Curse this thing! Curse it!
“Odd place to find you, my lady, if I may so. You do know that this is our personal library?” He quirks a brow at me, hands folded behind his back casually.
“Y-yes. Yes, of course.” My tongue is in knots. I can’t think of words fast enough – words smooth enough to excuse my presence in his personal quarters. I know the anger his father possesses with those who overstep their boundaries. I know the wrath that runs in his blood. It slit a man’s throat just the other day. “My apologies, your highness. I . . . er . . . was getting some air . . . no, I mean, I needed to walk . . .”
Fool! Think of something to say, you ass!
“The gardens are that way,” Aspen says. He points out the door and crooks his finger to the right – from the direction I had come. His lips are quirked at an odd angle. He knows I’m lying.
It is then that I recall the ill-bred language that flew from my lips at his arrival. Note to self: make sure you’re addressing a servant before you proceed with a verbal lashing.
The silence is hell itself. I welcome the heat on my cheeks.
Aspen steps closer and casually lifts his chin to stare at the massive walls. “It is magnificent, isn’t it? I could see why it would interest you. You haven’t changed at all, Kyla. Every time you came here, you went straight to this room. My tutor despised you.” He chuckles at the memory. I can barely recall it. I flush when I realize he has dropped all formality by calling me by my given name.
“What were you so interested in tonight that you had to sneak away from my father’s celebration?” he asks.
None of your damned business, I want to say. The words die on my tongue.
“I . . . I heard he’d acquired numerous books on . . . on Kelban folklore, and wanted to see if it was true. Just goes to show what rumors can make a person do. But you’re right. I have been away from the party far too long. I should get back.”
I attempt to sweep by him, but he blocks my way by placing a hand against the sofa. He tips his head to the side and a wisp of dark brown hair crosses his eyes. Eyes I used to call temptingly sweet when I was a modest ten years of age – until I realized how strikingly similar they are to Celectate Wood’s. A soft scent of wine and mint lingers on him.
“Your highness . . .”
“Aspen.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Call me Aspen,” he says.
It’s an order, not a request, and I swallow nervously. “Very well, Aspen. If you’ll excuse me . . .” Once more, I try to step by him.
His hand closes around my wrist and stops my departure, his thumb running over my pulse with a gentle stroke. The control I’ve used to stabilize my emotions begins to crumble. The last man who touched me without permission got an elbow between his ribs. But, in all fairness, I had been dressed as a scholar, with ample room to move my legs. Here, in this enclosed space, wearing a dress ill suited for my romping character, I must behave the lady. And ladies don’t head-butt rude young men.
“I missed you the other day at the ostracizement. Your mother said you had a headache.”
He spoke with my mother? I knew she wasn’t telling me something. Knowing that Celectate Wood’s son had been craving my company might have prepared me for this little altercation. Might have forced me to memorize a conversation-starter or two. Now I must blunder through like a complete idiot.
“Y-yes.”
“I hope you are feeling much better.”
I grasp at the chance he’s just handed me. “Actually, music has always made me feel a bit ill. I couldn’t listen to it any longer, and I remember the library was always so quiet – and unused.”
“Indeed. You and I were the only ones who found it a pleasant place.” The way he says it makes our previous relationship seem much more important than it actually was.
I pull my wrist from his. “I really have to go.”
He bars my way, a mass of muscle against my petite frame. I long to cuss him out. To drive a fist into his gut and clear the obstruction from my exit. But he’s the Celectate’s son. I cannot endanger myself by physically attacking him.
However, I’ve never been one for lack of words. “You know,” I say, and lean back against the shelf, “on the streets this behavior would be called harassing.”
“Really?” He leans close. So close his nose brushes mine. I gasp softly and pull back, my head pressing hard into the shelf. There’s nowhere to go as he gets closer – until less than an inch remains between our faces. His warm breath teases my neck. “And what would you know about the streets, if I may be so bold, Kyla? Are the rumors, perhaps, true?” He flashes a knowing grin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I snap.
“No?” he asks. “I was sure you’d heard the rumors. And that language – did you pick it up from your brother? It sounds familiar on your tongue. You’ve had plenty of practice cussing unruly vagabonds, haven’t you?” He leans forward, past my cheek, and his lips hover over my ear. “Did you, perhaps, excuse yourself from Lord Telman’s banishment to play the gentleman? Such scandalous behavior, my lady, needs to be punished, don’t you think?” He pulls back and his gaze settles on my lips. He dips his head towards them.
I press a hand over my mouth. “What do you think you’re doing, highness?”
He winks. “Waiting for you to push me away.”
Which I do, with more force than he bargained for. He nearly falls over the backside of the sofa and regains his balance. He starts laughing. I recognize that laugh. His teasing laugh. The pounding in my chest calms. He was only teasing.
But it felt so real.
“Took you long enough,” he chuckles and smooths the lapels of his black tunic. I am disgusted with the color. Black is the Celectate’s color. The devil’s color. “You’ve become patient. The Kyla I knew would have slapped me the moment I barred her way.”
“The Kyla you knew would also have excused your behavior as childish. But we are not children anymore, are we, Aspen?”
He stops smiling. “No, we are not.”
The silence is almost as unbearable as the hell moments prior to it. At this point, a bolt of lightning in the middle of the room would be a welcome distraction. I see no servants in sight to trip, and vandalizing Celectate Wood’s library would certainly overstep the boundaries I’m already pressing.
“Are you well?”
I widen my eyes. “Pardon?”
“Are you recovered from the . . . the mugging?” He says the word delicately, looking flustered at his attempts to restore the conversation. “I tried to call on you when you were abed with the fever but your mother wouldn’t let me in the house. She said you were delusional and didn’t recognize any faces. That my presence would only terrify you. She said you would wake screaming and thrashing like an insane person. Everyone was afraid you were going to die. It was weeks before I could sleep.”
I had been very sick after the “mugging.” The doctors had called it an infection. The priests had called it demons. Mother and Father had never left my bedside. When I finally regained my senses a week later and pointed out their faces, sleepless nights faded from their eyes. They had looked so relieved – especially Father. He blamed himself for what happened to me, even if he couldn’t remember what had truly passed on that street.
“Yes. I am recovered,” I say. The words sound terse and lack emotion. I’ve said them so many times, to so many people, they hardly mean anything anymore. What I really want to say is “No, I am not fine. I feel cursed. Demons visit me every night. I want them to go away. I want to slaughter their existence.”
“Did I do something to offend you?”
I blink in astonishment. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You never came back, Kyla.” His voice softens and cracks slightly. “I waited for you to return. To join me in the library. To meet me in the meadow. To fly through a door one day talking about the latest tale of heroism you’d picked up from your broth
er. But you never came. And when I went to see you . . .” He bites his lip.
I remember when he came to see me. I had been hiding in the arbor beside the house, wishing him to be gone. Wishing I didn’t see the hundreds of ostracized lives shining in his eyes. In eyes that resembled his father’s. Wishing I could empty the contents of my stomach so I could rid the disgust inside of me. Hoping I never saw him again. And up until now, I’d kept that oath. Mother had told him I’d gone with Father to a distant city for business purposes. Aspen had left.
“I think your mother didn’t want me to see you.” The pain in his tone changes to bitterness.
Slowly I release the breath I was holding. Let him think Mother tried to end our relationship. He can do nothing to Mother about such a trivial thing. All mothers meddle with their children’s relationships – especially noble mothers.
“She’s a strange person,” I say. At least that’s no lie.
The silence returns, and I awkwardly pluck at the sparkling beads sewn on my bodice. Aspen amuses himself by slowly walking around the room, dusting off an occasional hardback, and reading the labels on their delicate spines. I observe him carefully through narrowed eyes.
He’s gotten taller. I guess six foot one. I remember him as a skinny, lanky, awkward child who looked more like a young tree than a boy. That sapling body had transformed into one of sleek muscle and agile limbs. He had sported a freckled face, which developed into a pockmarked face, which has now transformed into a clear complexion of glowing skin.
“Has my appearance silenced your tongue?”
Heat, burning and nauseating, crawls up my neck as I realize he’s noticed my perusal. “N-no, High . . . Aspen.”
His robes swish around him, silk chaffing against his boots, as he stomps forward. The hardback in his hand shines with newly polished leather and I can’t help but notice the delicate etchings of the title. It is a familiar volume. I have read it hundreds of times over in Master Rolfe’s study, contemplating its tales, teachings, and legends. It supposedly contains every single myth or story ever told in Kelban history – but it contains nothing of the Wilds. Therefore, it contained nothing useful for me.
Aspen holds the book out towards me. “We used to read it together,” he says. “Do you remember?”
My stomach does a whirl. I remember. I remember lying stomach-flat on the floor of this library, shoulder-to-shoulder with Aspen, chuckling over the many mystified stories brushed onto the pages by an artist’s hand. I had been such a child then – such a little, foolish child – to carelessly laugh like that.
I nod in answer to his question. “Yes.”
He flips the book open. The pages smell familiar – of cider, and smoke, and wood chips on an autumn day. They rustle with age and the spine makes a sullen, aching noise – almost as if it’s been disturbed from sleep. Aspen’s fingers tentatively explore the well-worn page located in the middle of the giant book – a tale of the destruction of the other half of Kelba, now the Wilds.
“We had such aspirations then,” he mutters.
I don’t like where this is going. If I stay in this room, with him, with the building memories, everything I’ve struggled to keep inside, to bury, will unleash itself. I’ll launch myself at him, rake my nails across his face, and ask why he doesn’t see the horrors in front of his eyes. Why he can watch people – like Lord Telman – brutally destroyed by the man who sired him.
“I don’t focus on the past anymore,” I mumble. His head jerks up at my outburst and the dull ache disappears from his eyes. He nods and returns the book to the shelf. I breathe a sigh of relief. “We should return to the party.”
He nods and we both exit the room. I wait for him to walk away. To rejoin the comrades he surely has or offer his company to some other blinded fool. Instead, his arm wraps around my back, and his fingers splay out along my hip. I feel those fingers burning their warmth all the way through my clothing to the skin beneath. I see his father holding a bloody knife and a man gagging and ripping at his torn throat for survival. Next to him lies a severed tongue. My stomach drops.
Relief slides through me when we enter the Circle and come face-to-face with my parents – Father looking very pale and tired. The sagging skin beneath his eyes makes him look like an old man. Mother looks radiant as ever, not a hair out of place or a pallor of color absent from her cheeks. They both make their appropriate greetings to the lone heir, and Aspen returns them graciously.
“Are you having a good evening, your excellency?” Mother asks, her eyes flickering from Aspen to me, and his hand on my hip. I want to sink into the floor when an understanding smile crosses her features. She knows. She knows that I don’t wish for his company.
“Yes, Lady Elinor. I am having a splendid evening.” Aspen smiles at me, his fingers tightening on my hip.
I smile back and look at my mother. Help me, please.
However, it is Father who lays a hand on Aspen’s free arm. “I’m afraid we are going to have to take our leave, your grace. Your father requested an audience with me that I could not refuse and I’m afraid it has left me rather fatigued. It is a wonderful festival. All thanks to your father. May his reign be long and fruitful.”
The smile never fades from Father’s face. But it’s a smile that opens the jaws of horror in my body. His “Art of the Mask” smile.
“People are saying your father has, shall we say, forgotten his loyalty to the Celectate.”
“I would very much appreciate it if Lady Kyla could accompany me for the remainder of the evening,” Aspen says. He smiles at me. Those strange prickles flutter down my spine again as I imagine those eyes on a different face – his father’s face.
No. No! I look at my mother.
This time she doesn’t abandon me. She flashes a charming smile and places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m afraid Kyla is not used to such exertion. She gets unusually flustered as the evening wears on. It is best to let her get her rest so she doesn’t succumb to bouts of fainting.”
Aspen regards her with a tight, pinched expression but Mother doesn’t flinch beneath his gaze. He believes she’s interfering – but there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Then I shall leave her to her rest.” He moves his hand from my hip and takes my hand, pressing a quick kiss to my knuckles. It burns my skin with a reminder of whose son he is. “Are you sure she does not require a physician?”
“Just rest,” Mother assures him. “Your excellency,” she adds hastily. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against her. Welcoming the embrace, I rest my head on her shoulder.
I really do feel tired.
“I wish you a safe journey home, Lord Bone,” Aspen says to Father. He holds out his hand, which Father takes, and they give one another a hearty shake, smiles never fading from their faces. “My father has told me of your accumulated wealth with your new ventures in the white diamond mines.”
Beneath the hearty facade, my father’s jaw stiffens. “Yes. I have acquired great wealth. It is my luck and I thank the gods – and Calaisar – for everything. I often marvel that a humble lord like me should be blessed with such treasure and can only attribute it to my family . . .” He smiles at Mother and I. “And my attentiveness to the holy doctrines. What was that phrase? From the ancient chronicles of Kelba, I believe, it was. Ah, yes. ‘Poverty wants money, money wants power, power wants supremacy, and supremacy breeds evil.’ It is truly a wise text. I keep it close to my heart.”
The silence could murder if it had weapons. Father does not flinch beneath the flash of darkness that glints in Aspen’s eyes and it is gone moments later, replaced by a bright grin.
“Calaisar be with you, Lord Bone. Good evening, Lady Elinor.”
He pauses when the time comes to wish me on my way and I wonder if he’s going to drop my title and speak to me on informal levels in front of the entire crowd behind us. “Until the next time, Lady Kyla. I hope your nightmares cease.”
He walks away.
&n
bsp; The servants help me slip, or rather peel, the dress off my body. I wave them away when they try to dress me for bed. Though most high-class girls prefer their servants to dress them, I feel awkward not knowing how to put on my own clothes. I choose a simple white gown and tie a silken string around my waist to cinch it close.
The ride home had been one of the quietest of my life. Never had my parents been so sullen or smiles so absent. I hadn’t helped much either. Father had attempted to ask questions about how I’d come into Aspen’s company that evening – and I’d answered all in simple, one syllable phrases. Father had said he’d been in the Celectate’s company for a good portion of the evening – and I had sensed the radiating tongues of emotion stirring inside his body. The carriage had been steaming with it. My stomach curdles just thinking about it.
The pounding in my ears grows deafening. Not again. Not again. However, try as I might, I cannot push back the wall of nausea and pain that envelopes my neck, buzzing along my skin, tearing at my skull. My fingers search my desk wildly for some sort of deliverance from the pain. But my carafe is gone. I entertain the notion of calling a servant for aid – and quickly shove it aside. No. No gossip will be spread about the daughter of an esteemed high lord suffering “perverse, demonic attacks.”
Father has a carafe of his best wine downstairs on the table of our solar – the finest room in the whole manor. If I can make it down the stairs and just have a small sip this feeling, – this attack – will fade. My lungs burn in my chest as I open the door of my bedroom and slide out into the hall. My knuckles crack with strain as I grip the stair railing and take one shaky step after another to the main floor. The entire floor spins in front of my eyes as I meander dangerously across the open space between the stairwell and the “solar” doorway. At last, my fingers touch the knob.
The carafe glints in the pale candlelight flickering around the room. I pour some of its contents into a decanter and swallow the alcohol within. It slides down my throat, numbing my senses, and warming my insides. The buzzing in my ears fades and my limbs begin to regain control. As soon as I stop shaking, I’ll return to my rooms.
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 5
