm on her waist and the other clasping her palm.
He guided her through the dance, prancing her from one end of the circle to the other, each turn sharp, each step sure.
The crowd whooped and stomped along, delighted by the spectacle.
Ilys giggled; an unguarded, surprised sound that startled her even as it left her mouth.
Death still watched, offering a small smile that softened the hard lines of his face until he looked almost lovely.
The music built, rising higher and higher until it ended in a screeching, triumphant note.
The man twirled her once more, then released her, bowing with exaggerated flourish before jogging off to join his friends.
Ilys stood in the center of the square, flushed and laughing, her chest heaving. And Death remained, still at the edge of the crowd, still watching her. The revel was her stage, and he her only audience.
Death cut through the revelers with long, unhurried strides, his gaze never leaving hers. When he reached her, he leaned close enough that she could feel the ghost of his breath.
“Come,” he said, low, meant for her alone. “You must feel starved.”
He took her wrist and steered her through the crowd.
The dancers parted easily for him, some still laughing, some still watching her as though they expected the dance to continue.
The square’s edge opened into a table spread with more clay cups of cider, steamed cacao, dark loaves, sugared pastries, and puddings glossy under the lantern light.
Ilys ignored the drinks, still too breathless to think of anything warm.
Her hand closed around one of the puddings, cool and heavy, and she scooped a bite past her lips.
The taste was a revelation. The sweet balanced with bitter in a soft-as-cream texture, while the grit of chocolate caught at her teeth.
A satisfied moan escaped her, unguarded and soft and she forgot herself.
When she glanced up, Death watched her with a look that warmed and unsettled her all at once.
“What?” she asked, her tone too sharp, defensive against the way her chest fluttered.
“Nothing.” His mouth curved, laggard and amused. “I can tell it suits you.”
He reached forward without asking, his thumb grazing her chin. When he drew back, a smear of chocolate glistened against the pad of his thumb. He didn’t wipe it away. Instead, holding her gaze, he brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean, leisurely savoring.
Heat flared up her throat, her pulse stumbling, reminded of their encounter in the bathhouse.
“Saving some for later?” His voice dropped lower now, almost mocking, as though daring her to answer.
Ilys could think of no banter. She dropped the spoon back into the empty cup and turned away, but not before she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, dark and satisfied, as though he had just won a game she hadn’t realized they were playing.
When she tore her eyes from Death, her gaze snagged on a scene near the edge of the revel.
A young woman, barely more than a girl, with dark braids coiled tight against her head and a garland of faded flowers slipping down one side.
Her dress once dyed a cheerful yellow, now molded to her form, muddied, spattered with dirt where she had been pushed against the pole.
Her cheeks were already flushed from dancing, but fear had turned the color sharp and blotchy.
The man who gripped her loomed broad through the shoulders, his belly pressing against the seams of a stained jerkin.
Blond hair clung to his scalp in greasy knots, his beard catching the lantern light like wire spun from filth.
He had her trapped with one hand fisted in her bodice, tugging at the laces hard enough to bruise.
She tried to twist away, still polite even in her refusal, murmuring words meant to soothe.
But when she shoved him and snapped, his response was a ringing slap that cracked across her face.
Ilys froze, pulse hammering. She looked around, expecting someone, anyone, to intervene. But the fiddles still shrieked, the dancers still laughed, and no one seemed to see. Or perhaps they had chosen not to. Perhaps the struggle of a woman would always be too quiet.
She shoved her empty pudding cup into Death’s hands and strode toward the pair, boots cutting sharp against the stones.
“Hey!” she shouted over the music, her voice slicing through the air. A few nearby revelers glanced her way, but no one moved.
“Hey!” she called again, louder this time, when the man still ignored her. He had the girl’s chin in a bruising grip, forcing her to look at him.
Ilys seized him by the hair and yanked him backward. He swore and spun on her, breath hot with drink, bloodshot eyes narrowing.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed, spit flying.
She squared her shoulders the way Baron had taught her and drove her fist into his face. His head snapped back, blood spraying from his crooked nose.
“Get the fuck off her,” she snarled, planting herself between him and the girl.
The girl scrambled back, wide-eyed, her hand pressed to her reddening cheek. She wavered for only a moment before bolting into the crowd, vanishing like a startled bird.
The man reeled, blinking against the blood and fury in front of him.
“Stay out of this, bitch.” His voice seeped out as a wet slur, his beard shining where it caught the lantern light. He lunged again, reaching past her.
“What, am I not to your liking?” Ilys purred, her voice a blade’s edge. And then she hit him again.
He stumbled this time, clutching his face, swearing.
“Leave her alone,” she hissed, “or have some fun with me instead.”
The man roared and came at her, this time swinging.
Ilys ducked, felt his fist graze her temple, and slammed her knee up into his gut.
He doubled over, wheezing, but lashed out blindly, catching her shoulder hard enough to spin her.
She snarled and tackled him, the two of them going down hard on the stone.
They rolled, clawing, kicking, grappling like feral dogs. His fist caught her cheek. Her elbow cracked against his ribs. Her braid came loose, hair tangling across her face. The crowd had gone deathly still around them, music forgotten. Then the glint of metal flashed between them.
Ilys felt the bite of the knife before she saw it. Hot pain lanced her shoulder, sharp and sudden, and for one stunned second she only stared.
“Fuck,” she spat, staggering back, one hand pressed to the wound. Blood seeped hot through her fingers, staining her palm.
The man grinned through the blood on his own face, smug and cruel. “Should’ve stayed out of it.”
Her vision went red. She drove her foot into his jaw, once, twice, again until his head cracked against the stones. He swore and tried to rise, dragging the knife with him. Death caught up before she could lunge again.
He dropped to one knee at her side, pressing a hand hard against the wound, his eyes blown wide with fear.
Then he stood.
The man had barely gotten to his knees when Death’s hand fisted in his collar, hauling him upright like he weighed nothing.
Death’s face looked carved from fury, the shadows around him seeming to deepen.
He slammed the man back against the post so hard the lantern shuddered above them, then drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack that shocked the square.
“Stay the fuck down,” Death growled, low and lethal. The man slumped, half-conscious, spitting blood into the dirt.
Death let him fall like discarded meat, then dropped back to Ilys, his hands already moving to staunch the bleeding. His voice came tight, urgent. “Hold still.”
Ilys hissed, clutching at his wrist to keep him there. “I had him.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t argue, just pressed harder against the wound, his body between her and the rest of the square, as though daring anyone else to try. Without a word, he swept her up into his arms.
She stiffened on instinct, but her body betrayed her, melting against him.
He carried her toward the horses, his grip steady, his breath even, but his eyes, his eyes were dark, clouded, and afraid.