Where is the Historian pin?
I brought my hand to hover over his fists. The answer was immediate, but time had slowed. I was conscious of every second, every bit of negative space that separated us. My hand glided to the left, slow like honey dripping from the comb. I could feel the warmth of his hands in my palm without even touching him. Peering up through my lashes, I saw him looking at our hands, mesmerized. Exhaling into a curling smile, I let my fingers float down to touch the back of his right hand.
The pin fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Time returned to its normal haste. I pulled my hand back, holding it against my chest.
Rune cleared his throat. “It's... uh... It slipped,” he said awkwardly.
Amusement elevated my expression.
Interesting response for someone who doesn't trust me anymore.
Gingerly, he picked it up. “Again,” he said, regaining his composure.
He repeated the test, holding his fists out. Again, I was drawn to his right hand, but this time I pointed. Next it was the left. The next six times, it alternated from right to left. Each time, I pointed correctly, and each time I smiled larger. After the twelfth attempt, I was giggling and cheering under my breath.
“I thought I remembered liking this game,” I said, gripping my bandaged hand behind my back. Bouncing up onto my toes, I pointed at him. “Another round?”
The pin tapped onto the bedside table where he tossed it. “One more, but this will be different.”
He didn't put his hands behind his back this time. They were empty, he showed me. Then he balled his fingers into fists again. “I'm a single thought away from producing fire in one of my hands. The energy is there, in one hand. Which one?”
The challenge made me grin. Back in Rivermarch, I'd managed to find a safe place for Kyle and I to crouch as the weather tower came down. It wouldn't be the first time I found something that didn't exist yet, but still, the thought thrilled me.
Standing as tall as I was able, I put my wrapped left arm behind my back, and held out my right, the way I had the first time, fingers splayed. Coasting over his left, I went directly to the right and pointed straight down to the back of his hand.
He watched me watching his hand. Flipping it over and unfurling his fingers, a bud of blue fire bloomed.
“Hah!” I said, ungracefully. “I win. Um, sorry. My competitive streak is showing.” I paused. “But I still win.”
“So it seems,” he said, extinguishing the little flame, and dropping his hands at his sides.
I plopped down on the bed with a bounce. Rune exhaled, looking tired, and sat down stiffly beside me. He rested his arms on his knees and hung his head for a moment. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he used a single hand to touch his ribs.
I watched him, worried and not knowing what to say.
“I'm sorry about the knife,” he said, without looking at me. It's true, we were sitting next to each other on a bed, and that may have seemed intimate, but it wasn't. He was as far away as he could be, if body language meant anything. “And all of this. I would never have hurt you on purpose. Not even if you were one of Hest's own.”
“I’m sorry for shocking you,” I said trying to smile despite the strange circumstances.
He lifted his head to look at me. “It's not the first time you've shocked me,” he noted, with a familiar affection softening his eyes. It was a relief to see it there. The first time I'd shocked Rune was when he'd kissed me.
“Do you believe me now?” I asked, folding my hands in my lap.
“I want to,” he returned, softly.
“I wouldn't lie to you, Rune,” I said, hoping he could recognize my honesty.
“I suppose I'll find that out.”
It wasn't the reply I hoped for. “I’m not your enemy. After all the things you’ve done for me… I owe everything to you. I want to be here for you, if you’ll let me.”
His lips pressed tightly together and his head hung parallel to his shoulders. He was quiet for a long while, like it took time to process what I’d said. “That’s better than I deserve.”
I looked over his side, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest. “Are you hurt?”
“Cracked ribs,” he grimaced. “Took the dull end of a battle axe in full swing. If it'd been pointed the other way, I wouldn't be sitting here. The every day perils of war.”
“I was there, on the battlefield. I thought I saw your fire, and I wanted to find you. I would have, if they weren't shooting at me.”
“I'm glad you aren't suicidal.”
“That is, by far, the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I said feigning flattery.
“I'll help you find your mother.”
He surprised me. I didn't know what to say, but he didn't give me the chance anyway.
“She may have answers for both of us,” he went on, “but this will be an exchange. I need your help.”
“Anything,” I answered, wondering what I could possibly do to help him, aside from kidnapping him and dragging him to Haven.
He nodded once, not telling me any more than that, and sat up straight. Glancing behind us, he froze for a beat. Turning his head slowly, he looked at me with a mixture of disgust and concern.
I twisted to see what he was looking at and found the big wet spot on the bed. “I didn't do that! It's not pee!” I said quickly, my cheeks suddenly going red with embarrassment. “I swear it's not.”
Stop panicking, Kat, you look guilty!
He snorted. It was the closest thing to a smile or laugh I'd seen from him yet. “It's time I've gone,” he said getting up onto his feet.
“Wait, where?” I said shooting up from the bed and wiping my nightgown off in case I'd sat too near the liquid.
“I have duties to perform. That, and I think I've caused enough damage here.” The curtain fixtures were still askew.
“Nonsense, you've been the perfect guest.”
The vaguest hint of humor twinkled in his eyes, but he was far from relaxed. “Right.”
“I don't want you to leave. You have a way of disappearing from my life.”
He looked back at me from the door. Finally. The slightest of smiles. “We need to work on that, don't we?”
C hapter 27: The Black Sheet
“Any day now!” Dylan said, flinging my curtains open with both arms. Sunlight beamed onto my closed eyelids turning them blindingly red. I recoiled like a snake that had been stepped on, blocking my face with my arms and burrowing deeper into the rug. I'd curled the thing around me in my sleep.
I thought that after seeing Rune, I'd never reach unconsciousness. Following about five minutes of cursing myself for not tackle hugging him, I fell into blackness. It was a reassurance just to know he was here somewhere, that he knew where I was. The result was a deep, dreamless and much needed sleep that stretched into the afternoon.
I shot Dylan with the wittiest biting response I was capable of. “Ungh.”
“The rug, Katelyn?” he asked, his tone dripping with disapproval. “There are chairs.”
“It's clean!” I barked, muted by the plush, squishy material folded over me.
“Your definition of 'clean' never ceases to astound me. Get out of there.”
“Don't tell me what to do,” I grumbled, crawling out of the rug anyway. My hair was a mop of frizz. Pulling myself up to sit, I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
“What's that on your neck?” Dylan asked.
A red thread from the carpet was plastered across my throat. “Cut myself shaving.” I peeled it off.
“I wish I could say I'm surprised. Well, while you were playing the flea ridden vagrant, I paid a visit to the harbor.”
“What?” I straightened, alert at last. “Are they here?”
“Afraid not,” he said, leaning on the wall where Rune had been standing some hours ago. I couldn't help but compare them. In mind and body they were as different as two fit guys could be. They were both beautiful for different reasons, bu
t Dylan lacked the luster that I saw in Rune. Then there was the part about him being a backstabbing jerk-hole. “No one's seen the Flying Fish come up yet.”
I wished it were Rune standing there. “Please tell me that's not the good news.”
“No, the good news is that the channel has opened up. They could be in at any time.”
“Good.” My stomach was all tied up in little tiny knots for Kyle and Sterling. I hated not knowing where they were and what was happening to them. Then there was Ruby. I imagined her curled up in a corner at Breakwater Keep, alone and afraid all this time. I needed to find my mother, and my reasons to hurry were multiplying by the minute.
“I'm afraid it wasn't the bad news either. The Margrave has invited us to a dinner.”
“A what?” I croaked, wincing at the vile image of Hest eating around the twisted metal growths that shredded her body.
“It's an event based around the consumption of foods and liquids, generally among a company of guests. Vagrants are rarely invited, so I suggest you do something about that.”
“Why won't she leave me alone?” I groaned, dragging myself up to stand.
“What do you mean?”
I explained the events of the previous night, leaving out the part about Rune sneaking past him into our rooms. He paced as he listened, only holding still when I'd stopped.
“This is good,” he said, a smile lifting one corner of his lips.
“What's so good about this?” I asked, showing him my bandaged hand.
“She's devoured our act!”
“Please don't say it like that,” I said, feeling green at the mere mention of Hest devouring anything.
“Speaking of which, there's a cold breakfast in my room and a slightly warmer lunch. You have pick of either, I've already eaten.”
“That's suspiciously considerate of you.”
“Don't mention it.”
He wore a flattering combination of formal and outwear all in navy and tan. I was starting to grasp the different styles of fashion in the Outside World, and despite my preoccupations, I couldn’t help but notice that I loved the overcoats. “I'll get dressed.”
“Don't bother. I'll order you a dress for today.”
“Order a dress? You can do that?”
“I'm a Lord of Breakwater, there isn't much I can't do.”
* * *
It was nearly evening by the time my clothes arrived. They'd been delivered directly to our door in a set of glossy boxes. I had the choice of three, a deep red gown with a dramatic bell skirt, an ocean blue, with slashes of white and tan, and a midnight green dress with a black bodice.
I knew Dylan wanted me to wear the blue so that we'd match, and that Hest would love seeing my black hair combined with the Prince's red, but I chose green. It was by far the least flashy of the three, with the slimmest skirt, pulled partially up in the front to reveal a floor length black lace slip. The colors reminded me of the pine trees in Haven. Besides, it came with an indigo necklace that was large enough to cover the scars on my chest.
The other two gowns were returned to their tailor, and I dressed, unsure whether I was ready for the night. The Historian’s pin was securely fastened onto my shirt. I looked forward to the moment I could throw it in the ocean.
Dylan showed me the appropriate shoes, all pointy and smooth, but I passed them over and went for my weathered boots. Once they were rinsed off, they didn't look half bad.
I didn’t like having to leave my satchel behind in our rooms. Dylan insisted this was one occasion where Historians were not required to carry their books. Being separated from my pistol made me uneasy.
My companion was in a foul mood. He'd attempted to use his Ability to Lift his cup of tea before we left. It hadn't budged. “You don't deserve my help after everything you've done to me,” he said. “I should call off this miserable charade.” But he didn't.
“When we first met, you told me your Ability was so minor it was practically nonexistent. Right now, you’re close to being the same person you were before Commander Stakes changed you.” I thought the sentiment would be a consolation, but he took offense.
“Grand. I’m even more feeble now than I was then.”
I wondered whether he regretted being forced to drain March as much as he said he did. My only comfort was the seemingly genuine hostility he had for the Dragoons and their Commanders. Who did he hate more, them or me?
We took the long way around the Gold Palace to the installment for propriety's sake. Passing under the gaping maw of the entrance, its portcullis pointing threateningly down like teeth, there was a distinct temperature change. A familiar and vast open space greeted us with icy, still air. The stark difference between the pitch-dark walls and bright floor was like the beam of a spot lamp in the dark.
It was odd to look at my deep green dress, sweeping softly across the slick white marble of the grand hall. This place had so recently accommodated the Voice of the Prince, and hundreds of Dragoons injured from battle. There was no trace of the rich red pools of blood that had slashed the uniformity of the tile, only a reflection; my face over a frozen pond.
I wondered whose job it was to clean up. Was there an installment janitor that specialized in bloodstain removal?
The hall was nearly as full as it had been the previous night, but there was no assembly. Troops moved in and out for drills, single soldiers marched about their tasks and Commanders led groups of teenagers and children beneath the many arches along the two walls at our sides. There were Historians too, circling in small groups like vultures. Each was recognizable with the brooch.
“You'd think they were the Prince's courtiers, the way they flock here,” Dylan grumbled.
We passed a round man and a red-haired woman, both formally dressed.
“...wanted the child to drain his own sister in order to be promoted!” I overheard him say to her.
Her laugh was shrill. “That's just what I needed. What did he do?”
“The boy simply went mad. Earned himself a week of beatings in isolation. By the time he came out, he was preaching the Prince's glory to everyone who'd listen.”
“Simply marvelous, I'm going to use that,” she said, twittering with delight. Noticing I'd been looking at her, she assaulted me with a vicious glare. “Were you listening? Don't even think about stealing my material, tramp!”
I was affronted enough that I nearly forgot I was supposed to be a Historian.
Dylan stepped smoothly in. “Temper, temper, garish lady. My friend isn't interested in the quaint or trivial. Oh, and if I can see the color of your under-things through your skirt, I'm sure everyone else can. Might be why this gentleman is being so friendly.”
The woman gasped, attempting to cover herself with her arms.
“You’re welcome,” Dylan said with satisfaction, and strolled away. I followed him briskly, the sounds of the irritated man at my back.
“Dylan,” I whispered. “We need to find my mother. There has to be a way for us to get out of this dinner.”
“Maybe we can do both,” he said with uncharacteristic optimism. “Unless she's dead.” There it was.
We'd reached the center of the floor, directly beneath the soft blue skylight and the crescent rings of balconies on the higher floors. Much as I hated everything about the installments, whoever had built this room did so with incredible vision. Standing there made me feel miniature.
Across from us, between two curving banisters, was a sheet two stories in length. It was blocking the solid, multistory wall that I'd seen the shadow man walk through. The black fabric reminded me that Warhorses and Shadow Chasers could spring from the darkest places. Was the sheet there as a window for the Voice of the Prince?
“Quite a room, isn't it?” Dylan asked, looking up.
The deep roar of an explosion boomed in our ears and the marble floor quaked beneath us. Dylan's arm shot out to grab hold of my shoulder. We stared at each other, dumbfounded. Jerking back, he pulled his arm away, glari
ng at me like I'd made him do it.
“Fourth floor!” a Commander shouted. “Move!” The Dragoons around us were a blur of action, arming themselves and pounding up the stairs.
“An attack! How fortunate!” a Historian cheered, clapping her hands together. Were they all crazy?
“That's the second-” I began to say. My words were cut off by a series of dry pops and squeaks.
“Does that sound like glass to you?” Dylan asked.
I hardly dared to breathe. My eyes lifted, urging my head to follow. The iron-braced skylight looked like a clear variety of stained glass, but without the lead lines. It hadn't been like that before. The dome above us was a cobweb of cracks.
A final sharp pop and the glass rained down on us in deadly shards. I dropped to the ground, burying my head beneath my arms, waiting for the pain. The millions of shattered pieces poured down to the floor like a song of chimes, but nothing so much as touched me.
“I suppose it's back,” Dylan said.
He was standing over me, an arc of shimmering glass shards was hovering above us.
“Quick,” he said pulling me by the arm. “Out of the way.”
We slipped and skidded, crunching on the floor sandy with glass, out from beneath Dylan's invisible umbrella. As soon as we were clear of it, he let the pieces fall. The look he gave me was eerie. It was like he'd won a heated argument at my expense.
No one noticed Dylan's display but me. The chaos was too overwhelming. There were Historians screaming nearby, sliced up by the hail of glass. To my astonishment, I reserved no pity for them. A class of young Dragoons huddled beneath a smooth, solid glass crest that looked very much like a curling wave. Commander Kestrel was with them, holding his hand against the surface. So, controlling glass was an Ability too?
Scary.
“What the... what the hell is that?” Dylan said, stepping away from where I was shaking the sparkling slivers off the hem of my dress.
The sheet that covered the far wall had fallen free, exposing the formerly plain stone surface. A mural, partially washed off at its lower edges, sprawled in stunning detail for all to see.
Dragoon (War of the Princes Book 2) Page 16
