CHAPTER 22 #2
I collected my fleece-lined coat, twisted my hair into a quick four-stranded plait, and met Wep back in the main hallway.
He’d tied his hair in its usual knot and donned a leather overcoat that was nothing short of a work of art on him.
It was open at the front, braided strips running down the collar and sleeves.
The layered panels of leather doubled as flexible armor, and the sleeves cut off at the elbow, allowing room for his matching bracers, keeping his range of motion free.
They had to be a set, and with that level of craftsmanship and how perfectly it fit him, every piece must have been custom-made for his body.
He turned to me while hanging a pouch and dagger to the belt at his waist, his longsword already strapped to his back. Either I’d been in the Riht too long, or this look was far too good on him.
I swallowed hard. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
We walked side-by-side in silence through the streets, but my mind was anything but quiet. Everyone we passed nodded to Marr Wep, and not a single person scowled or jeered at me. A few even offered smiles just for being in his company, which I tried my best to return.
“Figures,” I muttered as we rounded a corner down an empty side path. After months here, the most I’d managed were a few trips to the market where I was generally ignored. Turned out, all I needed was to stand at Wep’s side. Yet, it was the one thing I couldn’t do.
Wep’s head turned to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him frown, but he didn’t comment.
“We control our own fates, Small One.”
I ignored her.
The shop we entered was down a street I already knew well.
It was close enough to the stall where I’d been trading Rihtish books back and forth that it was a wonder I’d never noticed it before.
Crossing the threshold, that giddy, childish anticipation hit me.
I might have been eight again, waiting on Midwinter Eve to open my holiday chest. Bookshelves lined the walls, and standing shelves created aisles across the room.
Each one was filled with stacks and rows of books.
Rolls of paper, binding cords, ink, and feather-tipped quills—made from metal, wood, and glass—covered the tables capping each row.
At the back was a counter, and I could just make out an array of gold and silver stamps beside blocks of colored wax.
Wep walked straight down an aisle to a specific bookshelf, selected a thin ledger with black binding, then looked at me.
I needed no further prompting. That row held three shelving units, each six shelves high, displaying journals and ledgers in different colors, sizes, patterns, and thicknesses.
There were some with lines inside, some blank, and some with special decorations.
I would have liked to pry open every cover and pore over my options for hours, but huffs from Wep directed me otherwise.
In the end, I settled on a green cloth-bound journal stamped with a metallic rendering of Vaya’la on the front.
It was significantly thicker than the ledger Wep had selected, but he said nothing as I handed over the book and allowed him to pay the shopkeep, a kindly man who offered up five different additions—all shot down by Wep—before he gave up.
The entire time, his eyes twinkled and darted to me, likely knowing his true customer.
I vowed to return here on my own with a full pouch of scale and plenty of free time.
On the way back, my nose brought me to a stand of those same sweet and salty buns Teke had introduced me to.
“Can we stop?” I blurted out.
Wep glanced at the cart but kept moving. “There’s plenty of food in our kitchens.”
Just the smell of them had me hanging back, but when I saw they were sliced in half and drizzled with hot sauce, a desperate whine escaped my throat.
He studied my face, and whatever he saw was pathetic enough that he relented and circled back. He ordered one and passed me half.
I sank my teeth in immediately, relishing my luck. This time, with him at my side, I was guaranteed to enjoy the entire thing without the threat of a blow to my head.
Wep ate his half far too quickly, then ogled me.
I couldn’t blame him. My taste buds were having a heyday with the complexity dancing over my tongue.
The sweet, the salty, the spicy, the richness, the fluffiness—it was all too much.
I may have moaned more than once, earning a raised eyebrow from him and scandalized looks from passersby.
“It’sh ’eally goo’,” I managed through a stuffed mouth.
He shook his head, but his eyes never left me. Not even as he ordered another bun and wordlessly passed me half. Clearly, I was putting on a show, but I couldn’t be bothered to care as I took bite after bite of incredibleness.
“We could’ve stopped earlier if you were hungry,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t.” I was partway through my second half and already eyeing the third in his outstretched hand. I didn’t exactly cut a convincing figure. I swallowed a huge bite and licked the salt from my lips. “These are just so fucking good.”
That earned me both raised eyebrows.
The walk back, with my journal in one hand and the lingering taste of bun on my tongue, was far more pleasant. It had the added benefit of Wep’s silence, which was uniquely bereft of his usual raincloud.
Back in the training room, testing began. We started with weapons, obviously.
“Do we have to?” I asked, holding up a throwing dagger dubiously.
“You could end this now by telling him the truth.”
“I thought you said it was not yet time.”
“Open your eyes, Small One. Do you trust him or not? You know the answer.”
My lips pressed together. I hated it when she was right.
“I’m always right.”
“No,” Wep replied. “If you’ve got something else in mind, we should start there.”
Despite Vaya’la’s goading, part of me did want to tell him, but unease stilled my tongue. I shook my head.
“Fine. Weapons are the easiest thing for me to gauge any change.”
“So, not because you prize weapon skills above all else?”
His eyes narrowed and darkened. “You have no idea what I prize and what I don’t.”
“I don’t know about that. I’d say I have a pretty good—”
“Stop stalling and throw.”
I scowled, took the rest of the throwing daggers from his outstretched hand, and aimed at the target.
Then, I spent half a second imagining Wep’s face instead of the wooden dummy’s.
I threw and missed wildly. This was nothing like archery.
He made a note in his ledger. We repeated this with hatchets, throwing axes, which were somehow different, and balls—literally apple-sized spheres made of some ridiculously heavy wood. The results didn’t vary.
“Maybe your vision hasn’t changed,” he muttered after making more notes with a frown.
“What’s that? Something to say?”
He glared at me. “I said, your aim fucking sucks,” he retorted, louder than he needed to.
“It’s harder than it looks.”
He dropped his ledger, plucked all four balls from my hand, and chucked them in tandem, two with his left arm and two with his right, at the target. Every one hit its mark.
I scowled. “It’s not like I have your muscles.”
Wep exploded with laughter, catching me off guard. He dropped his ledger again, which he had just picked up after his unnecessary display of show-offery, and doubled over, laughing to the point of wheezing.
“Stop,” I commanded.
Wiping his eyes and collecting his ledger, he choked out, “We use these for children.”
I wished my looks could kill.
“Small children.”
At the end of this first day, all we had established was: Wep was a fucking prick, I was not at all stronger than before, and I had no sense of aim or coordination with anything other than a bow.
I, on the other hand, had concrete proof that my taste had heightened—the sight and smell I already knew.
I suspected touch as well, but I wouldn’t be running any tests on that for a long, long time.
Hearing was a big question mark, but I was drawing a blank for how to approach that one.
“You don’t need to test what I have already told you. You now share my senses, which are all superior to human ones.”
“You telling me something is different than me knowing and understanding it,” I reminded her. We’d been having this conversation in pieces all day, as she reminded me repeatedly of the time I was wasting in this charade with the weaponmaster.
Aside from the general senses, I had also spent a decent part of my time in the market seeing if I could sense the earth through my boots to make the connection.
I hadn’t made much progress there yet, and Vaya’la unhelpfully assured me it might take years of practice, but I was determined to see that change.
What good was having all this power if I had to stop and take off my boots to use it?
That evening, after a delightfully Wep-free meal with Callagh in the Main Hall, I sat at my table and documented the progress of my powers in my new journal.
When I was done, I glanced around my room, wondering if I needed to hide this journal as well.
Scraps of Rihtish writing practice littered my desk.
A bit of white beneath the desk caught my eye, its red seal identifying it as Merria’s ten-question letter.
I snatched it up and returned to my seat at the table.
“Do I answer it?” I asked Vaya’la. I had been asking myself the question for days and had not yet come to a conclusion.
Answering it, even without divulging any information, felt like a betrayal of Vaya’la—and those I cared about in the Riht.
Not answering, though, would confirm what I feared my father already suspected.
It could spark him to come for me and might even prompt a war.
“Let them come,” Vaya’la hissed. “When my body wakes, I will eat them all.”
“A lovely sentiment, but let me remind you that the last time you woke in the Mortal Realm was centuries ago.”