Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

by Olivia Rivers

  Lor lets out a moan. The sound is groggy, but it still carries his voice, which is deep and rich and masculine. It’s so different from Ashe’s elegant tone, but it’s the voice that might hold the key to avenging my Guardian.

  “So,” I say, despite knowing he’s unconscious. “I guess you’re stuck with me now. How fitting. You lie to me, and now you get to deal with me.”

  He lets out another moan.

  Glancing around the room, I look for somewhere to sit. There’s nothing. No chairs, no benches, not even a wardrobe or a nightstand.

  Ashe and I both didn’t like this room, so we never used it. He said the room was too big and the windows too small. For me, it was the smell–this place used to store ingredients for the bakery, and the pungent scent of baking yeast strikes me every time I walk in. It’s just another reason I loathe my ability to see—and smell—the past.

  I bite my lip and consider the bed for a moment—Lor only takes up one side of it, and there’s plenty of room at the bottom.

  I sit on the floor.

  Jesel, the healer, should be here any moment. She’s looked after me since I was born, and has a gift for taking away my pain. The physical kind, at least.

  “You’ll like her,” I say to Lor. I’m not sure why I’m talking to him, but I need to fill the silence somehow. "She’s probably the only good-hearted person in this entire castle. Well, her and Farren.”

  Lor doesn’t even stir.

  I stare at him for a long moment, taking him in. He reminds me a little of a draft horse: large and brawny, but somehow elegantly beautiful.

  Lor lets out a long breath, and I hold mine, half expecting him not to breathe in again. But he does, taking a shallow gulp into his lungs. It’s a little pitiful to see someone as regal as him laid flat on a bed, dressed in prisoners’ garb, and covered in blood.

  I shake away the thought and take a step toward Lor. Then another. I have no idea what I’m doing, and my heart quickens. I breathe deeply as I reach the edge of the bed. In and out. Slowly. Calming my nerves, just like Jackal taught me.

  Lor lies on the right side of the bed, but there’s a little room between him and the edge. I sit on the open space, smoothing my dress.

  “How did you end up here?” I murmur, unsure if I’m talking to him or myself.

  He doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, waiting for an answer, receiving none.

  I reach out and place my hand on his chest. My fingers tremble as I touch his shirt, pulling away the collar and exposing his neck. The tattoo wraps around his shoulder there, reaching back down toward his chest. I brush my finger across the ink, half expecting to feel heat from the flames. But all I feel is Lor’s clammy skin.

  Closing my eyes, I trace a finger across the tattoo, remembering the contours of the flames. The swirls and the bold lines and the blackness, all so stark against Ashe’s pale skin.

  Then I open my eyes and see Lor. The tattoo doesn’t look as stark on him; his skin is darker than Ashe’s, a tan color that makes his blond hair stand out.

  “You remind me of him,” I murmur to Lor. “You look nothing alike, but… You both carry yourself the same way.”

  I shake my head and jerk my hand away. I won’t do this. I won’t compare Ashe to someone like Lor, an obnoxious thief and a liar.

  A knock comes at the door. I stand from the bed and rush toward it faster than I need to, but the door bursts open before I reach it.

  Jesel stands in the doorway, lips pursed in her eternal frown. I used to wonder what happened to make her frown like that, but now I understand: She’s a healer who sees death every day. And death destroys people, especially the ones left alive.

  Jesel ignores me, not bothering with any type of greeting, and strides over to Lor’s side. I frown, wondering what has her in such a bad mood. She always asks how I’m doing before she gets to work, demanding to know every detail of my life and health. Sometimes she’ll even give me a hug, and her ghostly-thin arms will cling to me like she’s afraid she’ll never see me again.

  Jesel places her medical bag on the end of the bed and examines the Angel. “He’s not in good shape,” Jesel murmurs, checking Lor’s pulse at his wrist.

  “But he’ll survive?”

  Jesel looks me straight in the eye, striking me with a gaze filled with horror and… remorse. Then she quickly shakes her head. “No.”

  “But… He has to. You’re the best healer we have, Jesel. He has to survive. You have to save him!” I know I sound like a child, but the words just come tumbling out, and there’s no way I can stop them.

  She keeps shaking her head. After a moment, she squeezes her eyes shut, as if holding back tears. Why would she be crying? Lor isn’t even dead yet, and Jesel has learned to suppress the pain of impossible cases.

  Unless it isn’t impossible. Unless…

  I press a hand to my face, blocking out her expression. “You’ve been ordered to kill him,” I murmur. “Haven’t you? Father is forcing you to.”

  She doesn’t respond, other than to look away. Then she quietly says, “The king believes this Angel’s presence could be harmful to you.”

  I’ve never heard Jesel speak so softly. In all the years she’s acted as my healer, all my cuts and scrapes and burns she’s tended to, Jesel has always been loud and authoritative. Her defeated tone is almost as scary as what she’s admitting to.

  “You can’t kill him,” I whisper.

  She nods her head, like she’s trying to agree with me. Then she says, “I have to. King’s orders. If I don’t, I’ll be the one to die.”

  “Let me talk to Father. Maybe I can convince him otherwise.”

  “He’s the king. He doesn’t change his mind once it’s made up.”

  I gesture wildly at Lor. “Well you can’t just kill him!”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Jesel whirls toward me, and repeats in a shout, “You think I don’t know that? I took an oath, Faye. I swore to never harm any living being. Never.”

  Something slips down her weathered cheek. A tear. In all the years I’ve known Jesel, I’ve never seen her cry. She’s sworn and yelled when her patients don’t respond to her treatment, but she never, ever cries. I’ve come to believe that she’s too strong for tears.

  I guess I can add that to the list of things I’ve been wrong about today.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She shakes her head again. “You shouldn’t be. This is my fault. I never should have agreed to do this. I should have faced death proudly, and not—”

  “No,” I say. “I’m sorry for this.” I give her a pointed look. She quickly understands, and her eyes grow wide. Then she turns her back to me and stills.

  I walk up behind her. “He attacked you, alright? When Father asks what happened, you tell him that you tried to kill my Guardian, and he attacked you.”

  Jesel swallows hard. “That will work?”

  “Father isn’t stupid. He knows that it would look suspicious if you suddenly died right after surviving an attack by my Guardian. People would easily guess that you’d tried something and failed.”

  She nods tightly.

  I place a hand on her shoulder, and she flinches violently. Then she turns toward me with wide eyes.

  “I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t sure it would save your life,” I murmur.

  She nods, and the moment she turns away from me again, I throw my arm around her neck. I squeeze tightly and close my eyes, trying to block out what I’m doing. Jackal always told me I’d need to use a choke-hold someday, but I never really believed him. Until now.

  Jesel gags and instinctively claws at my arm. I just squeeze tighter. After a long minute, she sags against me. I instantly release my grip and then wrap an arm around her waist, guiding her unconscious body to the floor.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I say, despite knowing she can’t hear me. I watch her chest closely, monitoring her breathing. It’s normal, although a little slower than usual. I let out a long s
igh of relief. I hate how long choke-holds take, but it’s better than knocking her out cold and risking a serious concussion.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the sight of her limp body. “Jolik!” I call out. There’s no answer, so I yell a little louder, “Jolik! Get in here!”

  A moment later, I hear the door to my chambers slam open, and I silently thank Jolik for his Vampire hearing. I don’t think I could have walked out to get him, not with how unsteady my legs feel.

  His heavy footsteps approach, and he lets out a loud curse as he enters the room. He rushes to my side and grips my arm.

  “Faye what happened?”

  I open my eyes and look straight at him. Then I nod to Lor. “My Guardian attacked her. He knocked her unconscious. You need to take her to the medical ward and get her some treatment.”

  Jolik’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Your Guardian is out cold. How could he have—”

  “Do you want her to die?” I interrupt.

  Jolik recoils from me. “What?”

  “She’ll die if anyone believes she wasn’t attacked,” I tell him. “Now take her to the medical ward. Please.”

  I think it’s the ‘please’ that does it. I never say that word, and Jolik knows it. He gives a short nod, lifts Jesel into his brawny arms, and carries her out of the room. I hold my breath as they leave, half expecting Jesel to wake up and start accusing me of things. Or, worse, for her to not wake up at all. As Jolik’s footsteps retreat, I rub my face. It takes me a minute to realize I’m still collapsed on the floor. It takes even longer for me to work up the will to do something about it.

  I pull myself up from the floor and walk over to the bed, where Lor rests peacefully, completely unaware of all the commotion. I stare at him a long moment, a quiet voice whispering in the back of my head. ‘He’s a thief, a liar, an enemy Angel,’ says the voice. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be saved.’

  “No,” I murmur out loud. “He doesn’t.”

  Then I grab Jesel’s healing kit, which still rests at Lor’s feet, and take out equipment to stitch him up. Because he doesn’t deserve all this care. But Ashe deserves everything—especially revenge.

  ELEVEN

  I keep staring at my hands, wondering how such small things could do so much damage. After stitching up Lor, I stole the Guardian vambrace out of Jesel’s bag, which was probably only in there for show. She never planned on putting it on Lor, but that’s exactly what I did. I shudder at the thought and rub my face, trying to scrub away the memory.

  All Guardians wear black vambraces with enchanted silver etchings, which keep them bound to the person who Chose them. If they are ever to abandon or betray the woman they’d been Chosen to protect, the vambrace will poison and kill the Guardian. The only vambrace’s left are old—decades old—and Lor’s is no exception. But the etchings are still beautiful, and the spell is said to be just as effective as it was centuries ago, when it was first cast.

  Now that he wears a vambrace, Lor is officially bound to me. Our fate is sealed.

  I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, desperate for some kind of distraction. I hold up my hands and examine them in the reflection—they look exactly the same as they did this morning. There’s no sign that they helped me point out my new Guardian, choke Jesel, stitch up a criminal.

  I lower my hands and force myself to think of something else, replaying the man’s words from earlier today: ‘We share a hatred, princess.' I wonder what he meant, what our shared hatred is, when he’ll come back.

  The mirror doesn’t give any answers.

  By evening, I’m pacing my room. My bed is covered in abandoned books that I tried reading, and failed. A sketchpad rests at the base of the bed, the cover tightly snapped shut. I’d tried drawing to relax myself, but my sketch quickly turned into just another picture of Ashe’s killer, with his scar and harsh eyes. I’d scribbled out the image before jumping off my bed and starting to pace. Back and forth, one side to the other. Twenty steps one way, twenty steps back, in a mindless pattern.

  Every time I cross to the far side of the room, I veer toward the door just a little bit. And every time I cross back, I correct my path and walk straight to the wall. I won’t leave my room. I won’t go to Lor, even though I’m dying to see if he’s recovering.

  I tell myself it’s common sense keeping me away–I’ve already stitched him, he’s stopped bleeding, and there’s no need to check on him. But I know it’s something else keeping me at a distance. It’s that tiny nagging part of me, the one whispering that Lor might not survive, that he’s doomed. Because of me. Because of my Choosing ceremony.

  “Anxious, are we?”

  The voice comes from across the room. I whirl towards it, my breath catching, and then immediately let the tension in my muscles run out. “No,” I reply smoothly. “Just impatient.”

  The man in my mirror scoffs. He’s slowly coming into view, the colors rippling around him, the blackness forming his shape. I peer at him, trying to see anything of his face, but nothing is there.

  “Impatient,” he repeats, his voice a lazy drawl. “I see. So that’s why you’re pacing back and forth like a caged animal.”

  I ignore his sarcasm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I’m touched, princess.”

  “Don’t be.”

  He chuckles, the sound distorted by the magical barrier between us. It dawns on me that I still have no idea what this man is doing in my mirror.

  “You were going to tell me why you’re here,” I say. “Before you left last time.”

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” he replies. “I only disappeared from view.”

  My spine tingles, and I put one hand behind my back and clench it. My fingernails dig into my skin, and I focus on the pain, pushing away what the man is implying. That he’s been here the entire time. Watching.

  “Well,” I say briskly. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  “I have questions for you,” I state.

  “That’s not what I’m here for.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m getting to that. Have patience.”

  “I already told you, I’m impatient.”

  “Then maybe I should tell you that I’m also not here to play games. And that I’ll leave for good if you try.”

  Somehow, this feels like a legitimate threat. I don’t know his name, his intentions, his species. But my stomach lurches at the thought of him leaving.

  “Now,” he says, not waiting for a reply. “We should get started.”

  “On what?”

  “I thought you were going to be patient.”

  I nod and purse my lips. Seconds pass, then the man sighs and puts his hand out. For a moment, I think he’s asking me to take his hand, and I reach forward. But the man clasps his hand gently, and a sword springs to life in his palm. Or at least I think that’s what it is. It’s shorter than any sword I’ve ever seen, and it’s made of something red that shimmers and glistens in the light.

  Fire. The sword is made of fire.

  He swings the blade a couple times, as if testing it. All the time, his head doesn’t move, and he faces straight forward. Somehow, I know he’s staring at me.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

  “Impressive,” he says. “Eight seconds without you interrupting me. A new record.”

  “You weren’t talking. So I wasn’t interrupting.”

  His shoulders begin to shake. Up and down, as if he were… laughing. “True, I suppose. I’m Blaize.”

  He tacks his name on so casually, it’s almost like he expected me to already know it. I glance at the sword he’s holding, and then back to the black hole where his face should be. Blaize. It’s strangely fitting, despite his dark exterior.

  He clears his throat. “Before you try to take over the conversation again, I should tell you what I’m here for.”

  Blaize says nothing for a long moment, and I stay quiet
. It’s a test. And, for some reason, my instincts tell me to be a good little pupil for once in my life and pass it.

  Blaize nods after a long minute. “Very good. I guess you can listen.”

  I take this as permission to speak. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to kill your father.”

  I stare at him. Blink. Stare again. And then wildly look around the room, checking that we’re alone. Just uttering those words will get Blaize killed. They’ll get me killed. But no one is in the room, and when I turn back to Blaize, his shoulders are lightly shaking again.

  “This is a… joke?” I step to the side and peer behind the mirror, half expecting to find Farren there laughing at my expression. This has to be some kind of prank. Someone is trying to get a good laugh out of this whole situation, or maybe they’re just trying to drive me insane.

  “No,” Blaize replies. His voice is way too light.

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “Because you look so offended. All these months you’ve tracked Ashe’s murderer, and still you’re offended by the notion of killing.”

  My blood turns to ice crystals in my veins. Cold and sluggish and sharp, it prickles my skin.

  “You…?”

  “Of course I know about your little quest, princess. I know everything.”

  I clear my throat. “So…” I try again. “You are…”

  “Really, princess? First I couldn’t shut you up, and now you have nothing to say. Make up your mind.”

  “You’re a mercenary,” I say slowly. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’ve been hired to kill my father, and I’m a convenient way to get the job done.”

  The room chills until I can see my breaths, each one coming out in a little puff. Ice crystals cling to the sides of the mirror, obscuring the glass with fog, and I instinctively cross my arms against the cold.

  “You accuse me of being a mercenary?” Blaize growls, his voice deepening to a low rumble. He swings his sword in an arc, dispelling the crystals on the glass and making water droplets trickle down the mirror and onto my carpets. “No. This is personal. Strictly, utterly personal.”