But I think mostly what I can’t do is avoid the way I’ve relaxed around them. The way I’ve completely forgotten Cook’s rule. Shadows and shade.
Shadows and shade.
Pax scratches the back of his head, his shoulders slouching a little.
“Put the pants on,” he orders.
I would if my hands would stop chuckin’ twitching.
My fingers won’t even keep a hold of the damned fabric.
“You can’t choose to be with one of us.”
“I don’t want to choose one of you,” I snap back.
He chuckles, because telling him that my whole intention was to regain some personal freedom is terribly funny.
“You want all of us?”
“Crap, that’s not what I meant,” I say, launching myself off the bed and struggling into the sleep pants with shaky knees and my fingers still tingling.
He doesn’t turn around so I race up to him at the door, pressing my palm into the timber to try to stop him from opening it. Which I’m sure would be completely ineffective if he wanted to leave.
“That’s not what I meant,” I repeat.
“Then you need to keep your clothes on,” he says, his golden irises back to normal.
He opens the door, and three sets of eyes turn toward us. Mostly with mouths open as they devour various foods.
Dick and Ass are still unloading plates from a cart onto the table. They glance at me with wide eyes, but the minute Pax steps out behind me they pull their attention away. All of that crazy confidence wiped from their demeanor. As much of a status perk serving this lot must be within the servants’ ranks, they actually look scared to be here. Or it could just be Pax they’re scared of, because Ass just fluttered her eyelashes at Roarke.
Over my dead body.
“They have to go,” I declare.
“Done,” Pax says to me, then without even looking at the servants he adds, “You two, send up the ugliest male servants you have.”
He takes a seat on the spare couch and picks up a whole boiled egg.
The girls gasp and basically run from the room.
“That was a bit harsh,” Roarke says.
“She’s jealous,” Seth says.
“I can feel that,” Roarke says.
“Am not,” I mumble, sitting on the floor between two of the lounges and picking up a handful of skewered and roasted tomatoes.
Killian sniffs like he’s about to sneeze… then actually does sneeze. Followed by wiping his eyes and grunting, which must translate to ‘explain what happened’ because Pax starts talking.
“Do we have an agreement?” he asks me.
“No,” I say, then try to swallow the word back down. “Maybe I enjoy being naked, and you guys need to just get over me.”
Pax groans. “We will not be getting over anyone.”
Roarke leans back and crosses his legs, looking at me with genuine curiosity.
“Eat,” Killian says, tossing a whole boiled potato at me. “And stop feeling shit.”
I try to catch it, and instead turn it into mashed potato. The stuff squeezes between my fingers, steaming and burning. I let out a half-surprised half-in-pain squeak and try to shake it off onto the nearest serving tray.
“Right, fine. If my sexuality has to go back into the bottle then so does all of yours. All of yours. No other women are allowed in this suite,” I say, then I realize that a room isn’t required for sex so I add, “Or anywhere for that matter. No touching anyone unless you plan on killing them.”
“Is she claiming us?” Killian asks. “Is she allowed to do that?”
“Too late, that’s the new rule. No one touches anyone.”
“And your clothes stay on,” Pax adds.
I almost spit back that their clothes need to stay on too, but the only person that would actually hurt is me. I do kinda like their clothes off.
“Fine,” I say, holding out my potato-covered hand for him to shake.
“This is a mortal thing, right?” Pax asks, just looking at it.
“You guys don’t shake hands?”
“No, we stab stuff – or bow. I prefer to stab stuff,” Killian says.
“I’m not bowing to you,” Pax says, passing me the cloth from under the bread rolls.
I let that slide, which is possibly the wisest thing I’ve done all day.
There’s a tentative knock on the door. Seth gets up to answer it, followed by a snort of laughter. The two servants that follow him in were obviously not ugly ten minutes ago but someone decided that making them ugly was a priority. Their hair has been hacked off with scissors in a rush job, and eyebrows plucked – which still look puffy, red, and irritated.
“Don’t blame me,” Seth says. “But man, I wish I’d thought of it. Blame him.”
He waves toward Pax, who doesn’t bother to acknowledge the servants’ existence as he eats.
“It’s an honor,” the servants say, bowing low before fussing over the dirty plates, empty dishes, and refills of wine.
They ignore me, from my position on the floor far away from the serving cart. I rather like being ignored.
“What about the lady?” Seth asks, waving a hand toward me.
I shake my head sharply, because only Seth would take my moment of not being hated by servants and end it.
“She’s not drinking,” Pax says.
“But she should be offered a drink,” Seth counters.
“Would the lady like a drink?” the servant asks, bobbing a little curtsy, but refusing to look at me.
“No,” Pax answers.
The poor servant is as red and confused as a person can get. He bobs another curtsy, this time at Pax, which gets a terribly loud laugh from Seth.
“Go,” Killian orders, waving to indicate that the food, the trolley, and the servants should get out of here.
Seth snatches up a plate and fills it with all sorts of things before heading to his room.
“I’m going to sleep,” he says, then the door is shut.
It takes me by surprise and for half a beat, I just stare at it.
“It’s past the full moon, and I’m tired,” Roarke says, getting up, but without the extra portions of food, and leaving the room. “Sleep.”
Killian and Pax wait for the servants to leave before moving. Killian locks the door, then turns the three lanterns around the room off, leaving us in just the glow of the fire. And Pax takes one of the pillows from his bed and throws it onto the couch, along with his cloak.
“The stables were a blessing,” Pax says. “Tomorrow, the real problems begin.”
He offers me one last glance before shutting his door.
The room suddenly feels very empty, even though Killian is still here. He pushes the lounge next to me back a little, making space, then sits down on the table right in front of me.
“Arm,” he says, motioning for me to hand it over.
Right, my arm. The deadly knife wound I managed to give myself.
I hold it out for him and he soon has the bandage off for inspection. The wound has sealed itself, one nice clean slice through my skin.
“It’s scarring,” he says – softly.
“I don’t mind,” I say, watching his expression, the way his dark eyes have softened into sadness behind the big scar that runs across his face. And it’s a big scar, open like it should have been stitched up but never was. Whatever did that would have killed me.
“But what will it remind you of?” he asks.
“That only an idiot uses a knife as a door wedge,” I say.
“You want it to scar?” he asks, and clearly my humor went over his head.
I run my gaze over his scar.
“I don’t have a choice,” I say, but I’m wondering if he does.
He’s a Saber with super healing. Seth’s feet were cut, but he said the scars would be gone soon.
“Some scars run too deep. They stay with us even when we don’t want them to,” he says, making me look away with shame. I
didn’t mean to stare. “Our scars give us pain and our pain gives us scars.”
“And some of us are mortal and will scar no matter what.”
He nods, like that's a satisfactory answer, then stands.
“Wait, no bandage?” I ask, hopeful.
With all the fuss they’ve made over my iron scar, I didn’t think I’d ever get this bandage off.
But he grunts, which definitely means ‘you wish’ and I just know he’s going to get a fresh bandage.
“Come on, I can’t be wrapped up all the time. It’s more than a pain in the ass. The thing gets food on it, and freaking wet, and…” I trail off, not even sure if he’s listening.
But he stops, something in my pile of clothing causing him to cock his head to the side. What he grabs is a blue rag – the kind I was carrying around to polish timbers all those days ago, but ended up drunk and not doing any real polishing at all. He brings it back over to me, offering it like a compromise.
I hold my arm out and he takes his seat again so he can wrap the cloth twice around my wrist and secure it with a double knot. It’s stuck on firmly, not tight, but with more than enough coverage.
“Happy?” I ask.
“No,” he says. Doesn’t grunt, or growl, just says. “This is a problem. Bubble’s a problem. Logan’s a problem. Crown’s a problem.”
“I’m a problem,” I say, deflated.
He stands and walks toward his bedroom.
“You’re a solution,” he says.
“I am?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter and feeling a glimmer of hope.
“And that’s a problem.”
“Oh.” And I deflate again.
“I can’t hear you in here,” Killian says, waving vaguely at his room. “Warded for sound. But you’re safe.”
And just like that I’m alone, in the lounge room. On my own.
Which is usually how being alone works.
It takes me a long time to move, collecting the pillow and cloak and dragging them down on the floor with me. The cloak still smells like horses and hay, and feels soft and heavy across my body. I prop myself against the wall with the pillow behind my back.
An unease has settled inside me. Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? I’m not going to be able to sleep unless these guys are awake, or I’m drunk, or unconscious.
The servants haven’t left any wine, and aside from the plate Seth took for himself there’s nothing to munch on either. One of Seth’s small rubber balls is on the floor. There’s books, some dice, and a writing desk – plus one of Killian’s swords propped up next to the fire. So either I can bounce a ball, throw some dice, write a letter – difficult, given I can’t write – try to swing a sword around – and possibly break something. Breaking myself is a very real possibility. Or read a book.
I also lack the skills required to read, but Roarke made it look easy. Easier, I suspect, than trying to swing a sword. So I slip a book from the shelf and relocate myself closer to the fire.
The heat pricks softly at my right cheek and dances light across the pages. Reading it is impossible. Not a single letter looks normal, but every second page is a picture. All locations. All beautiful.
Forests with buildings made to peak and fall with the natural canopy of the trees. A lake where the homes sit on top of the water with long boardwalks connecting them. More forests where mounds of earth have round wooden doors and the vines have been woven to form fence-like structures.
A river deep enough for ships to sail down that runs through trees so massively round that the homes have been carved into the trunks themselves, complete with windows and balconies.
I turn each page slowly, marvelling at the pictures. All the little details. It’s like someone took exactly what they were seeing and forced it onto the page. No painter could possibly get this many elements in such a small amount of space. And the people.
Silvari have a look to them that’s different to normal people, even in a picture. Delicate and lithe. Sabers stand out, bigger, more powerful looking. And the old Sabers, the ones whose hair has gone all white, they always catch my attention.
Toward the back of the book, the pages turn red, but the pictures are just as beautiful. Each one contains water. In a pond created by a bowl in solid stone or surrounded by so many purple flowers the water itself looks purple. There are descriptions next to each one, so they’re probably important for some reason.
Things don’t get put into books unless they’re important.
I turn the page – then stop.
More accurately, my heart stops. My fingers smooth over the page, over the image of a stone door carved out of the crumpling side of a cliff. Inside are more big gray stones, most of them collapsing in on each other. A stream of almost white water flows from between them, like a waterfall. Down from the rocks inside, out the door, and down the manmade stairs outside. A green moss covers the walls and most of the ground, with small lights dotted through it. The whole scene is rather dark, but not gloomy. It feels comforting to look at. It feels like more than that. It feels…
For an eternity, I just sit and stare until the words finally come to me.
…It feels like a memory.
The fire burns low. Then burns out. The sun rises outside the massive window and daylight illuminates the page.
A bell chimes through the castle, and, as if they’ve been awake for ages, the boys begin to appear. Roarke goes straight for the bench by the door, washing his face in the basin and pouring himself a glass of water, Seth close behind him.
Killian comes out of the room closest to me and Pax, across from me. They both freeze for half a second, eyeing the empty couches before finding me on the floor beside the dead fire. Pax noticeably exhales – which means he was holding his breath.
Killian runs a hand down his face, like he’s feeling the edges of his scar, checking that the thing’s still there. Makes me think that maybe it shouldn’t be there, but I ignore that idea – because it’s ridiculous.
They’re dressed in cotton pants, Killian has the addition of leather from the knees down, and all of them have long sleeve linen shirts on. Pax has leather from his elbows down, fastened with cords and embellished with aged slashes from fights involving deadly weapons. Killian’s in a black shirt with a hood hanging loosely at his back. Seth’s white shirt is long at his hips and secured with a belt that he’s currently sliding small picks into secret notches. Lock picks I’m guessing, though I can’t imagine what lock he wants to pick or why his Chaos wouldn’t do it for him. Roarke’s blue shirt, and the leather vest over the top, should be fastened with leather ties but sits open over his chest – showing smooth muscles – and the guy is going to draw a lot of attention.
He has my attention.
“Didn’t you sleep?” he asks.
“It didn’t feel right. You guys sleeping and no one awake.”
“You stayed awake to guard us?” Killian asks.
I kind of shrug, I wouldn’t have put it that way, but maybe that’s what I was doing.
“She needs a weapon,” Killian says, walking back into his room.
“If they find a weapon on a servant, they’ll put her on the wall,” Pax says.
“The what?” I ask.
“It involves being hung upside down by your feet three stories up, and usually ends in people vomiting blood. Bodies aren’t meant to be hung upside down,” Seth says.
“They invented it to keep Seth in line,” Roarke explains.
I just look at them all in horror.
“No weapon,” Killian agrees, coming back out of his room.
“Can I keep this?” I ask Roarke.
“Places of Silva? Sure. You can read Eylfan?”
“No,” I shake my head, flipping to the picture I want. “I can’t read any language. I just want this page.”
I grip it carefully at the edge and begin to tear it free.
Roarke lets out an agonized scream, leaps forward and grabs my hands, stilling
them on the page.
“You can have it if you keep it in one piece,” he says, horror on his face.
“What does it say?” I ask, pointing to the writing right next to the illustration.
Roarke lowers himself to the ground next to me, poised and ready to rescue the book from my clutches. Which I might find funny, if my stomach wasn’t a pit of uncertainty being gnawed at by some long forgotten dread.
He points to the heading. “It’s called ‘The Origin Spring’.”
“Is it real?”
“Maybe, no one knows for sure which are real and which are fantasy. Some of the lesser sources are common knowledge, but the potent springs are closely guarded secrets. Potions Masters usually live close to one – they need them to craft their recipes. But Potions Masters themselves claim a domain and keep that hidden, too. Most of the Springs tend to hide themselves – or move. Some people think they move.”
“Why?” Seth asks. “Not that I don’t think it’s fantastic that you’ve let the shaggy pony sit that close to you and all, but why that book? Why that page?”
I shrug, because telling them that the Origin Spring means something to me would mean that I actually have to work out what that something is first.
“It’s pretty,” I say, snapping the book shut.
“Do you want to learn to read?” Roarke asks.
“After Sigils,” Pax says.
“Breakfast,” Killian corrects.
He’s at the front door before I can get moving.
“Wait,” I say.
I grab the top thing off my pile of clothes only to have Pax take it out of my hands.
“They’re dirty. You’ve been swimming in horse shit all week.”
“This one’s not. I haven’t worn it yet, I just didn’t bother to correct you last night, and I can’t go into the kitchens and scrub dishes in your clothes… and I wasn’t swimming in the stuff. I rolled in it once – that doesn’t count as swimming.”
“Who said you’re scrubbing dishes?” Seth asks, boots on and ready to go.
“Me, them, everyone. It’s the rules around here, and after a week in the stables with no explanation I’m pretty sure Clara’s going to be pissed off as it is.”
Shadows and Shade Box Set Page 24
