by C. M. Lind
“What is it, fool?” snapped Saemund, whirling around to confront the creature. “What could it possibly be?”
Dotard took a step back, almost tripping. “The mercenary! The mercenary needs you!”
“I told you that I don’t care! I’ll meet with him when I want to!”
“Yes,” Stuttered Dotard, “but he insists.”
“Fine!” Saemund practically shouted with a warble to his voice. It echoed off the stone steps.
Dotard’s head snapped around; no one was watching the two.
Saemund followed suit, casting his head around. The stairs were empty and the street below was as well, but the thought that someone could be roused by his volume was enough to quiet his voice. “Fine,” he said in a composed whisper. “Tell him that I’ll meet him tomorrow.”
Dotard’s whole body seemed to exhale. “Good! Good!”
“Same place. Dusk.”
Dotard nodded. He backed away a few more paces before turning to flee.
Saemund forced himself up to the temple. Every step was a heavy reminder of his complete failure, and his punishment was another night pretending to be the priest. Another night of being accosted by visions that could not possibly be his own.
He promised Dotard and Worm that he would do it soon—but the thought of it brought him no joy or the usual excitement that he normally would have felt at the thought. With every step up, he felt as if his body was slowly being filled with dry concrete—he could barely bring himself to move, and his breathing became tight.
Without a sound, he slipped into the temple. Carefully, he avoided alerting anyone to his presence. The prospect of pretending to be the priest around the others was simply too much for him. He was tired, and he wondered if what he was feeling was an utter sense of defeat.
His voice had cracked on the steps with Dotard. Slips like that were happening too much lately.
He knocked his head onto the door to his private room. He felt as if he was unraveling. Usually it would be from the outside in, when his stolen flesh rotted away, but what frightened him in that moment was that it seemed to be happening from the inside out. He saw no quick fix for himself. He couldn’t steal a new mind—no matter how hard he wished it.
The faint scent of the annoying, young initiate lingered outside the door. A sweaty, slightly sour musk of a boy who never washed thoroughly.
The boy was lucky to have missed Saemund that night.
Saemund opened the door, and the accursed place was as he left it, except for one small thing that caught Saemund’s eye immediately: a small envelope was on the nightstand.
He eyed it, standing in the doorway as if it could be a trap, but nothing happened. It sat there as objects do: unmoving and passive. He slinked in, absently closing the door behind him without a sound.
The smell of the initiate was stronger. He had been inside the priest’s room. No doubt he had left the note for Saemund.
Slowly, he walked to the nightstand, picking up the envelope without hesitation. He held it to his nose, breathing in deep. It was definitely the initiate who had handled it and, unfortunately, no one else.
How disappointing. He had figured it was word again from the pompous Justicar. With a sigh he ripped the envelope open with his fingers, tearing it to shreds that fell to the floor. There was only one sheet of paper within, and, upon it, there was a short note: “Under the tree at midnight.”
He looked at the letters. They were fairly competently written, but the unsure lines that wavered just so slightly revealed a hesitant hand. The letter was written by one who had learned Avelinian later in life—it couldn’t have been the Justicar or the fool Conyers. And it couldn’t be the woman, he supposed.
With a sigh, he crumped it, letting it drop onto the floor to rest with the shreds of envelope.
Part of him hoped it was from the woman.
He turned to the window. It was well past midnight. He guessed maybe three or four in the morning. He might have missed his mysterious visitor already, but, he thought, he could at least look. Perhaps he’d be able to smell who had been there waiting for him.
He inadvertently kicked the note under the bed as he headed back out the door. Taking the long way to avoid others, he went down the hall, past the laundry rooms, the kitchen, and the dining area to the inner ward.
The door to the inner ward creaked as if it was surprised at his presence, but no one could hear it. The wind whipped over the temple’s fortress-like walls, and it created a haunting whistling. The leaves of the Mourning tree thrashed about in the strong gusts in a constant murmur. The only other sounds that broke through were the cawing of crows that roused as the occasional piece of fruit fell, alarming them in their sleep.
There were no torches or lanterns lit; the moon was his only light. He looked around, able to see better in the dim lighting than a mere, pathetic human ever could. Beyond the swaying grass and branches, he saw no movement. He took a few steps out, daring any assassin with a cocked crossbow to take his kill shot—but nothing happened.
He stepped about the yard, taking his time walking towards the tree in the center, breathing deep as he did. No scents came to him other than the freshly trimmed grass and the bitter, earthy scent of the tree bark.
Without his sense of smell he had no idea how he would ever know who had visited him that night—although his mind told him his best bet was probably the man Conyers. Who else would want to show their power by sneaking into the heart of the Ankerite Temple to murder a priest?
He stepped over to the tree. Freshly fallen fruit squished under his feet, but he didn’t hesitate. Someone may have left some clue for him, and he had to be sure he checked everywhere.
The moment he stepped close to the massive tree, whose trunk was wider than him with his arms outstretched, a shadow moved from behind it, peeking out at him.
He did not falter nor step back. He stood and waited.
The shadow was far too thin to be the powerless master of assassins. A small smile crept onto his face.
“Do you not know,” said the shadow, stepping completely out from behind the trunk, “that it is dangerous to be out at such an hour? There are monsters afoot at such a time.”
Saemund’s repressed laugh turned into a snort. “I am aware of such a thing.”
“You’re late.” She walked over to him. Her arms were sternly crossed.
In his mind, he saw himself grab her. She was within arms’ reach and had no weapons drawn. “I seem to be running behind on almost everything lately.”
She shrugged. “I won’t hold it against you.”
He’d lock her with his arm, drop to the ground, and snap her tiny fucking neck in an instant.
She took a step further, and a bream of moonlight that trickled through the leaves bathed her pale, faintly-freckled face in its glow. “You haven’t come to visit me.”
Saemund raised his brow. “You seemed to wish not to see my face.” His pulse was speeding.
The woman nodded once, seemingly unaware of Saemund’s unease. “That has never stopped you before.”
He swallowed. His mouth felt dry. He slowed his thoughts down. He had to think it through, he reprimanded himself. It would be a gamble to sneak her body back into the temple, dismember her, and cram her into the latrines. Someone could see him, and then he would potentially have a whole lot of other bodies to deal with.
But it would only take a second, he told himself. One second of touching her and it would be over. Only a second. Only.
She narrowed her brows ever so slightly as his silence. “You have been a stranger as of late.”
“A stranger?” Saemund echoed back.
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Saemund scoffed, turning himself away from her.
She shot her hand out, catching him by the shoulder. He allowed her to stop him, but he kept his gaze away. He had to think of the better way to deal with her body, and he couldn’t think of such things if he looked at her.
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“Yes. A stranger, but a stranger I have come to—” She removed her hand. “I don’t know the word.” She shrugged.
He turned his head back to her in shock, and his thoughts of snapping her neck fled as he looked at her. “What?” he whispered. “A stranger you what?” he asked again.
“Respect?” she pondered aloud. “Last time you visited me, you listened to me. All of it. You wanted to hear it, and you stood and listened.”
Saemund’s eyes were wide, and he stood motionless before her save for a few quick blinks. Adrenaline was beginning to pump through his quickening heart, and there was an unusual tingling in his true skin.
“It says I can’t trust anyone. It says Aimee hides things from me. But you, I don’t think you really are—at least not anymore.” Her hand left him, and he felt his shoulder push forward just ever-so-slightly after her. She crossed her arms again, but she kept her eyes locked with his. “You wanted to know what I am, and I told you, and I think, by telling you, I started to see what you really are.”
Saemund took a step back, crushing another piece of fruit under his heel. “No.” He shook his head.
“Then why have you been so different?”
“I haven’t.” His voice warbled slightly.
“You have. Tell me, like you told me the truth about that Justicar visiting.”
He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “I am simply comfortable around you—since we have been friends for so long.”
Her arms shot to his, and she grabbed him, hard around his bicep. “That is horseshit!”
He looked down at her hands upon him. It hurt, and the tingling on his skin turned into a strange, hot sensation that unfurled through his body, leaving him feel as if his very bones were trembling. “I,” he stuttered briefly, “don’t know what else you want to hear.” No one had seen through him before. He was losing it. Everything. His character. His mind. It all was falling apart.
“You always looked at me with familial eyes—like I was a sister to you. That has changed.”
He should have pulled away, ripping himself from her stabbing fingers, but he didn’t. He stood there, his mouth open but saying nothing.
“I told you things I had never told another. Things that replay in my mind over and over again.” She shook him. “Thoughts that no one should be alright with, but you are.”
“Stop it!” he begged.
“You should be appalled. Revolted! Disgusted!” She threw her hands out. “Instead of running off to tell a Justicar where I am, you tell me about his prying! Why do you protect me?”
He grabbed her arms, pulling them down to her waist. “Stop it!” he growled through gritted teeth.
She jerked her head back at the strength in his hands, but she didn’t pull away. “What did Conyers want? What were you going to tell me?”
He stared at her lips. They were left ajar, and they looked wickedly dark in the pale light, like a deep, juicy plum. He swallowed. “Nothing that matters.”
“Fuck you!” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s shit, and you know it.” She jerked her arms free from him, stepping forward to get right in his face. “You were going to tell me that night, so tell me.”
He inhaled, and, even with the pervading scent of the bitter bark, he smelled her brilliantly.
She was perilously close to him.
Her eyes darted back and forth across his face, looking at every each of the priest’s skin. “I want to trust you.” Her lips parted for a few moments, unsure of what to say. “Show me I can.”
The heat in his blood turned to an ache starting at the base of his spine, slowly working its way through his hips. “You should go,” he muttered, unable to meet her gaze.
“I should, shouldn’t I?” She didn’t move.
He nodded and swallowed again.
She grabbed the front of his robe, jerking him even close to her.
His head shot down to look the woman, who was several inches shorter than him, in the eyes. Her small chest was pressed against him, and, even through her leather and wool, she felt enticingly warm.
“What did he want?” she demanded, her words as strong and insistent as her grasp.
He snorted at her in disbelief—his own mostly. “To spy on you of course, just like everyone else in your life.”
She tightened her grasp on him and narrowed her brow. “You weren’t already?”
He let her pull him in even closer, bringing his own eyes to hers. “I don’t spy for your pathetic master.” His words were rigid and hard, daring her to question him.
She smiled at him. It was a wicked thing, and he imagined it being the smile she wore when she beat the man at the inn. Smashing his beautiful face. Her smiling the whole while.
She bared her teeth as her smile grew wider. “What did you say to him, then?”
His hands were on her shoulders, and he whispered, “I told him to get fucked.”
She laughed, and he felt her breath on his face. “Good.”
He kissed her, hard, cutting her laughter off, and she did not fight back against him. That deep hunger in him to consume had returned, and it would not be denied.
Her hands slipped from his chest to envelope him, pressing him against her. Every nerve of the priest’s flesh ignited, and Saemund shivered, having never known such a sensation. His mind turned off as she touched him wherever she pleased, removing his robe within seconds to cast it upon the ground.
Saemund was born to take direction, and, with the woman, it was no different. With his back against the fallen robe and her on top of him, she ordered him as she pleased. His hands and body only moved when she told him to, and her small, light gasps were his reward.
Slabs of dead flesh, to him, suddenly lost their appeal for good.
The hunger that arose in him thrice that morning was stronger than he had ever known, and it was far more powerful. But, for the first time in Saemund’s miserable existence, he was able to quell it, underneath the Mourning tree, with the woman.
Chapter 48
With only four days to go until the Jubilee, Saemund had finally answered Randolph’s messages. The two were to meet that night at The Hound’s Breath. The news should have relieved Randolph, but, instead, he found himself filled with a strange unease—similar to how he had felt meeting the thing before. But for meeting that night, after so much inexplicable silence from Saemund, the anxiety was far worse than ever before.
But it needed to be done.
Four days left, and a third of his already underwhelming guards were still ill. He would have felt a lot better about everything if he knew Saemund would be in attendance, closely watching Jae. Balfour was a pretty poodle on display; Saemund would be the real watchdog.
It was only ten in the morning, and Randolph figured that Jae would still be asleep given his exertions from the night before, but Randolph needed to talk to Jae about security. He had put it off long enough. He hoped he wasn’t the only one worried about the Jubilee, but he was starting to think he was.
Randolph knocked thrice on his door, quietly at first, but then he struck louder after a few seconds.
No answer.
He tried again.
No answer or sounds preceded the door as it flew open, and Jae, with his hastily tied robe hanging off of his shoulders, was staring at him. “What?” he snapped. He wore a nasty sneer and a crinkled nose until he saw that it was Randolph.
Randolph took a step back from the man who was known for his temper tantrums.
“Oh,” Jae put on a small smile, “it is you, my good man.” He gestured for Randolph to enter his parlor as he turned back to his room, heading straight for a table laden with trays of sweet breads and carafes of juice.
Randolph took a second to process the invite. Jae had a very strict policy about anyone entering his room, and Randolph did not even know what his quarters looked like. The first room was the parlor, and it had several plush chairs, two chaises, vividly woven tapestries, lush blankets and matching pil
lows all in wine red, an unlit fireplace, two doors leading elsewhere, and a large window overlooking the gardens below.
“Hungry?” Jae asked, tapping a metal platter of honey-glazed popovers with his nails.
Randolph smiled. “Perhaps a bit.”
“By all means.” Jae gestured to the platters on the table with a sweeping hand.
Randolph stepped inside, walking straight to Jae’s side—which also happened to be right next to the popovers. “We need to talk about security—” started Randolph before being cut off by Jae.
“At this hour you bring me such a depressing topic?” Jae laughed, elbowing Randolph in his ribs. “This is why I do not allow others in my quarters. This is a space of joy and peace—not dullness!”
“I understand,” Randolph said slowly and as respectfully as he could muster given his frustration. “But my requests have been denied outright by Ety, and I need to talk to you.”
“That does not sound like him.” Jae poured himself a glass of dark purple juice. “Denying you whatever you need for my party?”
“Well.” Randolph sighed. “He has.”
“Then what is it you need?” Jae took a small sip of juice. “My party must be perfect after all.”
“More men,” said Randolph. “A lot more men.”
“I thought my dear cousin already saw to that.” Jae leaned against the table, taking another sip.
“Your ‘dear cousin’ brought me boys better suited for a whorehouse than a guards’ post!”
Jae laughed, a wicked, unsettling cackle. “That does sound like him, does it not?”
“Yeah.” Randolph smiled. “It does.”
Randolph made a mental note to visit Ety’s bar again that evening after visiting Saemund—some innocent fun, he figured, as a reward for seeing the monster.
“That being said, you will simply have to make due. Etienne wished to have a larger role this year—you know how he gets bored—so I told him he could make certain appointments.”
“But—” interjected Randolph as politely as he could, which was nowhere near as polite as he intended.
Jae ignored him, playing with his cup of juice. “You would think the man would be happy enough with his duties. Last year, I let him choose the color theme and flower arrangements—but no!” Jae huffed.