He paused long enough to grace me with a scowl. “I could endure it, same as you did.” I raised an eyebrow at him and he resumed his march. “There are apartments in the university quarter, I’m sure. I could rent a modest room, or perhaps share one with a few fellow students of reasonable quality.” It was obvious I’d never dissuade him, so I didn’t bother to try. I’d miss him, though, if he went, and it saddened me to think on it.
My occasional evenings with Adrian served to lift my spirits, despite Quintin’s storm cloud presence. We grew more confident in our anonymity, and more often than not, spent much of the evening sharing mead with common sailors. I found them to be a riotous lot, full of elaborate stories and quick to laugh. Many of them, it turned out, were musically inclined. On nights when there was no fiddler in attendance, someone would invariably start in on some popular drinking tune, and soon an entire chorus of bleary-eyed lads was roaring along.
It heartened me to see several young women among their ranks, and not a few stripling boys. They were hassled often, but always with a sense of amity and goodwill, and usually gave as good as they got. Dressed in the same sea-worn breeches and tunics, it was at times difficult to tell them from the men. The women wore their hair back, tightly plaited or in a club. I found a sense of camaraderie among them that I’d not known since my days at the garrison.
Adrian, for his part, turned out to be just as foul-mouthed and licentious as any common sailor, though he kept the latter relatively restrained. He relaxed greatly in the presence of his own kind. The carefully composed demeanor he maintained at court melted away, and he often joined in heartily as the men belted lewd shanties. It was on one such raucous occasion that Natalia let slip that it was my handsome companion’s name day. A great cry went up around our well-populated table as Adrian hid his face in one hand.
A particularly garrulous man of indeterminate foreign origin jumped up on his chair. “Right, you salty fucks,” he roared in his strange accent. Numerous weathered faces turned toward him. “It’s the captain’s birthday, and we’ve a mind to celebrate proper!” He pointed at one sailor. “Remy, get your skin. I’ll fetch me pipes.” They both returned several minutes later, and the mysterious instruments referred to turned out to be a drum and a strange assemblage of flute-like pipes attached to a large bladder. The two of them dragged chairs to the hearthside and posted up. A lively rhythm thundered from the stretched skin, beaten skillfully with a double-ended mallet. A flushed red face blew forcefully into one pipe, the bag inflating beneath one arm. A haunting note sprang forth, long and wailing, unlike anything I’d ever heard before. Fingers grasped one of the stems protruding from the strange instrument, and as they began to dance across the holes, a lively tune arose.
Sailors around me pounded the tables in time with the drum. Adrian was hauled unceremoniously to his feet by several pairs of hands and herded toward the open floor, my own personage similarly enlisted by a crush of insistent bodies delivering me into his arms. It was a flurry of festivity around us, with the strange, haunting music as its backbone. The drum drove us onward, feet stomping and hands clapping, exultation a fever sweeping the room.
I don’t know how long it lasted. I surrendered my modest purse full of coppers to purchase a round for as many as such coin would buy. I’d no earthly idea, but doing so ingratiated me in the eyes of my companions, and I was loudly and drunkenly proclaimed their First. When they lifted me briefly above the crowd in their exuberance, I spotted Quintin pressed unhappily into one corner. Strong hands caught me amid my graceless descent as I was practically dropped back to the floor, storm gray eyes capturing mine as surely as his hands on my waist.
I sobered, feeling the press of his body against me, heat radiating through the fabric of our clothes. I forced myself to speak. “I’m sorry,” I murmured into the small space between us. “I’d no idea it was your birthday. I’ve no gift for you.”
Adrian smiled and shook his head, then lowered his lips to mine, kissing me ever so gently. Gods, his lips! So full and so desperately soft, I thought I might lose myself. I parted mine, inviting him deeper, gripping his arms as he slid one hand to the small of my back, pulling me tight against him. When he finally released me, I felt light-headed. I hadn’t heard the resounding cheer erupt around us.
Our companions pressed fresh mugs into our hands and someone shouted an unintelligible toast into the din. More cheers, more toasts, and more drunken revelry and dancing followed, lasting well into the night. By the time we left the Greyshor, Quintin was in a rare mood and I was fantastically drunk.
He helped me into my saddle but must not have believed me capable of staying in it, because he led both his mount and mine up the streets of Dockside in a slow march back toward our family’s manor. I swayed silently atop my ambling gelding, reliving the memory of Adrian’s lips and his hands on my waist. We plodded along through the early morning shadows, the streets empty. My gelding tossed his head in surprise when Quintin halted abruptly, head cocked, listening.
They were on us before I knew what was happening, three men springing from some nearby alleyway. One grabbed my mount’s bit, wrenching him harshly away from my guardian. The beast squealed in pain and terror, the other horse shying hard. A second man made a grab for its reins but missed, and it bolted into the night. With a curse, he turned back toward Quintin and drew a long knife. Moonlight glinted off two swords, crossed before his body in a defensive stance as he circled the third rogue, who gestured with a similar blade.
“Now, now, boyo. Don’t be doing anything rash. We’d hate to have to hurt the missus.” His voice chilled my blood and I felt the tip of a dagger prick the underside of my chin. My captor had moved alongside me, pressing his body against my leg. He sneered, lifting the edge of my cloak and dress. Icy terror ran down my spine, quickly followed by anger.
“Maybe we could keep this one, just for a bit,” he called to the others. One dingy hand closed on my calf, sliding up my thigh beneath my wool gown, to the place only James had known. “Oh, I think she likes me.” The claws of humiliation and shame raked my chest as he fondled me beneath my skirts.
“Left!” Quintin’s voice rang out in the night, jarring me from my terrified paralysis. In a panicked motion, I knocked my captor’s weapon hand away from my throat with my left forearm. My right drew Shera’s belt knife from under my cloak and, with all my force, I plunged it into his throat. He staggered back, grasping at the hilt protruding from his neck. I can still see the surprise in his eyes to this day. He was the first man I ever killed.
I turned just in time to see Quintin’s upward slash finish the second of the two remaining assailants. The other already lay motionless on the ground, blood darkening the cobblestones. He rushed to my side, checking me briefly before stepping over to my attacker, who had slumped against a nearby building. Labored breath gurgled around the pooling blood and steel in his throat. Though his body blocked my view, I could hear Quintin wrench my dagger free from the man’s neck. The gurgling ceased, and I leaned over the side of my mount and emptied the contents of my stomach onto the street.
“Easy, miss.” He returned to my side, patting my back in an awkward attempt at comfort. I couldn’t watch as he wiped his blades clean on the cloaks of our assailants and returned them with practiced ease to his baldric. After cleaning my knife similarly, he re-sheathed it at my waist and tugged my cloak tight about me. Taking the reins, he proceeded to lead my spooked gelding, and me atop it, back home.
I don’t remember the rest of the journey. I’m not sure when I began trembling. I do remember being unable to move when we arrived back at the stable. I recall Quintin’s arms pulling me carefully from my saddle and carrying me into the house. I remember fighting him, demanding to be let go, not wanting to be touched. He watched me patiently as I pushed him away, still shaking violently.
Shera stumbled down the stairs, a choked cry of alarm escaping her lips at the sight of me, followed by a short exchange of whispers, none of which
I could process. Her hands, I could tolerate, and she helped guide me to my bedchamber. Quintin followed at a careful distance. As she made to shut the door behind us, my hand seized the frame and I turned. Pale blue eyes watched me.
“Stay.” It was all the intelligible speech I could manage, something between a command and a plea. I felt like an animal in a trap, tearing myself to pieces.
He nodded once, drawing one sword and turning to rest his back against the wall beside my bedroom door. I heard the tip of his blade settle on the carpeted hallway floor at his feet as Shera turned the latch. Pulling off my clothes, she threw them aside and tugged a cotton shift over my head before tucking me into my blankets.
“Hush now, miss,” she crooned reassuringly, though her face remained stricken with concern. “You’ll be alright. I’ll be right here.” She pulled a chair up to my bedside and stroked my hair. I drew close to sleep several times, only to shoot awake at the memory of a grimy hand or a choked gurgle. Finally, blessedly, I managed to drift off.
Barely two hours had passed before I bolted awake again, startling Shera out of her slumber, slumped on her forearms at the edge of my bed. When her confusion had cleared, she patted my hand solicitously, sunlight peeking through the curtains.
“There, now, miss. It’s morning.” Stifling a yawn, she stood. “You’ll feel much better after a bath.”
As she went to fetch Ellen and Poppy, I caught sight of the edge of a dark brown sleeve outside the door. Sliding from the bed, I made my way toward the threshold, peeking my head around the frame. Quintin stepped away from me and bowed stiffly, sheathing his sword with less grace than usual. He’d been standing there all night, or what little of it had remained.
“I expect you in the garden in one hour.” I recoiled, stung. He could be cruel, but this? His pale eyes met mine, and there was something almost kind in them. “Trust me,” he pressed more gently. At that, he left me to wait for Shera and the others.
She was right, the steaming water did help, though it felt wasteful given that I’d need another bath in a matter of hours. A fresh glass of Greta’s tonic, once stomached, helped take some of the cacophony from my head. My quiet friend shooed the other maids away and set about scrubbing me with a ferocity she’d not shown since I returned from the garrison. When I was thoroughly scoured, skin and scalp, she ushered me from the water, patting me dry dispassionately. I found it oddly comforting, and couldn’t understand why. When I was dressed in my breeches and tunic, she fetched my sword belt for me. I hesitated when she held it out.
“You cannot let them break you, miss.” Her timid voice resounded firmly, resolute. She thrust the belt at me. “You cannot let them take you from yourself.”
“They’re dead,” I informed her, my unused voice hoarse and hollow.
Her gaze was unwavering, tears glinting in her eyes. “They will take you all the same if you let them.” When I still would not accept the belt from her, she stepped forward and shoved it hard against my chest. “You are the heir of Lazerin, and they cannot break you.” She let go and reflex forced me to catch them in my arms. After a moment, I slowly buckled my weapons about my waist, adjusting the sword to sit comfortably on my hip. I felt a little bit better, a little bit stronger, with their weight. Shera gripped my shoulders reassuringly and pushed me gently out the door. My feet carried me to the garden as my mind tumbled uncontrollably through the unbridled chaos of my emotions.
When I stepped out into the brisk morning air, Quintin was waiting. He stood sentry in his usual spot before the fountain, watching me. Unmoving, he waited for me to approach as close as I cared to. We stared at one another for a long while, the feel of vulnerable flesh parting beneath my knife haunting my memory. Vindication and horror warred against one another inside the tumult beneath my skin. Every inch of me strained with the effort of containing too much, feeling too much. For once, I envied Quintin his detachment. I wished I could cut all of it out, and feel nothing.
“It gets easier,” he finally broke our mutual silence.
I watched him, a pit of understanding opening in my gut, and wished he was a better liar. “No, it doesn’t.”
His nostrils flared as he exhaled. “No, no it doesn’t.”
All my hard work, all my training, amounted to naught. I’d thought I was safe, untouchable, capable. What an imbecile. If Quintin hadn’t been there, my corpse would be feeding rats in an alley. Maybe it should be. They all tolerate your fantasy, but you’ll never be more than a stupid little girl playing pretend.
Another long silence stretched as the hateful voices in my head continued to point out my every shortcoming. “What now?” I asked, trying to escape my mind.
He watched me from behind his careful mask. “Now you have your reason to train, to work harder, to be better.”
Desperate tears filled my eyes. “I can’t.” Swallowing them forcefully, I let my frustration take the lead. “I’m not like you.”
Not a soldier, not a fighter, just a stupid girl.
“You are what you choose to be - what you mold yourself into.”
As the cruel voice cackled inside my head, I gestured angrily at my body. “I will always be this! Weak and frail and pathetic. Prey for the nearest set of sharp teeth.”
He crossed the space between us and grabbed me roughly by the collar of my tunic. “Only if that is what you decide. Make your choice.” He shook me once, eyes glinting. “Is that what you are?” Another shake. “Is it?” He froze as the point of my dagger pricked his ribs in warning. I had drawn it without thinking as he rushed me. Something akin to approval flickered beneath the careful mask on his face and he released me slowly, taking a few steps back. “I thought not.”
The blade trembled in my hand, my knuckles white around its hilt.
“You are no one’s prey, Elivya,” he said gently.
The vivid memory of my terrified paralysis burned in my gut. “I have spent years trying to learn the sword.” Hot rivulets of soul-consuming frustration streamed down my cheeks.
He tilted his head, his voice matter-of-fact. “You spent three months at the garrison two years ago. Since then, your only practice until very recently has been irregular sparring with a partner no more skilled than yourself. What drills you’ve done on your own have been without supervision or correction.”
I nodded slowly, bitterly. “So it has all been a great farce, then.”
“There is no greater teacher than experience.”
“Experience!” I gasped, a harsh laugh escaping me. “So far, my experience has been to freeze and tremble like a mewling child.”
He jabbed a finger at me pointedly. “You acted when it mattered.”
“Would I have, if you hadn’t been there?” I challenged bitterly. “They would have passed me around like a wineskin and left me for dead in some alley, yet now all I can see is his face.” A bit of madness crept into my voice, and the heel of my free hand ground into my eyes. “A man I had every reason to kill haunts me as though I’d murdered my best friend.”
“They will all haunt you.”
“Why?” I demanded angrily.
“Because that is the cost,” he stated plainly. “It is the Mother’s grace alone that breathes us into being. When you extinguish life in this world, you dare to tread in the gods’ domain. There is a price for such hubris.”
“It is unfair.”
“Fair or not, you will pay it all the same.”
I was adrift in my rage, my self-loathing, my despair. “And you?” I grasped for an anchor. “How many faces do you carry?”
He hesitated for the barest moment. “Eight.”
I turned the number over in my head a few times. Two of those were at my behest. Guilt piled itself atop the mountain of hateful emotions writhing beneath my skin. “How do you live with them?” I asked quietly, shaking my head.
“With the knowledge that each of them would have gladly killed me. That today may be the day someone takes on my face to carry for the rest of theirs
. That each dawn, each breath, each meal is a sacred gift, and I have paid the price required to understand how truly precious they are.”
I felt empty, hollow, drained. His words steadied me, giving me a patch of ground to force under my feet. A sacred gift?
“Now put that away,” he added quietly, gesturing at the knife still clutched in my hand. “And let’s get to work.”
It was a light practice, focusing mainly on breaking down the one-handed drills I’d learned at the garrison and practiced a thousand times. I thought it would make me even more bitter, to have all my shortcomings cataloged, but I was wrong. Quintin corrected without condemning, demonstrating slowly some of the intricacies of specific sections and explaining why they were important. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and I felt some of the tightness and the trembling leave my body. My mind stilled, the cruel voice vanishing as I focused on each swing, each pivot, each block.
After two hours, Shera appeared in the doorway to call us to breakfast. Every small step I’d taken back from the edge of my suffocating despair was immediately undone. The thought of facing my parents filled me with panic, a rush of visceral memory and anchorless emotion returning to crush my chest from the inside out.
“Elivya,” Quintin’s steady voice called me back from the tumult of my thoughts as he stood watching me squirm in my own skin.
“I should go wash up.” My voice shook.
He considered me a moment. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I don’t think so.” He crossed the distance between us, careful not to touch me. “Come on.” I followed him into the house and down the hall to the dining room, where my parents sat talking quietly with the rest of our household. Their conversation ceased as we entered, and Quintin herded me to my chair, taking the one beside me, far closer than his usual self-imposed isolation at the opposite end of the table. Our weapons clattered softly against the wooden furniture. He’d not even allowed me time to remove my sword belt, so I sat, feeling foolish and filthy in my breeches and tunic. My parents exchanged a glance but made no comment. Gabe and Preston eyed us in confusion. Unfazed, Quintin began filling his plate.
A Crown of Lilies Page 14