It was reputed the Duke of Burge, Richard Sloan, and his four sons housed a multitude of young girls borne from years of infidelity and married them to wealthy merchants before they came of age. It was not an uncommon practice among all dukes of Athera, but it was always done furtively.
It was an insult to be thought of as one of too many illegitimate daughters resulting from the Sloan brothers’ hedonism, but if it kept my companions’ minds away from Alamantia Palace, then so be the misconception. My former life had to be a forgotten memory. Apparently, I dropped out of the sky at eighteen like a falling star.
“Maybe you’ll be more likely to talk after we visit the tavern in Burge.” Bromly chortled and plucked his empty soup bowl from the log to ladle himself a second helping.
“If Darric doesn’t kill her first.” Flint scoffed, his tone still belligerent.
“He’s not going to hurt me. It’s just an empty threat.” Though knowing Darric’s motive hardly brought comfort.
Flint slammed his fist into his palm. “Damn it, if I could wield a sword, I could stop him.”
Bromly raised both eyebrows in skepticism.
“You can’t wield a sword?” I asked.
Flint shook his head. “Only a bow, an’ a bow is no good against Darric. He won’t teach me weaponry. He says I’m too unstable.” His lips quivered. “What does he know?”
“He wouldn’t teach me either. He said I am erratic and lack control,” I confided.
Flint gasped. “Ya asked him to teach ya to wield a sword?”
Bromly’s eyes widened, a spoonful of stew paused near his mouth.
“Yes. I’ve never seen anyone so skilled. I can’t stay here forever, and if I can fight, it may prevent me from being kidnapped by bandits again.”
“You wasted your breath,” said Flint. “Darric won’t teach anyone.”
“He has commendable reasons for that, Flint,” Bromly expressed, putting his full spoon back into the bowl.
“Like I care ’bout his reasons. I’m his frickin’ brother.”
“Why won’t he teach anyone?” I asked.
“He was forced in the past.” Bromly placed his bowl on the bench, as if he’d lost his appetite. “He’s always been exceptional with weapons, and he’s cocky because he knows it, but I’m not sure he’s capable of becoming anyone’s instructor. His technique is his own, and no one fully trained him.”
“You expect me to believe Darric is just preternaturally gifted in violence?” When I said it out loud, it didn’t seem that unfathomable.
Flint reached over the fire and stole the remainder of Bromly’s meal. He gulped several mouthfuls from the side of the dish before wiping his lips on his sleeve and burping. I slid to the end of the log to avoid the bits of stew flying from his mouth.
“I was lucky to make it this far,” I continued. “I won’t be able to travel without some general knowledge of combat.”
“I’d volunteer to teach you if I knew anything about it, but my skills are centered around cooking and tanning hides,” Bromly explained.
I shot him a sidelong glance. He may not have known how to beautifully flourish a sword like Darric, but he had strength he humbly refused to admit. He had gruesomely killed one of the bandits. Though clumsy and lacking skill, he wasn’t helpless.
Finished with the stew, Flint scooped a charred potato from the coals. The spud looked dreadful and burned to a crisp. He dug his finger into the flesh and peeled away the skin, revealing the bland mush, and blew at the steam before sinking in his teeth. “I taught myself to use a bow.” He let out short puffs of air to cool the burning morsel in his mouth. “I’m not the best shot, an’ a bow isn’t much good in hand-to-hand combat unless ya whack ’em upside the head with it, but I can teach ya to shoot straight.”
“Flint!” Ecstatic, I flung my arms around his bony shoulders and pulled him into my chest, knocking the spud from his grasp. “That would be wonderful!”
He leaned into my hug, and his large hand covered my back. “I’ll teach ya, but no more talk of ya leavin’. I like havin’ ya here.” He smiled widely, displaying bits of mashed food stuck in his teeth. “I’ll make a bow for ya right now!”
“We have a lot of work to do,” Bromly interjected.
“Right, right, but I have to make Aya a bow first.” He licked the last bits of potato off his fingers and stole the axe on his way out of the cavern.
Bromly took a deep breath, his chest and stomach expanding into one bulbous mass. “He’s becoming too scatterbrained.”
I had not intended for Flint to vanish into the woods in search of material for a suitable bow. My insistence on learning to use a weapon would put them further behind in their work. As penance, I offered my assistance, but Bromly claimed teaching me to work hides would take longer than the time available.
Flint returned in under an hour, dragging the trunk of a skinny, flexible tree into the cavern. He immediately began stripping the bark with an undeniable twinkle in his eyes. As the afternoon turned into evening, the tree changed from a stripped piece of wood to a small bow roughly three and a half feet long. The bow was simple—wide in the grip, tapered at the limbs—and bent beautifully into a crescent after he tied handmade cordage from one end to the other. He finished by nightfall and, as a tribute to his creation, shot an arrow out of the cavern, allowing it to sail away without a target.
Darric emerged from the darkness, his eyes following the projectile until it disappeared. He raised an eyebrow at the new weapon.
“I’m gonna teach Aya to use a bow!” Flint enthused.
Darric looked in my direction, as if he was trying to determine who had suggested the ridiculous idea. “When?” he inquired skeptically. The heavy lids of his eyes were rimmed in red, and the forbidding posture he generally held had weakened into a slight slump. He appeared exceedingly exhausted.
“Tomorrow, after breakfast.” Flint smiled as he revealed his plan.
“Good luck with that,” Darric demeaned and proceeded into the Hovel.
“Darric?” Bromly called, causing the grumpy brother to pause by the door.
“I’m fine,” Darric muttered and went inside.
Bromly and Flint ate the remainder of the stew for supper, and Flint fell asleep playing his flute. He snored in a haphazard position, his legs sprawled messily on the ground and his upper half propped against the log. His neck craned back so far it almost looked broken, and his mouth hung open.
“He looks uncomfortable,” I said to Bromly.
“I’ve often thought the same.” He busily rinsed the dinner bowls in a warm bucket of water. “He’ll sleep through the night that way. I used to attempt moving him to his room, but he’s a heavy sleeper, and several times he nearly rolled into the fire when I disturbed him. I don’t fight that battle anymore.”
I giggled, tugging a rag free from his belt to help dry the wet dishes. Each was identical. Darric had superb craftsmanship. When we had finished, I collected the stack and offered to take them to the workbench.
I cradled the armful of dishes against my belly and stepped inside the Hovel. It was dark save for the occasional flame sparking to life over the glowing orange embers. Next to the dwindling fire, Darric sat leaning against the wooden bench, one leg stretched out and the other bent close to him. His hand was clamped, ever ready, on the hilt of his sword. His chest slowly moved as he slept.
The eye of the storm.
“I thought you never slept,” I whispered, tiptoeing to the worktable. Only sheer exhaustion could have forced him to close his eyes.
After our walk, I felt more connected to him. Internally, he was more like me than any person in Athera; images floated in his brain too. I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
I set down the bowls so quietly I wouldn’t have roused a mouse. Next to the additional cutlery sat the collection of Darric’s whittled dragons. Each piece of artwork was carved in immaculate detail, some with scales, some with wings, some with two legs, others with four. L
ying on its side amid the standing creatures was the single dragon Flint had stolen from me and tossed away like scrap wood. I plucked it from its fallen position and placed it upright to join the fleet.
When I retracted my hand, my elbow smacked into the stack of freshly washed bowls, sending a cascade of objects skidding across the worktable and tumbling the mess of dishes to the floor. I’d spent hours of despised etiquette training perfecting grace and poise, only to clumsily knock over a collection of cutlery when I should have been quiet.
Darric’s eyes shot open.
He vaulted to his feet, sword drawn; the echo of a raked scabbard lingered in the air, and the brilliant sparkle of shimmering metal danced off the walls. I caught only a fleeting image of his body accelerating towards me before he slammed me to the ground. The leaf litter crunched under my back, and my bones rattled on impact. It happened so rapidly my head spun as I tried to make sense of up and down.
He hovered over me, his eyes foreign, shaded to a dark gray and searing with fear, confusion, and pain. The stability always present through his body had disappeared, replaced by demented, calculated movements. His muscles tensed, ripped with adrenaline. The edge of his sword found my neck. Cold. Sharp.
This was it!
Darric Ursygh was going to kill me.
I screamed until blood emerged in the back of my throat. The blade sliced into my skin, followed by a paralyzing sting as my flesh started to separate. I closed my eyes, feeling the first trickle of blood seep down the side of my neck.
“Darric! Stop!” Bromly’s shriek exploded inside the Hovel. His husky frame plowed into Darric, and they both tumbled to the floor. Darric rolled like dead weight, giving his brother no fight, and his sword slid out of his reach. Bromly pinned his brother to the floor with his knees, took two fistfuls of his shirt, and violently shook him. “Wake up, damnit! Wake up!”
I grasped my wet and sticky throat. The top of my dress was soaked from the steady stream of blood.
Flint’s hands came from behind and helped me sit up. He wrapped his skinny arms around my torso and pulled me into his chest. “She’s bleedin’!” I could feel his ribcage through his clothes. The fragility of his body and scarecrow-like arms failed to dispel the absolute terror coursing through my veins. “You’re gonna be okay, Aya.”
I gasped, finally filling my lungs with air.
The darkness in Darric’s eyes flickered, then faded into a beautiful shade of steel blue. He shoved his brother off his chest, and Bromly tumbled backwards towards the embers. Darric stared blankly at the ceiling, then rubbed his palms over his face before slowly sitting up and reaching for his sword.
Without taking a moment to rest, Bromly rushed to where Flint cradled me. He wiped sweat from his brow as he tore a rag from his belt and shoved it against my neck. “Keep pressure on it.”
Flint slapped his hand over the cloth to hold it in place.
Raking his fingers through his disheveled hair, Darric closed his eyes and let out a long breath that made his body quake. He stabbed his sword into the ground and laid his forehead on the pommel, gripping the hilt with such force his knuckles turned white. A chorus of the most obscene language I’d had ever heard burst from his lips.
“How could ya let her in here with him?” Flint scolded Bromly. “She coulda been killed!”
“I had no idea he was asleep,” Bromly retorted. “I asked him earlier. He said he was fine.”
“It was too close.” Flint’s face contorted unpleasantly. “What if we hadn’t gotten to her in time?”
Bromly pulled Flint’s hand away from my neck so he could assess the damage. “It doesn’t look deep. I’m so sorry, Aya. I never would have allowed you in here had I known he was asleep. He hasn’t slept inside the Hovel in a very long time.”
“He can’t control himself. He’s going to murder one of us.” Flint’s angry heart pounded against my back, and the smell of burned potato and sour meat on his breath turned my stomach. He peered around Bromly at Darric. “Why the hell are ya here? You’re not supposed to be here when you’re like this.”
Darric looked up from his sword. “Both of you, get the fuck out,” he said in a menacingly deep rumble.
Bromly took to his feet as if his toes had been burned by hot coals. Flint placed his hands under my arms to lift me from the floor.
“Leave her here,” Darric instructed, his words low and clipped.
“Not a chance in bloody hell!” Flint shrilled, pulling at my arms.
Darric squeezed the bridge of his nose. The fear coursing through me began to dissipate. His actions had not seemed intentional, and he was clearly reeling with remorse.
“Let’s go.” Bromly wrapped his hand around Flint’s bicep to tug him from the ground.
“No! I’m not leavin’ her with him.” Flint slapped Bromly’s hand. “I’m not goin’ anywhere without her. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Bromly twisted his fingers into Flint’s tunic. “You need to give him a chance to explain.”
“GET OUT!” Darric’s rage broke the surface with a blast like canon fire. It sent a new wave of panic rushing through my weakened muscle. An eerie quiet fell over the room, pierced only by the crackle of leftover embers.
“Do as he says,” I said feebly. No threat of death was going to make me leave the Hovel. Darric had been dreaming, and I wanted his explanation even if it meant facing him alone.
Flint’s face morphed into heartache. “You can’t be serious?”
“Go,” I whispered near his ear.
“I’m not leavin’ ya,” he murmured.
“Yes. You. Are.” Bromly jerked him by the collar and dragged him across the floor. Without the support of Flint’s arms, I dropped to the rug, and the rag fell from my neck.
“This is suicide, Aya,” Flint blubbered. “Bromly, stop!” He tried rolling to break loose, but Bromly shoved him through the front door. Flint’s hysterical wailing became incoherent, and Bromly’s calming words were lost among the erratic sobbing.
“He is so stubborn,” I muttered, reaching for the rag to place it back at my neck. I tugged at the bright red fabric of my chemise.
Darric released a breath and pulled his sword from the ground. Pointing it towards the ceiling, he rotated the grip and gazed hatefully at the blade. The light reflected off the metal, casting eerie shadows across his features as he ran his thumb over the smear of my blood. He rubbed his fingers together and examined the strange glittering red that came off on his hands.
I shivered. Had I made a mistake by staying alone with him?
Finally, he stood and slid the sword back into his scabbard. My pulse regulated once it disappeared.
Darric took a firm hold of my arms and lifted me onto the fireside bench. Sinking beside me, he pushed my almond curls away from my face and tilted my head to expose the bleeding cut. “The only Fae I’ve ever been able to protect, and I almost kill her,” he mumbled.
“What?” I jerked my head down. “What are you talking about? You wanted to kill me. You said—”
“I know what I said.” Irritated, he pulled a handful of my curls to force my head back once more. I stared at the ceiling. “If I am going to kill you, I want to be awake for it.” The tips of his fingers grazed the gash. “If I do something that psychotically abhorrent, I want to remember it. I would want your death to haunt me.”
“You’re not making sense.”
He retrieved his haversack and brought it to the worktable, shoving an armful of wooden carvings out of his way to dig into it. When he returned, he held a damp pristine white linen cloth.
I spotted the burgundy cat slowly walking the perimeter of the room, the hair on her back fluffed and her silver claws bared. Now you decide to come to the rescue?
“This is going to sting.” He ran the cloth over my collarbone to wipe away the blood, each swipe inching closer to the cut until the linen hit the wound. A sharp pain singed my neck. I hissed in a breath and tried to pull away, but Darric kept a han
d on the back of my head and pressed the cloth firmly to the torn flesh. Within moments the shocking sting had dulled to a lingering soreness.
“I saw you asleep,” I exhaled when the pain faded.
“It’s been weeks since I’ve slept.” He took the cloth from my neck and folded it. “I should have seen it coming, but I’ve been distracted. Still, my inattentiveness doesn’t excuse this. I’m not going to ask you to forgive me.”
“Distracted by what?”
He gently patted my skin with the fabric. “You look better than I would have expected. Not everyone who wakes me up fares so well.”
Frustrated by his deflecting, I snatched the linen from his grasp. “Stop changing the subject and answer me!” I demanded. “Don’t apologize. I don’t care. My days are obviously numbered in this valley. I just want answers. I don’t want to die and never know the truth about you. Don’t you understand that you are the first person to make me feel like I’m not alone?”
He stared into my eyes for a long moment. I stiffened as the flash of courage I had managed to summon dissipated. “I know that, Aya. It’s reciprocated.”
A small smile crossed my lips as he ran his thumb along my jaw.
“What do you dream about?” he asked.
I fumbled with the linen. “That’s rather personal.”
“I’ve never been able to ask someone that question.” He turned away and rubbed his palms together uncomfortably.
“It’s difficult to explain.” I lowered my gaze to the wad of fabric. It was no longer pristine but smeared with blotches of bright crimson.
“And?” He leaned towards me, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes caught mine, and my cheeks flushed. What an inappropriate time to feel coy. My stranger had almost ended my life, and I could still go to pieces under his charm.
“I’m sort of . . . floating . . . or flying.”
He half grinned and released a small laugh. “Flying?”
“That’s the closest thing that describes it. I’m on a blank slate where I can create anything I want. But I never do. I only know that I can. I’ve always been so disturbed by it that I force myself to wake up. That’s why I decided to stop sleeping. I wanted to avoid the insanity. Of course, I don’t seem to need much sleep either.”
Dreams of the Fae: Transcendence Page 19