by Beth Alvarez
Stones flawless enough to be made into Gate-stones were the rarest of gems. As far as she knew, not even King Kifelethelas himself owned one. “And you knew Lumia intended to steal this?”
“Yes.” He turned to face her and, for once, his expressionless mask gave her chills. “Because I needed it, too.”
Anger simmered hot under her skin. “Then you're no better than her.”
“I didn't say I enjoyed the methods used, but I saw an opportunity and I took it. If my plans are going to work, I need a Gate-stone, and I need to know how to use it.” Daemon clutched the little stone tight and stared at his hand.
Firal quieted. His schemes. The memory of the colonel's warning made her skin rise in gooseflesh. Her heart warred with itself, torn between trepidation and a deep desire to trust him that she couldn't explain. She tucked her chin into her chest. “If you have a Gate-stone, then why didn't you just Gate us right to Alwhen?”
“Really?” He gave her a skeptical glance. “My teacher asks why I don't Gate us to someplace I've never been?”
Color bloomed in her cheeks, though it didn't lessen her scowl. She hadn't stopped to consider the possibility he'd never been in the eastern lands. Opening a Gate to a place one had never seen with their own eyes wasn't a question of safety; it was impossible.
To her relief, he did not chide her. Instead, he appeared distracted, staring into the space behind her. Closing the Gate, perhaps. “It'll be more useful on the return trip. Right now, I'm still learning how to use it. I can't imagine you'd argue with me practicing.”
“No,” Firal agreed as she looked over her shoulder. “I believe practice was why you wanted me here.”
She had not realized the Gate behind them was visible from their side until she witnessed it sliding closed. It dissipated without so much as a sound, and she shuddered. Firal knew Gate-stones were required to anchor permanent Gates, portals that could be passed through from either side. Perhaps that had something to do with why Daemon could pass through without this one closing behind him.
“You seem practiced enough to me,” she said with a nod toward his hand. “Is it difficult to use?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. It's like opening any other Gate, except easier.”
Firal snorted softly. “That tells me nothing.”
“I don't know how to explain it. It's like... sharing an impression of where you want to go with the power you want to take you there. With a normal Gate, you'd have to hold that power steady, and that's what makes it hard. This steadies itself.”
Curious, she inched closer. “Could I use something like that?”
Daemon cast her a dubious glance and slipped the stone out of sight. “You don't have the best record with Gates.”
Firal bit back a retort and turned when she caught the sound of movement behind them. A pair of men leading horses emerged from the edge of the ruins. She stiffened.
“Don't worry,” Daemon said as he strode toward them. “They're friends. I requested the horses for our trip.” He took the reins of the larger horse and inspected its cargo before he swung into the saddle. The black beast was weighted down with several bags of who-knew-what, and it seemed displeased by the added burden of a rider.
Eyeing its large hooves with distrust, Firal shuffled back. “If you can request horses whenever you want, why do we always have to walk through the ruins?”
Daemon snorted. “Considering how often you trip in the ruins, do you really think it a safe place for horses? We have few enough of them as it is. We can't afford to have one break a leg. Mount up, you're wasting time.”
Uncertain, she looked the second horse over from nose to tail. “I don't know how to ride.”
“A leg up for you, then,” one of the men laughed. He laced his fingers together and planted them against his knee to make a foothold. “It's a good many miles to the first inn and you won't want to waste daylight. Don't worry, the horses are plenty tame.”
Firal shot Daemon a miserable look. His plain mask seemed even more expressionless than usual. With a resigned sigh, she nestled her foot into the sentry's hands and let him boost her to the saddle. She clambered on, none too gracefully, and blushed as she tried to settle her skirts. Despite her best efforts to recover modesty, her legs were left bare to the knee.
The sentries both averted their eyes, though there was no mistaking the smirks of amusement they wore. “Fair winds, General,” one said. “My lady.” He offered a brief salute before retreating into the ruins with his companion.
Daemon clicked at his mount and moved ahead. Firal glowered at his back as she wriggled in the saddle, awkward and embarrassed. She slapped the reins against her gelding's neck, but the animal did not move.
“Kick it,” Daemon called without looking back.
She nudged the horse's sides with her heels. It eased into a walk and she whispered a silent thank-you toward the sky when it followed the other horse without direction. With the beast in motion, she shifted the reins to one hand, as she saw Daemon doing, and attempted to pull her skirts down over her legs again. “Do you know how far it is to the inn?” There had to be something better suited to riding in her bag, even if it was just a pair of woolen stockings to cover her legs.
“The next inn, or the inn we'll stop at?”
“What? How far are you planning on traveling tonight?” Perhaps that was a better question.
Daemon shrugged. “We won't be stopping tonight. From what I hear, the border villages aren't particularly friendly to those coming out of the west. They'll be even less inclined to offer hospitality to a mage and a...” He trailed off, looking down at his four-fingered, green-scaled hand. He flexed his clawed digits and dropped his hand to his thigh. “Well, in any case, I doubt they'd give us a room. We'll ride until tomorrow evening. We should be near a bigger settlement by then.”
Firal pursed her lips, but said nothing more. Afternoon and then night passed in relative silence, and she still did not know what she had gotten herself into.
Though they stopped to rest from time to time, they did not sleep. They rode through the night, despite the weariness of their mounts. Firal grew weary, too, but she knew complaint would get her nowhere. Daemon seemed unsympathetic to those who lacked his strength and endurance, though she hoped he didn't expect her to match a soldier’s physical prowess.
When roofs came into view just before sunset, they paused long enough for Firal to stretch her legs and find a place to relieve herself while Daemon pulled bits and pieces of a disguise from his bags. He bound his clawed feet and jammed them into boots, then pulled up his sleeves and wrapped linen bandages around his hands and arms to prevent any accidental glimpses of his scales.
Firal watched with interest as he pulled on his gloves and drew up the hood of his travel cloak. She had grown used to his scales, but she couldn't help envisioning him in the throne room again, his linen shirt undone to the waist. As unusual as his hands and feet were, she couldn't deny the rest of him looked like any other man—not at all unpleasant, with his smooth, bronzed skin and hardened soldier's body. She cringed and tried to shake the thought out of her head. No, she wouldn't let herself think of him that way, no more than she let herself think of Ran's strong physique or dazzling grins. Daemon belonged to Lumia. The same way that, in her mind, Ran belonged to Kytenia.
“Mount up,” Daemon ordered, his voice snapping her out of thought.
She pulled herself up into her gelding's saddle with a great deal of effort and fussed with her skirts. Though she had checked her bags, she hadn't found anything more suitable for riding. She'd have to think of something to do with her skirts the next time they stopped. There was simply no way she would ride into Alwhen with her skirts hitched up around her knees.
The roofs they'd seen proved to be little more than a farmstead, though from what Daemon gleaned from the farm hands, they were not far from the village proper. They urged the reluctant horses back into motion and rode on in relative silence as night ca
me. It wasn't long after nightfall that the glow of the little village came into view on the horizon.
“Where are we?” Firal asked as they drew near.
“Halfway to our destination. Maybe a little more.” Daemon spared her a glance, the soft glow of his eyes startling in the depths of his hood. No disguise could hide that haunting light. “We've made good time, but the horses can't go much farther.”
“I don't believe I can, either,” she sighed beneath her breath as they reached the hard-packed dirt of the village main street.
The place seemed altogether more ramshackle than the Eldani villages Firal had seen, its buildings made of rough wood and thatch. The windows glowed with ruddy candlelight rather than the cool luminescence of mage-light she was used to, and though it was dark outside, people still roamed the streets as if they had important business to tend.
The inn stood along the main street, its doors open to the cooler night air. Raucous laughter spilled through the front room as readily as ale, and barmaids swept between tables with a smile and wink ready for those who looked like they still had change in their purses. Firal peered inside and tried not to make a face. The whole place stank of alcohol and unwashed bodies, burnt food and old dust. But the tables were packed with people, a fair number clad in travel cloaks not dissimilar to their own, and she admitted it bode well for the two of them going unnoticed.
Daemon left their exhausted horses with the stable hand and led her inside. The odor was enough to make her gag. Firal covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve. “This place is vile,” she muttered. “And loud. How will we sleep?”
“Quite well, if you're really as tired as you've claimed to be.” Daemon tugged his hood farther forward, shadowing his mask. He slipped ahead, to where the innkeeper sat behind a desk, and the noise of the crowd swallowed his voice. The innkeeper regarded him with understandable distrust, but a few extra coins placated the man well enough.
Firal brushed close to Daemon's side. “Have they rooms?”
Instead of answering, he rested a gloved hand on her waist and guided her after the portly innkeeper as he moved up the stairs. The display made her cheeks warm.
“Here you are,” the innkeeper said as he thrust open a door and stepped inside to light the single tallow candle on the bedside table. “We begin serving breakfast at dawn. It's an extra coin for the meal if you decide to join us.” He gave the two of them a curious look, but raucous voices lifted from the room below and he hurried back to his work.
Firal stared past the guttering flame. “There's only one bed.”
Daemon grunted and pushed the door closed. “Is that a problem?”
Again, she envisioned him in the throne room with Lumia, the queen's hands on his belt, his shirt undone to the waist. She gave an awkward shrug. He grunted again as he unfastened his cloak and draped it over the foot of the bed. Unbothered by their arrangements, he sat and began to pry off his boots. Firal knelt at the bedside and reached to help. He said nothing, but seemed grateful.
She set his boots aside and carefully unraveled the wrappings that compressed his feet and covered his claws. He flexed his toes and sighed with relief as he tossed his gloves to the floor. That finished, Firal untied the bandaging from his hand and pushed up his sleeve to unwind it. She paused as the last of the wrappings came away.
“What?” he asked, frown evident in his tone.
Firal nudged his sleeve up a little farther, running her fingertips over the scales that decorated his arm. They ended abruptly at his elbow, the transition from scales to flesh far from smooth. His skin appeared blistered where the scales emerged in uneven patches. A thin, black crust of dried blood flaked away when she ran her fingers over them. She'd known it was an affliction, but she hadn't imagined the discomfort his scales must cause. Her fingertips drew over the rough edges again. “I can make a salve for that.”
He hesitated. “I would appreciate that.”
“How long have you been this way?” An unpleasant knot tightened in her stomach and she couldn't bring herself to let go of his arm. She'd always assumed him more monster than man. It was strange to see just the reverse.
“Forever.” Daemon turned his arm in her grasp, studying the rough emergence of his scales. “Since I was born. They... made me this way. I don't really know how.”
“Mages?”
He nodded.
Abruptly, she pulled away. “I'm sorry. It's not my place to touch you like that. I shouldn't have.”
“No, it's all right.” He shifted, awkward. “If you really can make something for it, I would be in your debt. It itches. Always.”
“I just don't see how the mages could do something like that to someone. To you. That they could condemn you to a life of hiding.” Firal shook her head. For the first time, she was almost glad she had been expelled from the temple. “I suppose that's why you wear a mask, isn't it?”
“No,” he said, a distant look in his violet eyes. “But we'll discuss that another time.”
“Of course.” She moved to the far side of the wide bed and loosened the bodice of her dress. “I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunities for that.”
Daemon seized one of the blankets as he slid to the floor. He wrapped himself in it and settled on his side.
A twinge of guilt tugged at her heart. “What are you doing?”
“There's only one bed,” he replied simply.
And they had shared a bed before, she reminded herself with chagrin. He'd always been perfectly decent; gentlemanly, even, though she hadn't known then that such decency was his nature. How had she ever thought him a beast?
“That isn't fair,” she said. “You've paid for the room.”
“I'm a soldier. I've slept with worse arrangements than a clean floor.”
“Well, I haven't. And what if I get cold?” Firal nestled beneath the remaining blankets and drew them to her chin as she wiggled to the edge of the wide bed.
A soft chuckle escaped him. “You play a dangerous game, mageling.”
She expected an argument, but none came. Instead, Daemon pinched out the candle’s flame before he settled in beside her. Though he was quiet about it, she still heard the rasp of metal as he removed his mask and laid it on the bedside table, and she wondered at how close they'd become.
After the dark mornings in the underground, warm sunlight on her face felt foreign. Firal woke disoriented and blinked hard against the sunbeams that slanted over her eyes. She nestled back into her pillow with a groan and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
The inn room didn't feel quite so small in the daylight. All their belongings waited in packs and satchels by the door. Daemon sat on the edge of the bed with his back turned toward her, wrapping his arms in binding once again. “Good morning.”
She didn't notice his plain metal mask on the bedside table until he reached for it. The leather ties refused to cooperate with his wrapped fingers, and he made a sound of frustration as they slipped from his grasp.
Firal sat up and reached around him to take the mask from his hands. “Here. Let me.” Her fingers brushed over his. As thick as the coarse bandages were, it was no wonder the mask gave him difficulty. She couldn't help but think he should have donned the mask first.
He tilted his hand and let the mask slip from his grasp. It weighed heavy in her palm and she curled her fingers around it, exploring the soft buckskin that lined the back. She'd never given the mask's comfort much thought, but now that she did, the lining made sense. Leaning against his back, she lifted the mask into place and arranged the thin straps above his ears. “There?”
His head tilted forward to maneuver it into a comfortable position. “There.”
She tugged the straps into a tight knot and let her fingers slip through his hair to ensure it wouldn't tangle on the straps. Then she pushed herself off the bed and smoothed the skirts of her rumpled dress. “You don't have to wear that around me, you know.” Across the room, a tray of food caught her eye. From th
e look of it, Daemon had already taken his share. “I wouldn't think differently of you for how you look.”
“Wouldn't you?” he mused. “It would be strange, in any case. I've grown so used to wearing it, I’d feel naked without it.”
She wrinkled her nose but said nothing as she selected a coarse piece of buttered bread.
The more she traveled, the more she wondered if inns served anything other than tough bread accompanied by butter, cheese, and cold meats from the night before. As if reading her thoughts, Daemon slipped from the edge of the bed and crossed to their belongings. He pulled an apple from a sack and tossed it in her direction. She opened her hands to catch it, but it bounced from her fingertips and she fumbled to keep it from dropping it.
“We'll reach Alwhen this evening,” Daemon said as he settled on the floor. His feet were already bound with linen strips. He pulled on his boots with some difficulty. “Lumia sent word ahead, so Relythes should be expecting us.”
Firal studied the apple in her hands. The fruit was not unusual; a number of foreign fruit-bearing trees flourished on the island, brought over from the mainland in decades past. She simply did not want to look at him as she spoke. “I still don't understand why I'm going. I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”
“You're a mage,” he said, as if that explained everything. She stared at him, and he blinked before he went on. “Mages move freely between the two halves of the island. Both sides recognize them as an asset, but Kifel and Relythes both have court mages who serve them exclusively. Lumia agreed it was best to bring you as one of her emissaries, because it will give the impression we're already on equal terms.”