To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  Charging toward Eyzar, I sweep my cloak around her back to shield her from the wind and the sight of so much death; the motion clearing a patch of thick mud from her right shoulder.

  My arm stills. Stride stills.

  The blood in my fucking veins stills.

  Strange markings tarnish her exposed skin, like vines crept across it and left an inky stamp ...

  Something inside me blackens and curls as words canter through my thoughts—words that were chipped into stone by a vile, grisly hand years ago.

  Words that settle in my stomach like a rock.

  Light will bloom from sky and soil,

  Skin tarnished by the brand of death …

  I almost touch the birthmark cresting the blade of her trembling shoulder, then snatch my hand back and curse.

  I promised I wouldn’t hurt her.

  I lied.

  None of this made sense before, and now it makes too much fucking sense.

  No wonder Aravyn kept her hidden. No wonder the fucking Shulák were here. No wonder this necklace is so heavy in my pocket ...

  But she was wrong to pull such a pledge from me. Her hope was blind, set on the shoulders of the wrong person.

  The child tips her head and tries to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp.

  Nausea spikes up my throat.

  She saved herself from three ferocious Vruks who tore her life to shreds, only to crawl into the arms of a fiercer threat.

  There will be no glory in this death. No shade of honor. Only the blood of a frightened child on my hands.

  Smother her while she sleeps or catch the lethal grace.

  She looks up at me, trying to speak through a throat that’s been scraped raw.

  “It’s okay,” I lie, cupping the back of her head and easing her close. Her cheek settles on my chest again; a comfort that can only be temporary.

  Make it quick.

  I press my fingertips between her ribs, feeling the beat of her galloping target. That noose of shadows thickens, like the Irilak are anticipating the warm meal to garnish their banquet.

  Fuck.

  My neck buckles, face dropping into her soot-stained hair. Floral spice whips up and snatches me, dragging my nose deeper until my mouth is pressed against a fresh wound sliced into her scalp.

  Liquid warms my lips, and I jerk back, but carnal instinct has my tongue darting out ...

  The taste of her blood is a bolt to my brain.

  My heart.

  My fucking soul.

  My legs give way, and I fall to my knees, pulling sharp slices of air through a constricting throat. Every muscle in my body hardens, veins pushing to the surface, my very matter trying to take up more space in the world that suddenly seems too small. Too cruel.

  Too fucking dangerous.

  I tip my head, seeking the fading stars through twisted ropes of smoke, teeth bared as if I could leap up and chew the prickles of light until their luster no longer sits in the sky. “You bastards …”

  I snarl, grip tightening.

  No.

  Pushing to my feet, I make for my horse in long, determined strides. I climb atop the saddle, bundle the child in my lap, and kick the beast forward—scattering the noose of shadows and my dwindling self-respect in the same ugly motion.

  “Go fuck yourselves,” I mutter, severing my sight of the stars by charging beneath the ancient canopy of trees.

  The child will not die tonight, but not for the right reasons ...

  This act is purely selfish.

  The needle’s sharp tip turns red from the lick of the candle flame, blazing with a fiery heartbeat. I whip it away and shake it out.

  Vicious little thing.

  Waiting for it to cool, I sit cross-legged on my bed and flit my gaze around the room, sweeping over the curved, obsidian walls pierced with large, domed windows every few feet. Between them, paintings big and small decorate the stone, pressed on with a homemade glue.

  The gentle bend is only kind to things that yield, and I refuse to wake every morning to sullen walls that have no color splashed across them. I see enough of that walking around the castle every day.

  All my furniture has been made to fit the space—a curved dresser, my four-poster bed with a headboard that arcs, even my bath molds against the stone cylinder of the central stairwell. Against the outer wall, a narrow table sweeps around a quarter of the circumference, its surface littered with bunches of dried flowers, numerous mortar and pestles, little jars of bits and bobs ... and rocks. Lots of sable rocks in various shapes and sizes, many dressed or half-dressed in colorful brushstrokes.

  Turning my back on a smooth rock is always a challenge. Nine times out of ten, they end up stashed in my bag, carted up my tower, and assaulted with a paintbrush.

  The exterior of my central stairwell has a fireplace and a wooden door pressed into it—the only way in or out of my chamber, unless you count the dramatic drop over the edge of the balcony’s balustrade.

  A few years ago, I painted that door black, then spent nine months embellishing it with a littering of luminous stars that perfectly depict the night sky. There’s even a moon half steeped in shadow.

  Something I can look at when the clouds are dense and angry.

  I press the needle’s tip against the pad of my middle finger until I feel a painful pinch, and a bulb of bright red blood races to the surface of the tiny wound.

  My lips curl.

  It shouldn’t give me so much satisfaction, watching myself bleed like this. But it does. Because this blood, this little act of self-harm, it’s not for me.

  It’s for him.

  Rhordyn.

  I place the needle on a clay plate atop my bedside table, then dip my finger in the belly of a crystal goblet half-full of water.

  The liquid blushes pink—the color of a healthy, mid-spring bloom.

  I sigh, wondering if he’ll like it. If he’ll think it too pink or too red? He never complains, never says anything about it, and that’s just the issue.

  Not knowing.

  Swirling the flush contents, I pad toward the exit and drop to a kneel, now eye level with the smaller door cut into the thick, aged wood speckled with hand-painted stars.

  The Safe.

  That’s the name Cook gave it when I was too small to do my offering on my own. It stuck with me.

  I’ve measured my life by this wee door—by my need to first stretch onto tippy toes, then stand flat-footed, then bend at the hip to access it.

  Pulling it open, I reveal an empty cavity not much larger than my crystal goblet. Its walls are rough and grooved, as though hacked into existence by an irate hand.

  I set my offering on the base; a pretty parallel to its cell of unrefined wood.

  As always, I envy the stupid goblet for the way it’s about to be gripped and cradled and drunk from ... presumably.

  It gets so close to everything I shouldn’t want, and has therefore earned itself my unrequited hate.

  I shut The Safe, drop onto my bum, and slide back across the floor, arms knotted around my knees while I study the two doors—so very different from each other.

  One, I often choose to keep closed, using it as a barrier to block out the world whenever I feel the need to stow away. The smaller of the two, I wish I could keep open at this time of night so I could look Rhordyn in the eye while he takes my offering.

  I tried it once ... a year ago. Sat here barely blinking until well after midnight. He only came once I slammed The Safe shut and severed the bridge.

  That’s when it dawned on me just how much trouble I’m in.

  Heavy footsteps echo up my tower, mixing with the tune of my hammering heart.

  I close my eyes and count his steps, picturing him scaling the spiral staircase that winds up the inside of my stairwell, getting all the way to one hundred and forty-eight before his footfalls finally slow; as they always do right before he crests upon the upper landing.

  I imagine him standing by my door, digging throu
gh his pocket, fitting the key into the lock—his lips a hard line cut across his face. I imagine a flicker of pleasure igniting those galvanized eyes when he reveals the crystal goblet laden with my boastful offering.

  It’s a pretty lie I like to paint; a fabled reality where he needs me just as much as I need him. Something that helps tame this unwanted feeling sprouting in my chest.

  The door closes with a hollow thud, and I dart forward, pressing my ear against the wood, listening to the rhythmic beat of his descent.

  When I check The Safe in the morning, the goblet will be sitting there, empty of liquid but brimming with questions that slosh onto me every time I remove it.

  Why does he need it? What does he use it for? Does he like this ... thing between us?

  Because I do.

  I look forward to it; deflate when the moment passes. Lose myself to fantasies about it far too often—ones where I watch him drink me from that crystal goblet, holding his stare the entire time.

  Ones where it’s not shuttered away as if we have something to be ashamed of.

  I pluck my brush off the bed and make for the twin balcony doors beside my bedside table, stepping out into the brisk, twilight air before I begin the tedious task of combing a day’s worth of knots from my long, tawny hair.

  I like to pretend I come out here to watch the evening mature, even as I tilt onto tippy toes and peer over the balustrade, searching the grounds for any hint of movement—my brush merely a prop to keep my hands busy.

  Though I’m tucked in a tower that sometimes nests amongst the clouds, I still choke on my heart when Rhordyn emerges from the grand castle doors, stalking in long, determined strides across the field toward the forest that fringes the estate.

  He never looks up. Never seeks me out.

  He simply walks the border, then disappears into the smudge of sage, moss, and seaweed green that stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction but south.

  Always the same monotonous routine I can’t tear away from.

  The sun drops below the horizon, cauterizing its spill of light, and a blow of cold, briny air plays with the hem of my shirt, prickling my flesh and making my teeth chatter.

  I part my hair into three long sections and work it into a braid. By the time I’ve plaited the entire length, any remaining light has bled off the land and my fingers are numb from the chill.

  He hasn’t returned.

  My footfalls back inside always feel heavier.

  Stifling a yawn, I reach my bedside table and rifle through the many corked bottles stashed on a tray. I lift one and tip it from side to side, frowning at the tide of thin, indigo liquid sloshing around ...

  I swear there was more.

  With a huff, I jam the thing back on the tray, blow out the candle, and crawl into bed.

  My bottom lip cops a beating from the nervous chew of my teeth, and I curse, tugging the dense quilt around my neck and turning toward the northern windows.

  The sky is a velvet blanket littered with stars that wink at me for the first time in a week. Light is spilling off the moon, pouring through the windows, highlighting the many glass bottles kept within arm’s reach.

  Highlighting the fact that all but one are empty.

  I bite down on a shiver—one not born of the early spring chill but of the storm lashing my insides with pulse-scattering bolts ...

  For the first time in months, I’m sleeping sober.

  Their eyes are wide and unblinking, mouths hanging open as if their bodies fell apart halfway through the breath still caught between their lips. They all lost bits of themselves, and the pieces that remain are too still.

  Too silent.

  Only the monsters are left.

  I’m missing something. Something important. I can feel it in my chest; an emptiness that seems to weigh me down.

  I squeeze my eyes shut—block out the burning, crumbling world, and try to fit the pieces together.

  A shrill sound akin to nails dragging down a plate almost splits me apart. Again and again it sings its spiteful tune, fraying my insides.

  I bloody my throat with a scream

  Wetness dribbles from my nose, and I bash my ears with balled fists that threaten to cave my skull.

  The warring vista falls away, eroding on a brisk wind until I’m standing on a cliff, peering down into a gloomy chasm. There’s a peaceful silence that’s no less terrifying than the shrill sounds that tore at me, and liquid is no longer dripping from my nose ...

  It’s gushing.

  I stumble away from the jagged edge—

  Lugged upright like a floppy doll, a sharp breath slices through my throat as my eyes pop open, a metallic taste heavy on my tongue. Steady hands hook around my upper arms but do nothing to quell the tremors.

  My clammy skin is the only thing stopping my bones from scattering all over the bed.

  A disheveled flop of auburn hair half shutters the frantic perusal of familiar brown eyes glazed by a flickering candle flame. Baze’s lips are moving in sync with the ball in his throat, yet I hear nothing over the roaring sound inside my skull.

  I realize I’m clawing at his bare shoulders and pry my hands away, drag them down my face, and scream. That scream turns to a sob, then bleeds into a raspy plea while Baze’s lips keep shaping words.

  You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

  I’m not.

  My brain is a ball of sizzling, molten lava that’s going to explode.

  I can’t escape.

  Bracketing my temples, I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the world, rocking back and forth ...

  A sulfuric odor smacks the air, and my eyes pop open.

  Caspun.

  I lean forward, lips parted, seeking that cooling balm for my insides.

  Baze frowns and grips my chin, tilting my head. A splash of liquid hits my tongue, and I swallow.

  Gag.

  No matter how many times I punish myself with this bottle-bile, the taste never seems to grow on me. Yet I still reach for it, night after night, like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the world.

  Numbness rushes down my throat, stemming the calamity in my head and easing my swollen brain. I moan, then open my mouth for more despite the fact that Baze no longer has my chin in a vice.

  “Orlaith ...”

  I snatch the vial, wetting my tongue with another healthy glug. It’s hard to ignore Baze’s icy tenor as I swallow the slur of blessed, quag-tasting crap with a wince.

  He seizes the caspun, eyes slitted.

  “What?” I croak, falling back to the bed. I roll sideways and curl into myself while I wait for the last of the pressure to abate.

  “You know what,” Baze gripes before dragging a sniff from the bottle’s neck. His face screws up, and he makes a vexing sound that almost makes me smile. “What the hell have you mixed in here? It never used to smell like this.”

  I swipe damp hair from my face and tick off my fingers as I speak. “Gingerwelt, lispin, rileweed, and dogwarth—that’s what makes it smell like sulfur.”

  His head kicks back, eyes widening. “Doesn’t dogwarth grow on horse shit?”

  Unfortunately.

  “It helps ease the m-migraines,” I say through chattering teeth, bunching my pillow so I can nuzzle into it just the way I like.

  “Wish I hadn’t asked,” he mutters, pulling the thick quilt up around my shoulders. “I thought you were moving past the nightmares? You haven’t had an episode like this in months.”

  I shake my head.

  I’ve just learned to cram my body full of things that sedate me enough to mask the pain; mixing everything under the sun with caspun to enhance its effect, then drawing deep glugs of the bottle pre-sleep rather than the recommended sip when I wake already ruined.

  Not that I’m going to tell him that.

  Caspun’s not intended to be used as a preventative, but daily hangover aside, it works.

  Baze stoppers the bottle and stabs it back into its spot, h
and still pinching the top. Heavy seconds pass filled with only the sound of my chattering teeth, my sweaty nightgown now a burden to my plummeting core temperature.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  There’s not a single part of me that wants to tell him my stores are almost depleted. Or that I’m queasy about the inevitable conversation with Rhordyn—one where I’ll tell him I need more caspun imported, and he’ll say he gave me a three-year supply four months ago, and then things will get awkward.

  Baze clears his throat, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Okay, well ... now that I know you’re not dying, I should lea—”

  My hand lashes out, snatching his arm, making his well-defined brow arch as he peers down at my unyielding grip.

  “Stay,” I plead, and his dumbfounded gaze lifts to my face.

  “Laith ...”

  “I’m not too proud to beg.” I make my eyes go all big, playing on the fact that he probably still sees me as a child, not a woman who shouldn’t need someone to scare away the monsters that circle when she sleeps. “Please.”

  He looks to the bed like it’s going to swallow him alive.

  Resolve seems to settle on his face, and with a heavy sigh, he strides toward the open-mouthed fireplace, black sleep pants hanging off his hips as he crouches before the hearth like a panther.

  Baze is liquid when he moves, even when he’s blowing life into dormant embers. He just looks so comfortable in his skin ...

  I wish I knew how that felt.

  The fire roars to life, and he stacks it with wood, then makes his way around the other side of the bed. Climbing in next to me, he stuffs a few pillows behind his back and leans against the headboard, pulling a silver flask from his pocket.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Whiskey. Home brewed.” He unscrews the lid. “Tastes like horse piss.”

  Can’t be worse than the shit I just ingested.

  “Can I t-try some?”

  He lifts a brow, studies me for a long moment, then shoves the flask in my direction. “Only a sip, and only because it’ll warm you up.”

  I peel up and take the offering. “So many caveats. You think I’m going to take a liking to it and start distilling my own?”