The way Xavier saw it, by the time he set their naval vessel to rights, the dilemma with the Eyeglass and its Legacies would be well in hand.
19
Home Sweet Home
While Xavier tended his shop in Enimura, Rosalia walked from the Ilyrian hoard to Valanya and spent hours touring the city. She visited Merchant Avenue, wandered through a museum, dined on fruit-filled pastries at a quaint café, and finally made her way to Nemuria’s realty office.
The door had been propped open and a cool, mint-scented breeze snaked inside. A canary’s cheerful warble greeted her from beside a window, the small creature uncaged and free to hop back and forth between two wooden perches amidst the roses in the window box.
A watercolor portrait of a sunset behind the pink-speckled, emerald mountains decorated one wall, and a trio of oil paintings portraying an ocean scene of a sailing boat beneath scarlet skies spanned the wall above the desk. The master thief sat behind it, appearing demure and sophisticated in a cream blouse with pastel skirts.
The night and day contrast between the smiling realtor and the Nemuria of the Undercastle in her black leathers and boots took Rosalia by surprise.
“Ah. At last you come to pay me a visit. I wondered how long it would be before you tired of a dreary dragon’s hoard. I’ve always imagined all these years that it must be dark and a bit dank there, or at the very least smell of cold stone, earth, and far too much metal.”
The corner of Rosalia’s mouth quirked involuntarily. “Your imagination isn’t too far from the truth.”
The elf removed a thick leather binder from a shelf behind her and flipped through it. Each sheet of parchment contained a floorplan, along with crisp and tidy ink sketches of a home’s exterior and rooms. “Which listing interested you? I mentioned several during our previous conversation.”
“I hoped the cottage might still be available.”
“Ah.” Nemuria lowered the binder and rose from her seat. “You’re in luck. Call it intuition, but I held it back from showings this week. If we hurry, we’ll make it before we lose the sun. I don’t mind showing a home by lantern, but there’s a certain…appeal that can’t be replicated by mechanical or magical light. I often recommend to prospective renters and buyers that they visit a property at different times of the day once they’ve narrowed down their search.”
“I’ve never bought a home before, so I’ll take whatever advice you’re willing to give.”
It didn’t take long to reach Greenleaf Corner, a quaint neighborhood in the northwestern quarter of the city. Nature had overtaken most of the buildings and sent tendrils of leaves and plant life crawling over the brick. A combination of elven carpentry and dwarven masonry had transformed a section of rolling hills into quaint homes. Rosalia couldn’t decide what she found prettier, the brick buildings, or houses beneath the hills.
Nemuria turned down a cobblestone path lined by flowering bushes. “Just this way. If this listing isn’t to your liking, there are plenty more in other districts of the city. What are you looking for in a home?”
“Something with light and warmth. I want to smell the flowers when I open the windows, and I want…” She chewed the inside of her lip. “A home where I can raise a child.”
The elf spun on one heel and stared at her. “Are you—?”
“Not yet. It’s…” She put on a reassuring smile and laughed it off, albeit awkwardly, as she wasn’t always as good an outright liar as she was an actress on the stage. “What kind of thief would I be if I didn’t plan for the future?”
Her guildmistress studied her with appraising eyes, no doubt seeing right through her. “I see.” Those two words said volumes, and left Rosalia wondering what Nemuria believed. Had she noticed the flourishing affection she felt for Xavier?
Whenever he came into view, her lady-parts clenched with desire, and it wasn’t at all fair considering how long she’d wanted to be furious with him.
She had to be out of her mind to consider his request or even give it five seconds of thought. Continuing her life as a thief seemed impossible if she became the mother of a dragon. Or mother of dragons, were she to find the experience enjoyable enough to repeat.
Rosalia shuddered. No. Definitely not. One theoretical child would have to be enough.
They passed through another lane before coming to a yard with a waist-high fence decorated by ribbons of flowering vines, each of them bearing pink flowers with golden stamen. The mildest caress from the breeze blew glowing particles from them and stirred up a sweet scent like strawberry candy.
It felt like a sign.
The stone cottage had been built into the side of an enormous emerald oak tree, but the branches above them still flourished. A stepping stone path led the way to a glossy front door flanked by planters overflowing with berry-laden flora. The fruits were ripe and heavy, bending the small branches toward the soil.
“How is it still alive when there are windows carved into it?”
“It was grown this way by a druid. The tree hasn’t suffered at all.”
At a glance, she’d been impressed, but the longer she marveled at the home, the more she questioned its availability. “Why is it for sale? Someone put their love into this place.”
Nemuria placed her hand against the wooden door. A glyph blazed golden-orange beneath her hand before it opened. “His wife died while at sea. She served aboard one of our naval vessels, and the ship encountered Linradeshi pirates. She didn’t survive the battle, and he could not bear to remain in their marital home.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
“Indeed. Does that put you off?”
“No, but I’m sad for him just the same.”
“Loloren had hopes that their home would pass into the possession of another young couple in love. They lived here for a century, and it’s fully furnished.”
They entered a humble entrance hall with a handwoven rug stretched across the floor. To her left, Nemuria gestured to a charming coat rack fashioned from bones and antlers. On her right, she saw a cozy drawing room with enormous oval windows and rows of shelves bearing a modest book collection.
Looking at the room made her heart hurt. Echoes of the homeowners’ love lingered in the air, a palpable and living force.
“There are lights, too. Loloren fancied himself an enchanter.” Nemuria gestured to a wooden floor lamp carved into the shape of a flowering vine. Seven fist-sized moonstones accented the piece, each one resembling an orange rosebud. When she caressed a glossy stone, they all glowed brighter until she stroked it counter-clockwise. Then it dimmed.
Rosalia slid onto the sofa. A low coffee table divided a pair of velvet divans upholstered in rich emerald, and the end tables had all been carved to match with floral motifs and designs of rabbits and woodland creatures at play. She fell in love with it.
“Nemuria, this is gorgeous. His work is beautiful. He made all of this?”
“Everything but the paintings on the walls. He raised his own silk worms, dyed the cloth, tanned the hides and built the furniture. Wait until we’re in the bedrooms. There’s one here and a second on the upper level. He actually told me a year ago that he believes there will be another bedroom on the third tier soon.”
“How is that possible?”
“The home continues to grow. Such is the gift of a treehouse made by a wood elf. The house had a will of its own and is known for producing another chamber every few years.”
“Is there plumbing?”
“Of course. It’s different from what you’re accustomed to using in Enimura, but I guarantee the pipes will pump clean, hot water.”
“If it’s twenty-five lyras a month to rent, how much to buy?”
“One thousand.”
Rosalia cocked a skeptical brow. “That’s it?”
“Money wasn’t of concern to him. What he wants is for the next owner to appreciate and cherish the home he built. Birana was what brought him from the forests, and without her, nothing holds him here.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s life. He won’t be back to the city again, I’m sure of it. I’m to donate all but my commission to the city orphanage.” Nemuria smoothed her hand over the polished tabletop. Small figurines carved from bone decorated the surface, each a different magical creature. The unicorn was the prettiest.
“I’ll buy it.”
“But you haven’t seen the rest.”
“I don’t need to.”
A broad grin widened Nemuria’s mouth. “I thought you’d feel that way.” Without fanfare, the high elf plucked an unusual, glowing key from her leather bag and offered it.
“I haven’t even paid yet.”
Nemuria’s smile widened. “I know you’re good for it. Welcome home.”
20
The Last Rite
A pixie with pink dragonfly wings placed an orchid in Rosalia’s hair. While Xavier had warned her about pranks, all the little ones had done thus far was gift her flowers as the setting sun cast streaks of violet across the darkening sky. It was long after the time her dragon was due to join her, since he’d promised to shut the Clockwork Emporium a few hours ahead of schedule.
When another hour passed and darkness spread its cape of midnight over the city, she watched the emerald flight from a corner in the Pleasure Gardens.
If he didn’t show his face in another hour, she’d return to the hoard to see what was keeping him and pray it wasn’t a who keeping him. During the wait, she kept a street artist company between commissions, and even sat for a thirty-minute painting herself. Somehow, in that small window, he captured the very essence of her, glowing and golden and mysterious, standing amidst shadows and purple-red desert roses lit with their own fire, a long path behind her bordered in streaks of flame.
Breathtaking.
Although she’d never underestimated her own beauty, seeing herself through the eyes of another person provided incomparable value, and she wondered if this portrait revealed a fraction of what Xavier saw. Unable to abide the young elf undercharging her for his work, she paid him five lyras in addition to the two coins he’d requested.
Afterward, Rosalia returned to her seat and people-watched while the artist applied protective glaze to her portrait. It needed a week to dry before she could take it home. The question was whether it would be to her new cottage or the hoard that had certainly gained all the traits of home in the weeks since the dragon invited her into his lair.
When she stepped inside Xavier’s underground sanctuary, a sensation of peace surrounded her not unlike what she’d once experienced when entering the Salted Pearl or her flat in Madame LaVerci’s boarding house. Those places had been home, safety, and security until the traitor ripped both of them out from under her.
Refusing to allow Lacherra to poison her mood, she forced the woman from her thoughts and let her mind wander to the pleasing subject of the many filthy things she planned to do to Xavier that night once they were alone. They hadn’t spoken of it, but there’d been an unvoiced promise in his gaze when they separated after lunch and made plans to meet after he closed the shop.
One taste of Xavier Bane hadn’t been enough. A sample couldn’t sate her appetite now that she knew the flavor of his skin and the sound of his voice when he reached climax, groaning her name in a husky breath against her lips.
Down, girl, she chided herself. A bustling entertainment district was the least appropriate place to let her imagination run wild with fantasies of getting the weredragon beneath her again. Snapping herself back to the present, Rosalia cleared her throat and stole a quick glance at her surroundings. A few yards to her left, the street artist applied the final layer of glaze to the painting.
Before she could dwell for long upon whether it would be an arrogant idea to present Xavier with the painting of herself, the wind carried the melancholy notes of a gentle song to her, flutes and chimes accompanied by soft percussion.
Four lines of elves approached from the end of the lane where the Pleasure Gardens merged with the square at the heart of Valanya. There were at least six dozen participants of all ages led by a single woman. The maidens in the line behind her wore flowing gowns of teal and silver silk, the men among them wearing robes of equal beauty. Some danced with ribbons while others played haunting melodies with their chosen instrument.
Within seconds of their arrival, the throng of busy tourists and elves parted, splitting to either side of the street to watch the procession. A few melted into the group and matched their stride.
Rosalia eased alongside an elven woman watching the show from the sidelines. “What’s happening? Is it a parade?”
“Not a parade. They are soon to participate in the Rite of the Ocean Mother’s Embrace,” she replied in a low voice.
“What’s that?” Despite sharing the same pantheon of gods, Rosalia had noticed the elves practiced their rituals differently from her fellow Saudonians.
“Any follower of Nindar is welcome to join them at the Cliffs of Silver Peril. Centuries ago, one of our first queens dove from the cliff to receive Nindar’s blessing after a long and difficult month of rains earlier that year. The monsoons had swept over Valanya, devastating our people, but Queen Lisariel believed if she proved her devotion to Nindar, she could be closer to her. Speak with her. Plead for protection for her people the next year. So now each year, on the final day of Moritas, they participate in a recreation of her sacrifice.”
“Did it work?”
“Our city is still here. There has not been a fatal monsoon since the ceremony began.” The elf smiled. “Are you intrigued?”
“A little.”
“Join them.”
With little else to occupy her time until Xavier’s arrival, she joined the rear of the group and marched with the growing procession throughout the city.
Eventually, their path curved north of the Greenleaf Quarter and climbed the slope of a mountain overlooking the city. There, someone had erected a shrine at the edge of the cliff facing the Crystal Gulf. The aroma of honeydew and water lily billowed from the altar, accompanied by minor notes of cedar and sweet tobacco. Without understanding why she was there at all, save for the experience of observing and participating in an elvish ritual, Rosalia found a quiet place to wait beneath the emerging stars. A faint sliver of sun hung on the horizon, and soon even that would be gone, pitching the world into darkness.
While another priest led the congregation, speaking in the lilting Ilyrian tongue, the woman Rosalia assumed to be the temple’s leader stepped alongside her while she viewed the train of worshippers approaching the edge. Setting her apart from the others priests, she wore a sapphire-studded tiara and held a staff carved from ivory wood. The light of the many torches and lanterns glowed against it and a semi-translucent blue glaze spiraled down its shaft like a river.
“Greetings, stranger. Your face is not one I have ever seen among the congregation.”
In any Saudonian temple, her presence would have gone unnoticed. A cold spike lanced into her chest as she searched. “I’m new to Valanya—to Ilyria, to be truly honest with you—and I couldn’t help but follow to watch the ceremony. Everything in this kingdom is done beautifully, and your rite is no exception.”
Appearing satisfied, the elf smiled. “I see. Different from your homeland, isn’t it? It isn’t often that we receive visitors from Saudonia.” She dipped into a low curtsy. “I am High Priestess Falina. Who might you be? I find you strangely familiar for one who is new to our realm. Certainly, I have seen you somewhere.”
“I’m Rosalia,” she replied, only for something like regret to flash through her mind. She should have fabricated a new identity, though she couldn’t imagine going by a name other than the one she’d known her entire life. “A friend invited me to visit his homeland, so here I am, waiting for him to complete his responsibilities for the day.”
“Ah. Well, we are happy to have you among us, child. Please, if you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
> An elf stepped up to the ledge and tossed a single rose from the cliff, followed by a young man with a bouquet of water irises. The next woman kissed an unblemished apple, then hurled it over, baffling Rosalia since her understanding of the story was that Queen Lisariel threw herself over the edge.
“I do have one question. Why are they throwing flowers or fruit into the water?”
“This is how we celebrate the Sacrifice of Saint Lisariel. Though she survived the ordeal and washed ashore to speak of her visit to the Crystal Shores, many others did not. We no longer re-enact her dive from the Cliffs of Silver Peril, and instead gift her with sacrifices of another variety.”
“Oh. Why did it stop?”
“Ah, so many reasons, child. These days, we merely throw offerings to Nindar rather than risk loss of life. It is safer.”
“But it’s not the same.”
The priestess shook her head, a hint of a smile touching her blue-painted lips. “No, it is not. At times I wonder if forsaking custom may have led to our troubles on the sea with Linradesh. Our seas have been turbulent and dangerous. Just this year, we lost two ships from the Ilyrian fleet to piracy. The Emerald Storm and the Glass Delight.”
While Saudonia did frequent trade with Linradesh, Rosalia had never seen their battleships or pirate vessels. She imagined them to be enormous, terrifying things to be able to take on an elvish warship. “But Ilyrian ships are the best.”
“They are the swiftest, and ironbark hulls are quite formidable, but our firepower does not compare to the black powder of Linradesh.” She spread her hands apart in a gesture of helplessness. “For a while, I’ve considered returning to our old traditions. Of risking lives and flesh once more for her blessing, but…”
“What if I jump for you?”
Falina narrowed her blue eyes, fleeting distrust visible in her stiff posture. “Why would you do that if you are no follower of Nindar?”
Fool's Gold: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 2) Page 16
