“Stop, Quintin, please, don’t say such things,” she said, taking a step back.
For a moment, he didn’t speak, and she thought that she must have angered him. Then, after a time, he sighed, “Forgive me, princess. I spoke carelessly. It’s only … I care for you, that’s all. I don’t like to see you upset.”
She smiled, struck by the seriousness in his expression, so earnest, the face of a regretful child after being scolded, “You’re no fool, Quintin. You’re my knight, and you’ve saved me once again. Just as you did that day in the market when my horse bolted.” It was surprising to think that it had been only two months ago when she’d first met Quintin in the market. Her normally placid palfrey had bolted unexpectedly—scared by something, she never found out what—and broke away from her guards. Leandria had nearly been thrown from the saddle and was just about to lose her grip when Quintin had appeared as if from nowhere, pulling the horse to a stop and calming it with some whispered words.
He breathed a laugh, “Tonight, I’ve saved you from shadows, princess. Nothing more.”
“But Quintin,” she said, staring out into the darkness, for some reason thinking of her mother, a woman she’d never met, “Don’t you know? Sometimes, the shadows are the worst of all.”
“Please,” he said, “Let’s sit. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Leandria allowed herself to be guided to the bench once more, “I just realized,” she said, shocked at her own stupidity, “I screamed. If the guards had heard … oh, I’m so sorry, Quintin. I’m a fool.”
He only smiled, “To be thrown in the dungeons would be a small price to pay for seeing your face.”
She felt herself blush once more, “You’re teasing me again.”
He leaned close, and she could feel his breath on her face, warm and soft. “Am I?”
There was a pregnant silence as they looked into each other’s eyes then she swallowed, “Was it hard, sneaking in here? I know you said you could, but I had my doubts. My father chooses only the best soldiers as his guardsmen, and they are notoriously vigorous in their duties.”
“Not so hard,” he said, and she thought she detected a hint of smugness in his tone, “and the best, you say? Well, I won’t argue with you. Still, the ease with which I gained entry worries me. If I can make it inside, others can as well.”
“But why would they bother? It’s not as if I am always sitting in the gardens, is it? Normally, I would be in my bed at this late hour.”
He shrugged, “It would not take so much to make it to your rooms from here, Highness,” he said, his eyes taking on a distant look, “Not so much at all, to a man who bent his will to the task.”
The thought of someone creeping over the wall, of someone sneaking into her bedchamber while she slept, sent a shiver of fear up her spine, “Quintin, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry, princess,” he said after a brief hesitation, and he turned to her, the faraway look gone from his eyes, “I do not mean to scare you—I worry, that’s all. I didn’t come here tonight to frighten you.”
She nodded and for a few minutes they sat in silence, gazing at the moon. “So why did you come?” She asked finally.
“Hmm?” He asked, as if lost in thought.
“Tonight. You said you didn’t come here tonight to frighten me,” she said, her tone teasing, “So why did you come? What is it you hope for?”
“Oh, princess,” he said, looking away from her, “I could not say.”
“Couldn’t you?” She asked, shocked at her own boldness but unable to bring herself to stop, “What hope might bring a man to sneak into a castle filled with guards? What wish?”
He smiled, turning back to her, “Perhaps … a kiss.”
She brought a hand to her chest, felt her heart beating through the thin material of her robe, “Oh, Quintin, now that is bold.”
He grinned ruefully, running a hand through his hair. In the moonlight, his face reminded her—as it had the first time she’d met him—of some hero from the past, some knight out of one of the stories she’d loved so much as a child and, truth be told, that she loved still. “Yes, forgive me, princess, but so it is. It is … all I can seem to think about. You are … well, you must know that you are beautiful.” His smile faltered, turned into a frown, “And now I am the one being foolish,” he said, his voice bitter, “to think I deserve even the notice of one such as you, of one who has great noblemen of great houses vying for your attentions. A commoner such as I … I forget my place.” He rose, starting away, “I’m sorry, princess. I will not bother you further.”
“Quintin,” she said, “wait.”
He stopped but did not turn.
“Please,” she said, “You’re wrong. You do not trouble me I … I enjoy spending time with you.”
He turned back and his face seemed suddenly, terribly vulnerable. “Truly?”
“Yes,” she said, her heart racing once more in her chest, “Truly.” She glanced at the moon then rose herself, “But I really must be going. I told my guards I would be gone an hour, no more, and they will begin to look for me soon.”
He nodded, “Of course, princess. Then I pray to the Divines you have a good night and a good life. Perhaps—”
Before she could think better of it, she grabbed him and kissed him. Their lips met and, for a moment, all time seemed to stop. For a moment, it was only the two of them, standing in the moonlight among the flowers of her father’s garden, listening to the sound of the crickets and the slow gurgle of the water in the fountain, his arms around her, making her feel safe and warm.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, after what felt like the briefest instant, she pulled away. He stood grinning at her like a kid who’d gotten away with some bit of mischief, “Well, don’t look too pleased with yourself,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her own face, “and now, I really must be going.”
“Of course, princess,” he said, “only tell me, please. There’s a ball coming, is there not?”
For a moment, she was confused by the abrupt change of topic, “Oh, you mean the Midyear ball,” she said, “Yes, the day after next.”
“And, if I’m not mistaken, the guests will all be wearing masks?”
“Of course,” she said, “It’s custom.”
He nodded, “I will see you then.”
“Quintin,” she said, hesitating, “I’m sorry it’s … they only allow nobles into the ball.”
He shrugged as if it made no difference, “Would you like to see me?”
“Of course,” she said, worried that he’d be upset once more, “it’s only that—”
“Then I will be there. Good night, Leandria.”
She smiled, shaking her head, “Good night, Quintin.”
She watched him turn and disappear into the shadows toward the wall of the garden. Leandria, he’d called her. Not “princess,” or “highness.” Bold indeed. But, she found she’d liked the sound of her name coming from his mouth. Had liked it very much. Her lips still tingling from the kiss, she hurried down the garden pathway, no longer noticing the shadows that seemed to watch her progress, and if one of those shadows was more intent than the others, more purposeful, she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts, her own fairytale come to life to notice.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cameron awoke to a knock at his bedroom door, wincing at the bright light coming in through the window of his room. The knock came again, so loud that he thought surely the door was going to be broken in. “I’m coming,” he called, the sound of his own voice much too loud in his ears. He dressed in his trousers and shirt and went to the door. Brunhilda was standing outside, and—not for the first time—he was surprised that such a small lady could make such a loud knock. Still, he’d known Brunhilda since he was a child, and it wasn’t the first time she’d surprised him nor, he suspected, would it be the last. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Brunhilda,” he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “
What’s happened?”
“Happened, sir?”
He grunted, “I thought … from your knock. Is everything alright? Is it the rebellion?”
“No, my lord,” she said, a puzzled expression on her wizened face, “Nothing is wrong. And my knock, I’m quite sure, was the same as it always is.”
He considered how bright the light through his window had seemed and how loud the knock had sounded—like thunder coming from outside the door—and realized with dread that the hypersensitiveness he often experienced after a Sanctification had followed him through the night. Divines watch over us, he thought. He’d always had the feeling after a Sanctification and had thought—although he hadn’t been sure, and had been telling himself that it was only his imagination—that it had begun to last longer each time but never before had it lasted through his sleep. What’s happening to me?
“My lord? Is everything alright?”
He glanced back at Brunhilda, pulled from his thoughts, and saw her staring at him with concern and more than a little curiosity. “I’m … fine,” he said, “It must have been something I dreamed, that’s all.”
“What did you dream?” She said, in a demanding voice he couldn’t remember hearing from her since he’d been a child caught acting out.
He looked at her, surprised at her tone, “I can’t remember.” He shrugged, “Must not have been that important. Anyway, what can I help you with?”
She stared at him for several seconds and suddenly he didn’t feel like he was speaking with his Caretaker at all but with one of the Church’s Questioners, the men and sometimes women who were tasked with recovering information from criminals, traitors or, most recently, members of Memory’s rebellion. Then she blinked and smiled, and she was the woman he’d known since he was a child once more. So complete was the transformation that he thought he surely must have imagined that piercing, questioning look, and the note of demand he’d heard in her voice. “I do apologize for waking you, my lord,” she said, bowing her head, “but Harvester Parcival is here.”
He sighed, “Of course. We’re supposed to visit Marek to check in today and receive another assignment. I hope I haven’t slept too late.”
She smiled again, “Not so late, my lord.”
“Divines be thanked for that, at least. Tell Falen I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Falen was waiting in the sitting room when he came down the stairs, a cup of tea in his hand. He took a drink and made a pleased sound in his throat. “Divines, but you’re lucky, Cameron. Eleanor is a nice woman, of course, and a fine Caretaker, everything taken together, but the woman can’t make a cup of tea that doesn’t taste like dirt. Brunhilda is truly an amazing woman.”
“Yes,” Cameron said, thinking again of the demand in her voice, of that hard dangerous stare, as if she meant to know what his dream had been about no matter what it took. “She is something. Are you ready?”
Falen glanced at the teacup in his hands, still half full, then back at Cameron’s expectant look. He heaved a dramatic sigh then sat the cup down on the table, “I suppose so. Although,” he said, rising from the chair, “I must tell you, Cameron, you don’t look so well. We can give it another day before we check in with Marek—he’ll understand.”
“I’m alright,” Cameron said, “just a headache, that’s all. Let’s go.”
Falen made a few attempts at conversation as they walked the streets to the Harvester training grounds, but Cameron was too distracted by the sharp, barbed pain that each horse’s hoof or each shout of a shopkeeper peddling his wares sent lancing through his head to respond with little more than grunts or single word answers and soon they lapsed into silence.
People in the street made room for them as they walked, many crossing to the other side of the road in an effort to avoid them the way a man might to keep what he thought was a safe distance between himself and someone carrying some deadly plague. Some of these watched their progress with angry, sullen expressions but all of them—angry or not—had a fear in their eyes. Although the Drawing was a public event and there wouldn’t be another one for a week or more, these people still looked at them less like their protectors and more like murderers let loose in the city.
Cameron usually had little trouble ignoring such looks—a man couldn’t be a Harvester for long without growing accustomed to them—but he found that, perhaps due to his heightened senses, he could almost feel the fear of those around him, the impotent anger some of them felt. He told himself, as he had so many times before, that it was nothing, that it was not hate at him personally, but at the necessity for his existence that was behind those stares, but, unlike those other times, his mind would not so readily accept the rationalization.
Those stares were not for what he and Falen represented but for them, and it was not some abstract idea which caused mothers to jerk their young children into shop doors, it was him.
Everything we do for them, he thought, yet still they hate us. If we are monsters, it is because we must be, to protect them. To save them. Yet even these thoughts felt hollow as he walked the gauntlet of those stares, as he listened to the crying of children as they saw the sullen glow of his and Falen’s eyes. “They hate us,” he said.
“Yes,” Falen said at his side, his tone regretful, “Can you blame them?”
Cameron jerked his head around sharply to look at Falen, but his friend only stared back and, after a moment, Cameron turned back to the street, quickening his pace. He needed to see Marek, that was all. All Harvesters had doubts sometimes—Marek had told him so himself—had told him that, if he ever did, he need only come and speak with him, that he would help him. The fact that he’d never had doubts in the past and was only having them now bothered him, but he told himself it was a combination of things: seeing Amille, the hypersensitivity, and, of course, the dream. That one frozen moment that had haunted him, it seemed, almost since his first assignment as a Harvester. He just needed to get refocused, and Marek would help him to do that.
By the time they reached the training grounds, Cameron felt rung out, exhausted, as if each of those stares had somehow carved out a piece of him. His headache was worse than ever, the pounding in his head grown so strong that he thought it might crack open at any moment. The guards at the gate knew them on sight and let them through without a word, for which Cameron was thankful. He didn’t feel like any small talk just now, didn’t feel like anything, really, except laying down in the darkness, a cold cloth over his head. But he wanted, no, needed to talk to Marek. Perhaps, Falen had been right, and it would be wise to wait a day or two before taking the next assignment, but he needed to talk to Marek just the same, needed to get his head straight.
He marched down the lane toward Marek’s office, clenching his teeth at the loud crack and thump of the wooden practice weapons being used by dozens of pairs of Harvesters on either side of the path as they went through their drills. His eyes remained locked on the small squat building the way a swimmer at the last of his strength might stare at the distant shore, and he was just starting to think that he’d go mad from all the noise before he made it there when Tashel and Sithern stepped in front of Falen and himself.
“Reaper,” the dark haired man began, that smug smile of his well in place, “You sure you’re ready for another assignment? You don’t look so go—”
His words cut off with a grunt as Cameron struck him in the stomach hard. The air left the dark-haired man in a whoosh, and he fell to one knee, gasping for breath. Cameron pushed him down on his way past, blocking a blow from the bald-headed man with his other hand, grabbing his throat and slamming him to the ground almost without slowing. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
He was dimly aware that the steady ringing of practice weapons had ceased—Divines be praised—and he’d nearly made it to the door when he heard Tashel scream, his voice high and screeching from lack of air, “You’ll pay for that, Reaper! You’ll pay you son of a bitch!”
Marek stepped out of the door right as they reached it, and it only took him a moment to take in the two men on the ground and then Cameron standing in front of him. He glanced between the two groups for a second then sighed, “Well, come on in.”
“Wait here,” Cameron said to Falen, and disappeared inside before the man could respond.
Marek was a big man, bigger than Cameron himself, and he walked behind a desk that looked like a child’s toy with him beside it and sat, rubbing his hands over his thick gray eyebrows. “Well,” he said, slamming closed a large book that had been opened on his desk. “Can’t say as I regret havin’ to put this off for a few moments, anyway. These damned palace clerks. The bastards have the nerve to bitch and moan to me about the cost of feeding and housing the Harvesters as if we’re not the ones keeping their shriveled maggot hearts beating. Oh, they’re fine with us keeping them safe, you understand, they’d just prefer us do it while eating tree bark and sleeping in the woods like animals. “ He grunted, “Sometimes, I think it’d be worth another Fulmination just to watch the sons of bitches come begging.”
He waved a thick-knuckled hand dismissively, “Anyway, you aren’t here to listen to me complain about my problems.” He leaned forward, his thick arms resting on the desktop, and Cameron almost expected to see the wood crack beneath him, “How are you, son?”
“I’m … okay, sir.”
“Oh?” The older man asked, raising one gray eyebrow, “then just what in the name of the Divines did you think you were doing out there? Striking another Harvester for no reason? Lad, sometimes, I’d swear to any priest, holy as you pretty well fucking please, that you’re as crazy as your father was. Why I—”
Reaper's Awakening Page 8
