“The Wildwoods knew. Lyall may not have. If he did know and decided not to tell, I have no doubt that he would find the omission to have amusing consequences.” Julius had put the pin back on her dress. “I will keep it with her at all times, if only to honor their kindness.”
Now I watched as Valerin's eyes flitted open and he stretched. His skin sported a lot of discoloration and he favored his left side as he sat upright, but otherwise he didn't look too terrible.
“What's that, twenty stitches on your forearm?” I asked.
He brought it around to his face. “Eighteen.” Then he grinned at me. “Bet the fire drake has double that in his cheek alone. Stick with me and you'll still have a man left in ten years.”
I smiled back.
Valerin shifted on the bed, waiting for a response. I licked my lips, wondering if I should agree or laugh or something.
“How many stitches does he have?” Valerin asked, his voice just a little tense.
I looked at my hands. “I don't know. I haven't seen him yet.”
“Ah.” He slumped back onto his pillows.
“What?”
“You saw me first. You're not going to stay, are you?”
I studied him carefully, gauging his reaction for hints of violence or distress. His eyes were closed, his throat tense, but the lines about his face were smooth and his hands rested relaxed by his side.
“I am not staying,” I said and ran my thumb nail distractedly down my other nails. “It is nice here, and special, everything about it. But it isn't home.”
I slipped Valerin's brood ring off my finger and pressed it into his palm where it stayed, still and lifeless.
“It's been slowly working loose,” I added.
Valerin held it up to the light, examining it. “Julius once told me that these rings do more than seek out mates. They're safeguards for the family. At times, there are stories of the rings calling to mated people only to release them once they've worked a great deed. Maybe this was why it chose you.”
For whatever reason, my eyes were a little misty. I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Fera, there's one thing you should know. If the ring called to you for protection, it means this will not be the last time you are here. You'll be connected to it. Julius thinks you're a gatekeeper.”
At my confused stare, he clarified. “A gatekeeper is someone who acts as a middleman between difference places and people. Any place you have been recently is important. And it means there is change in the world. Gatekeepers appeared before the Black Death, the Romans, the Industrial Revolution, the East India Trading Company, all the major floods and wars and crisises.”
“A sort of harbinger of death then?” I bit my lip, dreading his response. I hadn't told him about my entire 'I died and Death brought me back as his agent' gig, frankly it was a pretty crazy story that I preferred to avoid. So how could he guess?
“No, not like that. A little like that, but a gatekeeper is the counterbalance, a way to equalize the bad that's coming.”
“So, a hero then.”
“I wasn't going to use the term, but, yes.” He sighed. “You don't believe me.”
“I've had a version of this talk before, with my father. He used the term hero. The gatekeeper and people and places thing is new, and it clarifies a little bit on what started out as very vague instructions. One thing I've never heard is why me?”
“According to Julius, it's not random, it's not one of the Fates looking at you with her eye. You brought it about. You chose to fill the role, even if you didn't know you were doing it. You are as you do, and you do as you think.” Valerin considered. “Is it true what you said about Cole? The cannibal bit?”
“Wendigo, and yes, it's true. And I'm here now because Cole brought a monster into being which should never have existed.”
Valerin exhaled sharply. “The Lost Magic.”
“Lost Magic?”
“Spells stolen from the gods and misused. They created and destroyed and sent the world into chaos. The giants, if you will, of ancient Greece. Creatures were formed and mankind set themselves apart from everything else. There was more magic in the world before the veil fell, everything in general was more powerful than what we now know, but the old stories tell of five particularly influential spells.”
My brow furrowed and I leaned in closer. “What do they do?”
“Well,” Valerin sat a little nearer. “No one knows, but one is said to create life and another is said to kill Death himself.” He flourished his hand dramatically.
“But that's not possible,” I said as fast as a reflex. “Death isn't alive. He can't be killed. It's like killing a rock.”
Valerin laughed, then winced with pain. “And how would you know that?”
“I don't. I mean, how can I?”
But even so, I knew it was true. “Death can't be killed unless,” I paused, wondering if it might be possible, “unless he's first brought to life.”
“Could be a mistranslation or simply a flamboyant storyteller.”
I nodded.
The door swung open behind me, creaking like the double half-doors at some Western-movie set saloon, revealing a perturbed nurse frowning at me. The Western-feel stopped at her clothes. She wore flat wooden clogs to protect her feet, one bright white apron over a dark blue one, and a simple long-sleeved brown uniform beneath everything. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck.
She said, “You need your rest, milady. You got yourself a blow to the head and if you don't go lay yourself down, I'll give you another lump to match the first.”
“I'm going,” I said. “But I was getting Valerin water, he asked for—”
“I will do the honors. You go back to your room,” the nurse said.
Valerin was definitely confused about the water request which he had never made. Like I hoped, once we were out in the hall, the nurse went in search of water for him, leaving me free to enter Mordon's room right behind her back.
“Hey, Love,” I said before even checking that he was in the room.
He was, and he resembled Frankenstein's monster with all those phoenix feather stitches and reddened swollen flesh. My stomach churned in discomfort and I felt white hot bolts of pain in instant sympathy.
“How many did they give you?”
He knew or figured out that I meant stitches. “Eleven here, six there, another dozen over there. In total, nearly fifty, and,” he lowered his voice to a slow bedroom tone, “now I have black eyeliner. Is it fetching?”
I couldn't help but laugh at his black eyes. “You do happen to resemble less a pirate and more a raccoon.”
“A raccoon?”
“Or bank robber. They wear that mask, too. But I think this is less permanent than a raccoon's marking.”
Mordon chuckled and beckoned me to join him on his bed. Shirtless, he was much the same as ever, except the bruises dotting his body made his skin inflamed so his scars stood out puffy in their pattern down his back. Talon scars. I'd seen enough now to positively identify them. I touched one stripe with a tentative finger.
“How are you going to explain your face to Enaid? Your mother will have a fit if she thinks you've been out brawling.”
Mordon's shrug transformed into a shiver beneath my light touch. I pulled my hand away. He wriggled his shoulders in a silent request, so I resumed tracing his scars, watching as he visibly relaxed. He'd never indicated that he was hiding the marks from me, but he tended to keep his front towards me whenever he had a bare torso. This invitation felt intimate, private.
As though following my thoughts, he said, “You'll leave marks like that one day.”
My hand stilled. “I hope not. I'm having a hard time seeing your face in stitches.”
“If you don't want to, you don't have to, but,” here his voice altered, slurring a little and losing its sure rhythm, “if you don't, they'll be asking if I don't love you well enough.”
“How so?”
Mordon c
leared his throat. “In the throes of...in...hmm. Drake women typically get enthusiastic with their claws. And since you do have a dragon form...”
“Aww, you're embarrassed.” I was, too, and very glad that I could hide the rosy glow on my face. “You can be all 'let's talk about the facts of life' so straightforward in one conversation, then you get flustered talking about the Big O.”
“Hush, you. It's a challenge to admit my own encounters to someone who has been raised to think promiscuity a cardinal sin.”
“Point taken,” I said, blushing fiercely now, and only beginning to realize that all these marks indicated a time he'd been with a woman. I leaned back, supposedly to examine them, but really trying not to feel hurt or betrayed. None of the marks were new, I reasoned, definitely not in the time since we'd known each other. It wasn't like he was a cheater or anything, I mean, I could make this a Big Deal, but what would that accomplish? Making him feel bad, maybe even making him unwilling to confide other things with me.
I felt a curved line, remembering how when I'd first seen the scars, I'd thought it had been from a fight which he hadn't won. Knowing now why he had them explained why he'd been eager to kiss me so soon after I noticed them. Then they'd been a thing to be proud of, a sort of boast. Later, when he learned about my upbringing, they'd become an outward sign of shame. And I'd been perfectly oblivious to all of this, but now that I knew, my opinion would matter to him.
Besides, what was the harm in his having had a past? I had one, and he hadn't made me guilty for that. What mattered now was that I had a choice about how I behaved about this. I raked my nails down his spine, hard enough to trail red lines and make his chest swell. “I guess this means you're talented in the sack?”
He tensed.
“I didn't hurt you, did I? Wasn't thinking of your bruises.”
He pressed against my hand. “Not at all, Love, not in the slightest.”
What lingering apprehension I had disappeared at the relief and warmth in his voice. We didn't speak again as he relaxed beneath my fingers as I traced and re-traced all those lines, not sure if I wanted to envision how they'd gotten there or if I might like the thought. Actually, I did like the thought, I just didn't like liking it. Cultural prejudices interfering with my nature? Ugh, I'd been through too much to bother overthinking this moment. Fine, I liked thinking of him that way, I was a bit jealous, and I felt guilty about liking the images in my head.
It was some time before he drifted to sleep and I left him, going in search of Lilly.
I found Leif instead, and the weariness hanging off his shoulders promised trouble.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
He was out in the open, eating a pasta with tilapia and red peppers. Leif pointed to the chair beside him. Barnes came in, made himself coffee, and sat on the edge of the bench.
A lilac with piles of white flowers bobbed over their table. One delicate flower detached from its cluster and dropped into a glass of water. With a sigh, Leif cleaned his knife on a napkin then set about fishing the offending flower out of his drink. Bees from the local apiary buzzed across the restaurant, the new hive I'd heard mention of exploring their territory. Despite the cozy atmosphere, my companions spoke in annoyed tones.
“What happened with you guys?” I asked.
“The sorcerers had their election,” said Leif.
I frowned. “Why didn't I know about this?”
“Because the fair gender is too delicate to be bothered with such stressful issues. A man must be mindful of a lady's time of month, her delicate condition, or the foam-at-the-mouth insanity that clogs a woman's perspective in even the simplest and most domestic disputes,” said Leif with a flat tone, which actually suggested that he was being mocking.
“Old laws,” said Barnes. “They haven't been in force in the lamb world for a hundred years yet, so we won't see them change for a little longer. Oh, we'll set our own laws fast enough, but changing the legal system? We like to watch and see how well that goes for other people first.”
I glanced at him, and from the silence around the room, I knew that I would likely be disqualified for the exact same reason, even if I happened to have been born male. I sighed, “But I didn't even know they were going on. I thought they weren't ready to be concluded.”
“It wasn't scheduled. The late commandant had the misfortune of dying, and after a thorough overnight investigation, they determined he had quite simply died of instantaneous heart failure. No signs of spells, no signatures, nothing to suggest foul play,” said Leif, rubbing his temples.
“Except for a healthy mid-forties man dropping dead in the wine cellar.”
We fell into silence that was only interrupted by Barnes slurping his coffee.
“So, who is taking over? Isn't there a chain of command?”
“Sure,” said Leif, “for the first five people.”
“Who died one after the other of instantaneous heart failure.”
I took a drink of the brew, and even though it wasn't piping hot, it warmed my stomach. Setting down the cup again, I said, “So, who won?”
“Oh, it really isn't important to the fair gender to know who is making laws which pertains to them,” said Leif, slouching into a chair and taking out a flask from his pocket, swigging it down in a gulp.
“Leif!” I scolded, then chided myself a little, because he was well and old enough to drink without breaking any laws. “I hope you haven't taken up the dear Constable's habit.”
“Nah, it's something Lilly made for sour stomach,” he said. “Rich food doesn't settle well with me sometimes. I shouldn't get myself worked up. So, Barnes, say, who did win last night?”
It disoriented me to see Leif like this. He was always the stable one, the one without vices, the one who saw both sides of the argument. He must have been really upset with the turnout, and I was rather afraid to find out why, but I had to know.
“The only blighter brave enough to take a cursed position,” said Barnes, leaning over the table and opening up his hands dramatically, “a man who wined and dined, and took the sorcerers' breaths away with his charm and charisma. Commandant Cole.”
It wasn't a surprise. Cole spoke well and his hair still had natural color in it. Even though he had risen from the dead, he sure didn't look like it—and that was what mattered. A vital, smooth-talking leader was sure to gain a stronger following than a slow-speaking sexagenarian who looked like he was wobbling to his grave. People should care about other things, but they didn't.
“Why was he the only man brave enough to take the position?” I asked, not liking the inflection behind Barnes' tone.
“The Commandant is dead and the five people after him died within two hours. Though it is officially a tragedy, no real person is that stupid. The other candidates backed out of this race before misfortune could strike them—curious, isn't it?”
“Curious.”
“But Commandant Cole is soon to release ground-breaking information which he uncovered: those deaths were not accidents or natural at all, but a continuation of the 'militant purists'.”
“Why doesn't he say so now? Or earlier?”
“Because,” Barnes said, “if he announced it now, it would be clumped together with the other attack. One attack is a battle. Two, or more? It's war.”
Leif nodded. “And with the declaration of war the people will seek more than ever to be protected from it.”
I shook my head, a little lost. “What battle? What militant purists?”
Barnes tucked his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. “Us.”
“Us?”
Leif lifted his water glass in mock cheer, which Barnes tapped with his own flask as Leif said, “Here's to the new Commandant, providing for the public's outcry of safety with vague promises of securing dangerous areas, banning violent spells, and providing a no-questions-asked reward hotline for tipping the administration off to antisocial behavior. To the war against purists.”
“Vague promises? What sort of
spells will be banned?” I asked.
“According to the letter in my pocket, given to me as a 'person of importance', the details of the proposal are still to be forthcoming, but the Council has agreed that something must be done. So something will be done.”
“Leif, are you drunk?”
“He isn't,” Barnes said. “He just wishes he was.”
Leif said, “You were busy earlier, so I didn't want to interrupt you. Commandant Cole has given a speech. I got a copy for you.”
I frowned, wondering what the speech could have been about, suspecting that it had been modified to fit Cole's agenda. The speech had been cut out of a newspaper.
Lost Magic (The Swift Codex Book 3) Page 31
