Darkwind, p.24
Darkwind, page 24
Determination blazed through Cistine. Like Maleck, with his deadly eyes and the sensitive spirit beneath, and like Tatiana, with her fierce love of weaponry and clothing and her honest heart behind it all, there was more than just the brutal outer shell of Valgard to behold. Cistine would find a way to understand its true spirit and ally herself to that, not only to its vicious might.
And she would find that spirit through this cabal.
The Den was quiet when they returned. Maleck bade them goodnight just over the threshold. “I hope my intrusion was not to the detriment of your evening.”
“We’ve had worse,” Ashe said.
Maleck nodded. “You’re walking quite well.”
Cistine watched him disappear down the corridor to his room. A faint tug pulled at her heart and her feet, as if she should go after him.
Come. That whisper again. That call. Come and see.
Instead, Cistine let Ashe tow her into the broad, curved hall where her room and Julian’s lay open. They lingered outside Ashe’s chamber, and Ashe kissed Cistine’s cheeks before she embraced her. “I had a lovely time tonight. It was good to have you all to myself, if only for a few hours.”
“Even with uppity shopkeepers involved?”
“Especially then.” Ashe smiled mischievously when they drew apart. “Long before you were born, I met people like that every day in my parents’ store. They thought there must be something wrong with me because I preferred battle over baking. A sweet girl from a good family who dreamed of joining the King’s Cadre? It was unheard of.”
Cistine cocked her head. “Did you ever consider giving up because of that?”
Ashe snorted. “You know how I am, Cistine. They only encouraged me to prove I was good at what I’d chosen to be.”
“And now you guard the King’s daughter. I’d say it’s been proven.”
“That, or the gods are punishing me.” Ashe mussed her hair. “Sleep well.”
Smiling, Cistine waved goodnight and went into the kitchen—and found Thorne slumped over against the table, his head buried on his folded arms. He snored softly, his back rising and falling in steady breaths. He didn’t rouse even when Cistine tiptoed past him into her room.
It was already occupied: Julian sulking in the chair and Quill lying on the bed, reading one of her Talheimic books. They both snapped to attention as she entered, frowned when she snatched a blanket from her bed, and mercifully didn’t follow her back to the kitchen.
Cistine fluffed out the blanket and spread it over Thorne’s shoulders, careful not to touch him. He didn’t rouse except to sink his head deeper into his arms with a quiet sigh.
“I suppose I won’t tell Baba Kallah after all,” Cistine whispered.
He didn’t stir at that, either.
Grinning, Cistine padded back into her room to meet Quill’s crooked grin and Julian’s smile of relief, which only spread when Cistine took his hand and perched on his knees.
“Don’t you both have your own rooms?” she whispered.
Quill switched his long hair from one side of his head to the other. “I’m supposed to give you instructions on how to manage a patrol. Ariadne will be back in an hour, and then Hellidom is yours to protect until sunrise.”
“Apparently, we’re being punished for something,” Julian growled.
Cistine grinned at Quill. “Just tell us what to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE WEEK PASSED in a blur, each day almost the same as the last. Cistine trained with Quill, navigated Valgardan language and customs with Tatiana, practiced proper grip, toting, and slow strokes of weapons with Maleck, and continued to clean the Den under Ariadne’s watchful eye. But she also took up poison studies with Ashe and patrols with Julian—a short, uneventful duty that rapidly became her favorite pastime.
It wasn’t for the endless walking, and not even for the beauty of Hellidom—which was undeniable as she traveled its outskirts, crushing ghostplants beneath her boots to light the way—but because these were the moments she had Julian all to herself, with very little distraction.
Under the bright moonlight, they walked with hands clasped, discussing Talheim, and particularly Astoria. He told her about life in the estate of Practica and how dull it had been in the country before he’d begun formal Warden training, with only a handful of small taverns to amuse himself in when he wasn’t killing pheasants with a sling.
“That must’ve been terrible for you,” Cistine said one night when they paused to drink water and rest on a small pile of stones among the trees bordering the Nior.
She leaned her head against Julian’s shoulder, and felt him shrug. “No worse than it was for you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, a princess who loves to read, relegated to boring necessities of rulership,” Julian said. “I respect your father with all my heart, but I think he should’ve respected your wishes more and not forced you into meetings and parties you had no use for.”
“I suppose…”
“I used to watch you when we came back to visit,” Julian chuckled, “when you were forced to take your seat next to your mother in the throne room. You always had a book hidden in the folds of your dress.”
Cistine flushed with embarrassment. “I once read an entire story in there, sneaking glances when my parents weren’t looking.”
Julian brushed the hair behind Cistine’s ear. “So clever. And attractive.”
Cistine didn’t think she’d ever felt so content as when they walked back to the Den that night, fingers linked. But after they’d said goodnight, and she lay in bed, trying desperately to sleep—knowing dawn would come too soon—she was suddenly restless. Memories climbed into the bed with her, crowding her awake.
It was true she’d despised those royal meetings and couldn’t wait to leave them. She’d groaned dramatically to Ashe whenever King Cyril summoned them both to the throne room. But the fragments she’d taken to heart—pieces of intelligence and council she hadn’t blocked out by chasing the glimmers of dust with her gaze through the shafts of sunlight, or sneaking paragraphs from books—had followed her here. That wisdom had allowed her to speak with Thorne as a ruler, had helped her decide when to listen, when to stay, and when to walk away.
She owed her survival in Valgard thus far to her parents as much as herself. Their unwillingness to let her retreat into her own head—their insistence that she must know something of rulership, whether she wanted to or not—had helped her navigate in the treacherous landscape of Thorne’s prickly secrecy and the Northern Kingdom’s mysterious customs. Perhaps they hadn’t taught her enough about Valgard to make this simple; but what she did know about being royal had kept her alive.
Cistine didn’t sleep at all that night. She lay awake, missing her parents so desperately her belly ached. And her melancholy only increased at dawn, when she dragged herself out of bed and trudged all the way to the rock top only to find it empty.
“Wonderful.” She perched her hands on her hips and scowled at the absence of her mentor. “The first time Quill is ever late…why today?”
She waited several minutes for him to arrive, and when he didn’t, she started her exercises alone. Let him take his time reaching the rock top and see her already working. Maybe he would think twice about keeping her waiting in the future if he saw she didn’t need him.
That determination carried her for half an hour in solitude before a shadow fell across the stone, and in the middle of a push-up, a small weight settled into the middle of her back. Faer cawed against her ear, ruffling his feathers as Cistine sank down on her belly, fighting to catch her breath.
“Now he’s sending messenger birds?” Cistine slung out her arm, and Faer hopped down to the hinge of her wrist so she could pluck the roll of parchment from the band on his leg. Rolling onto her back, she cocked her knees up to rest her aching abdomen, and held the strip above her head so she could read it. Faer fluttered onto her knee and preened.
I hope you’re not at the rock top already, Quill had written. With Tati now. Today’s the day.
Cistine’s stomach dropped. She sat up so rapidly, she dislodged Faer. The raven circled the stone, squawking indignantly, as Cistine read the note again.
They were leaving for Villmark.
Cistine had never run so fast in her life—not even during training. She sprinted back to the Den with Faer banking overhead, keeping pace, and arrived at the veranda just behind Ashe and Maleck, who were arguing as they mounted the steps. Maleck’s breed of argument mostly involved a series of long-suffering headshakes. Ashe was fuming, hands clenched and nostrils flaring. They both stopped as Cistine jogged up to join them, and raised their eyebrows in silent question.
Cistine slapped a hand to her sweaty forehead. “The smithy! I forgot we were supposed to go back today!”
“We just came from there, actually. Now, it’s time to prove once and for all that I was right.” Ashe snatched Nail from Cistine’s sheath—ignoring her protests—and thrust it into Maleck’s hands. “There! Feel it. Tell me they’re not the same weight.”
Maleck sighed, freeing the birch-handled dagger from its scabbard on his thigh. He held the weapons out before him, one in each hand, then blinked in surprise. “You’re right. They are identical.”
Ashe smirked. “I told you so. I know my weapons.” She studied Cistine as Maleck returned Nail to her. “You look ragged.”
“I just ran here,” Cistine said, “all the way from the rock top. Quill says you’re leaving today, Maleck?”
He nodded. “In one hour.”
Cistine sheathed Nail in choked silence and hurried inside, letting Ashe and Maleck trail her slowly over the threshold. She went straight to Tatiana’s room, and found Quill and Tatiana were still there: Quill lying on a sofa, Tatiana cramming things into a bag. They were dressed in their armor—real battle armor, not the training threads Cistine had grown used to—prepared to face trouble the moment they set foot outside Hellidom.
Tatiana whirled to face her as she knocked, and a charming smile erased the crease that had stamped her brows a moment before. “Look at you! I knew Faer would find you on the rock top. Pay up, Featherbrain.”
Quill rolled his eyes, fished a mynt from his pocket, and flipped it to her. “My mistake, Cistine. I thought I warned you yesterday.”
“You probably did. I don’t remember much of anything before patrol with Julian last night.”
Tatiana burst out laughing. Quill arched a brow. “That scintillating, was it?”
“Oh, stop it! He just brought up things I hadn’t thought about before.” Cistine joined Tatiana beside the bed and peered into the bag, full of weapons, clothes, and several small glass bottles. They reminded Cistine of novelty-shop items branded with promises to increase one’s luck or allure. One was red, one bright lavender, the third deep aquamarine.
There was something strange about them, almost familiar; enticing, like the appeal of exotic spices—a sizzling brine on the back of Cistine’s tongue. She dipped her hand into the bag, reaching for the red jar, certain for a moment it was shaking, vibrating somehow, under a strange duress that called out to her.
Tatiana slapped her wrist, and Cistine yanked her hand violently from the satchel. Tatiana pulled the drawstring shut. “Did you come to steal my things, or to see us off?”
Cistine shook her head to clear it. “I wanted to see if you needed any help packing.”
“Clearly, I have that under control.”
“And how’s your shoulder?”
Quill turned his head toward them sharply, his keen eyes missing nothing.
“Stings,” Tatiana said. “Nothing I can’t live with. Your Warden’s poultice pack worked wonders. Besides, I can fight with my right hand better than my left. They didn’t strike fast enough to cripple me.”
“Lucky for them,” Quill growled, “otherwise this would be a different hunt.”
Tatiana busied herself slipping the pack over her shoulder and didn’t look at him. “Don’t worry about us, Cistine. Concentrate on your training. Kanslar Court takes power in a little over a week. Your window of opportunity starts to shrink after that.”
Cistine trapped a flutter of panic beneath a deep breath. “I know. I’ll keep reading and exercising and cleaning the Den. I promise.”
“Look after Baba Kallah, too,” Quill added. “We all know she does too much already. She needs your help.”
Cistine nodded, startling slightly as Tatiana threw an arm around her. “You’ll be fine, Yani. And we’ll see you in a fortnight at most. You’ll barely have time to miss us.”
“I wouldn’t miss you anyway.”
But that was a lie. She would miss the long afternoons drinking tea and discussing Valgardan politics, and the early-morning runs and grappling sessions, and the weapon room’s musty, calming quiet with Maleck as her only companion. She would even miss the burden of Ariadne ordering her to clean room after room.
Quill stretched to his feet. “Do us a favor? Go and tell Thorne the rest of us are ready. He’s holding up the hunt.”
“As usual,” Tatiana drawled.
Cistine smiled and hurried out into the hall, suddenly eager to be away from their armor and that satchel and the reminder that they were all leaving, and she was staying behind.
“Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?” Quill called after her.
Cistine stuck out her tongue and shut the door on his laughter. She passed Maleck and Ashe again, still talking about knives in the front room. She tiptoed by Julian’s chamber, where his snores echoed despite the late hour. Then she slipped by Ariadne in the kitchen, who was cramming bread loaves and vegetables into a sack.
“I expect this place to remain spotless while I’m gone,” Ariadne said without turning.
Cistine gritted her teeth. “I assumed as much.”
“Don’t take a tone with me. This is for your own good.”
“I’m aware.” Cistine sidled toward the hall.
“One more thing: stay out of our bedroom corridor. I don’t want you snooping through our personal belongings.”
Stung, Cistine paused and stared at her back. “You really think I would?”
“Gossips are capable of anything.”
Biting back a harsh retort, Cistine dashed up the steps to Thorne’s room.
It was almost eerie the way the quiet enveloped her there. The pelts on the floors and walls muffled all sound from the Den below, like stepping into a different house entirely. Cistine wondered if that was why she’d found Thorne sleeping at the table rather than in his own bed: close to every movement and capable of hearing every sound. The collision of peace in his chamber against the chaos in the Den made it seem like a sanctuary. The furious knot in Cistine’s guts loosened slightly as she shut the door.
And then she saw his scars.
It knocked her speechless for a moment: Thorne standing beside his bed, his damp hair trailing water down his bare back. At first, it was the sight of him shirtless that left her flustered; and then it was the markings on his flesh that brought her hands to her mouth.
She’d read so often about scars: how they puckered the skin in places, creating small mountains in the flesh. Ridges that could be followed like maplines. But Thorne’s scars were sunken hollows in his tan skin—craters where something had been taken away. And not only taken, but chiseled out. They looked as if they had never healed properly.
Cistine knew she’d made some small sound—that even the tiniest whimper of sympathy and horror had escaped her lips—because Thorne froze. The return of that absolute, predator stillness she’d witnessed in the meadow the day they’d met startled her from her stupor.
“Thorne,” she whispered. “Are you all right? What happened?”
He dragged on his shirt, rolling it down over the scars and fluffing the hem several times. “Contrary to what Quill and Tatiana might have taught you, it’s actually polite to knock before entering in this house.”
“I’m sorry,” Cistine said. “But what happened?”
He picked up his leather chestpiece from the bed and buckled it into place. It was the same armor the others wore—the first time she’d ever seen him dress for battle. “What do you need, Cistine?”
Cistine pouted, frustrated with her curiosity and concern dismissed twice. “Quill and Tatiana wanted me to tell you they’re ready to leave.”
“Good.”
“And you’re holding everyone up.”
“As usual.” Thorne secured his vambraces and picked up a satchel from the floor, checking its straps and buckles meticulously, as if he was waiting for her to leave.
Cistine stepped toward him instead, burying her feet in the thick vermillion rug skinned from some beast in Erdotre’s massive forest. She wondered if that was where he’d gotten his scars.
“It’s a good thing Ariadne is packing light fare to eat,” she teased weakly, “because you’re all so well-fed on secrets, you don’t have room for anything else.”
Thorne’s fingers went still.
Cistine halted behind him, close enough that she could reach out and touch his back, if she wanted to. But she was afraid to know what those pitted scars felt like…afraid her stomach would rebel if her fingers slid into the cracks of his skin, where some of his darkness and ferocity seeped out.
“At least tell me you’re all right,” Cistine said. “I’ve never seen scars like those before.”
“Then you should know the answer to that question.”
Her breath hitched. Of course he wasn’t all right. Whatever had left such terrible wounds in him couldn’t be simply forgotten.
“I don’t keep this tale from you for lack of trust.” Thorne’s voice was so soft—the quietest Cistine had ever heard him speak, “but because it haunts me. I can’t return to that place. I can’t take anyone else there with me.”
