The Book of Shadow, page 18
part #1 of The Curse of the Unnamed Series
She enjoyed it for a minute, curling and uncurling her toes, flexing her muscles to prepare them as though she suspected they may have forgotten how to perform their jobs. Another inhalation she held for a second, then released, and she pushed herself to stand. Her knees threatened to buckle but she caught herself with both hands leaning on the edge of the bed. When she regained her equilibrium, she moved them away, holding her arms out from her sides to aid with her stability. She wobbled, but kept her balance.
Pleased with herself, she ambled across the room to the bureau set beside the doorway. When she reached it, she grasped the top to take pressure off her tiring legs and gazed at herself in the mirror hung above it. Black, swollen circles ringed her eyes, as though she’d been in a fight and lost. Her hair stuck up at odd angles, the result of days resting against a pillow and no opportunity to brush it, let alone wash it. She lifted an arm, sniffed at her armpit and wrinkled her nose—she judged herself overdue a bath by at least a day.
She pivoted toward the bed, heel sliding easily on the smooth carpet, and paced the four steps to it, walking carefully despite the small distance. Reaching it, she spun and sat on the edge of the mattress again, letting out a sigh of relief as she did.
“Very good. You recover faster than I expected.”
Misk’s voice startled her, and she shook her head, staring at him standing by the closed door. How did he enter without her notice?
“I still feel awful. How did you get in here?”
“You were concentrating very hard on maintaining your balance when I came in,” he said. “It’s no wonder you didn’t hear me.”
She frowned. Two paces separated the bureau from the doorway, six or seven between it and the bed. The chamber was larger than any she’d rested in alone, but not so big another person might go unnoticed. She opened her mouth to remark on this when the old man interrupted her.
“I’ve brought something for you.”
He crossed the room on rickety legs, the staff he normally utilized for support nowhere in sight. He pulled the chair he’d used before away from the wall and lowered himself to its seat. Had he missed and fallen, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to aid him, such was the exhaustion settling back into her limbs.
“What is it?”
She leaned forward, careful not to overextend herself as he settled then reached into a fold in his robe. His hand came out gripping a small silver chest. Llyris gasped.
“Flayre?”
Her cheeks burned as she realized she hadn’t thought about her companion over the last few days as she battled her way to health. What kind of handler forgot about her charge? After what they’d been through, surely she wasn’t the only one in need of recovery. She held her breath, waiting for Misk to open the box. He took his time doing so, as if hesitating to add dramatic flair. When he raised the lid, her heart sank.
Flayre lay at the bottom of the container, purple flesh wrinkled like a grape halfway to becoming a raisin. She didn’t move, of course—Llyris wouldn’t expect her to—but the lack of motion, though normal, tightened her chest. Did the poor thing yet live? She reached out her hand, intending to pluck her from the red velvet lining. The old man moved the chest out of her reach.
“You mustn’t disturb her,” he said, voice hushed. “I shouldn’t be showing you, but I knew you’d be concerned.”
Did she hear a note of accusation in his tone, or did her own guilt lend his words such a flavor? Llyris lowered her hand, though she neither leaned away nor took her gaze from the small creature.
“Will she,” she began, then hesitated, fearful at the answer to the question she needed to pose. “Will she be all right?”
“Yes,” Misk said, closing the container’s lid and stealing Flayre from her view. “She has already recovered well, but she needs your help.”
“My help? What can I do?”
He extended his arm, offering her the box. “Keep her near you. Do not open the chest. Do not take her out. Hold it close to you at all times. Put it under your pillow, always in your grasp.”
Llyris nodded, reached out to accept it from him. So slight was Flayre’s weight inside it, the container weighed what she expected an empty silver chest of its size to be. Though her hands wanted to shake, she held them steadfast so she didn’t disturb the creature within. She scooted backward on the mattress, pulling her feet up off the floor to sit on it cross-legged, holding the vessel in her lap.
“And she’ll recover?”
The old man nodded. “Yes. She needs a few more days, I suspect, but, with your help, she will regain her power and health.”
She stroked the lid of the box, rubbing its embossed surface under the tips of her fingers. Her cheeks continued to burn with embarrassment and she wondered if he noticed the blush on her face, understood what caused it.
“I don’t understand,” she said, looking up at him. “How will I help her?”
“You are more powerful than you realize, Llyris Fildarae.”
“No, I’m not.” She shook her head. “I am a handler, the same as every other. If anything, I am less. I nearly killed her.”
“In that, you are near correct. She came within a hair’s breadth of death, but you are not responsible. You kept her alive.”
She frowned again, waited for him to explain himself.
“I believe if someone other than you attempted the feat you accomplished, the three of you and the horse would be deceased. If they could have gotten so far as to travel everybody at all.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You are unique, Llyris. I’ve thought so from the moment I laid eyes on you.”
She shifted on the mattress, uncomfortable with the conversation. Never in her life had anybody spoken to her this way—not her father, nor the guild Seniors, nobody. Ilkari offering encouragement had been more than she was used to, and she’d written it off to the squire’s nature rather than any particular quality he saw in her. She diverted her gaze to the box on her lap, fighting the impulse to open it.
“There’s nothing special about me. Flayre almost died because of me.”
She heard his robe rustle as he leaned closer to her, but she didn’t look up, unprepared to meet his eyes lest she discover he teased her. She thought him baiting her more likely than he believed her different, unique. When he spoke, he did so in hushed tones.
“Like most, you know little of me.”
She glanced up at him, then at the chest. “I know nothing about you.”
He chuckled. “I suppose that is true. But you see me an old man employed by a certain merchant to save his offspring. Like everyone else, you’re wrong if you think this my motivation.”
This time, she couldn’t help be raise her chin and meet his gaze. “You’re not?”
“No, child. The merchant’s son is not truly ill. I exist to deliver so many more than Cassemir Carpera. I am much more than a healer of sick children.” He peered toward the door, as though making sure nobody had entered without their notice. “One of my lesser things is as a keeper of records. Anything regarding the Unnamed and their handlers.”
A sliver of worry began throbbing in her chest. “Like at the guild? Do you work for them?”
“No, I serve no one. I keep these documents of my accord because I thought they’d come in handy, as they have today. You see, I’ve discovered something about you which you don’t know. A fact I’d wager nobody knows.”
He paused, and she frowned. His flair for the dramatic did nothing to quell her deepening concern. What might he have learned? And how? Did someone from the guild drop in to check on her while she slept these past few days? Did he tell them of her failure? If so, her time lying in repose on the comfortable bed in Carpera’s mansion neared its end, and her profession as Flayre’s keeper along with it.
“What is it?” she asked finally, unable to wait any longer despite what painful thing he might reveal.
“The man you think of as your father wasn’t your sire.”
For a minute, she lost the ability to do more than stare at him. She examined the deep wrinkles beside his eyes, the way the whiskers of his beard twisted in a long curl, though her mind didn’t dwell on these details. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again when she realized she lacked anything else to say. Her concern transformed, dipping into the pit of her stomach, causing an ache. Should she be sad? Happy? Angry? Her brain settled on confused.
“I…” she began when she rediscovered her voice. “I don’t understand.”
Misk reached out and placed a hand on her forearm. If he meant it to extend comfort, she found none in it. His gaze held her, making a similar offer, but failed. A flicker danced in his eyes at the information he carried, waiting to dole out in these tiny, frustrating morsels. If he didn’t give her more, she thought she might explode.
“I don’t yet have the full picture. From what I have gathered, your mother convinced him to tell everyone he sired you. They did it to save you.” He took his hand away from her and put it to his forehead, tilted his head and gazed toward the ceiling. “In my youth, I’d have seen this sooner, before I even met you, and with no aid from my books.”
“What do you mean he saved me?” She sat up straighter, raised her voice to retrieve his attention.
His eyes settled on her. “Lower your tone. No one but you and I are aware of this.”
“Of what?” She pressed her lips together in frustration, suddenly feeling like he spoke half his words in a foreign language unfamiliar to her. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
His face turned grave. “Your true father was not a man.”
Another dramatic pause. Llyris ground her teeth, withholding a lash of anger brimming behind her lips as her hand gripped the silver chest tight. She became vaguely aware of the dim power it contained. Normally, she’d have been encouraged at sensing it and understanding what it meant, but her mind lacked the capacity to bother with it while the old man sitting in front of her carried on with his riddle. She opened her mouth again, searching for some way to prompt him to his point, when he spoke. His proclamation stole from her tongue any words she might have created.
“Your father was an Unnamed. You are shadow scarred.”
Chapter 16
T hey paused at the brink of the forest, each of them contemplating the tangle of brush lying before them. No wind annoyed the calm, dull mid-morning with shaking leaves or rattling branches. Colorful butterflies flitted around following jerky, nonsensical flight paths only they understood while unseen insects buzzed from flower to berry. Somewhere under the serenity undoubtedly crept a variety of small animals, perhaps some like the one Rein put his boot heel to the day before. No road led into the wild expanse, no path or trail for them to walk, let alone traverse with horse and wagon.
“I don’t relish the idea of leaving it behind,” the knight said, shaking his head.
“Of course you don’t. How will you ever survive without your hairbrushes and silken pillows?” Cirril curled his lip in an exaggerated snarl.
“My hairbrushes may find their way into the bottom of your pack when you least expect it, ass,” he said, without averting his gaze from the forest. “I’m more concerned with the weapons and provisions. And the fate of the horse.”
The merchant’s man unshouldered his knapsack and started toward the wagon. “We take what we absolutely need and leave the rest. We should be able to manage everything important between the eight of us.”
Hinter watched them as she leaned against a tree, arms crossed. Cirril motioned for Kove to join him and they began picking through the items. The already tipsy cleric joined them, Tesfira trailing behind him as she always did. Ilkari stood with his hand on the horse, glancing between wain and knight, looking like he struggled to keep from filling his own pack until his master gave him leave.
Despite having watched four of them trek to stare at the forest the night before, Hinter hadn’t said a word about it. She didn’t know what caused it or if mentioning it might bring harm. She’d heard that when people discovered they suffered from the sleeping sickness, it made things worse. How it could, or why it affected the men, she couldn’t guess. One thing she knew: she had no desire to end up trapped in this place awaiting the traveler’s return without their swords with her.
“We don’t know entering the forest is the best course of action.” Rein turned from the thicket. Standing beside him, Jai did the same.
“What other choice makes sense?” Emeryn Aryzath said, his portion of morning wine slurring his words. “Should we keep wandering a wasteland in search of a library?”
Hinter raised an eyebrow; his comments sounded more like Cirril’s than the thoughts of a cleric. The anomaly didn’t pass Rein’s notice.
“It seems you and the merchant’s lackey have been talking, eh, holy man? I’d hazard a guess you’ve been sharing cups, but I doubt you have a willingness toward generosity with your wine.”
Emeryn stared at the knight, though he chose not to respond. Beside him, Tesfira’s cheeks reddened and Hinter saw her bite her lip, wanting to defend her mentor, prevented from doing so by her vows and perhaps the memory of Rein coming to her rescue.
“The cleric is right.” Ilkari stepped toward the rear of the wagon. “It’s more reasonable we’ll find what we seek in a place we’re more likely to meet people.”
“You, too, squire?” Jai said in an unimpressed tone.
Rein put his hand flat against his friend’s chest, silencing him. “And what of the horse?”
“The nature of horses is to keep themselves alive.” Cirril jammed a package of cured meat into his pack. “Besides, we’ll have little use for a horse if the traveler doesn’t show up.”
“And if she does, your master won’t care about losing the animal?”
The merchant’s man stopped and stared at Rein. “If we return with the tome and heal his son, he will celebrate the loss of a horse. He’d probably even give up every one he owns to save the child. And I have a good sense about this.”
“Aye,” Kove added. “This is the way to go; I can feel it in my belly.”
“Well, Jai, it seems our companions’ feelings and their bellies outnumber us. Let’s hope it’s not hunger or indigestion driving them.” The knight turned his attention to the tree where Hinter leaned. “You’ve been quiet, girl. What say you?”
She shrugged and pushed herself away from the timber; her cloak shifted from brown to green as she moved toward the wagon. “Who am I to argue with a man’s belly?”
Tesfira peered over Emeryn’s shoulder. Though she derived some safety from hiding behind him, she’d have preferred one of the fighting men standing between her and the cabin they’d come upon three hours into their sojourn in the woods. It took little intellect to figure out a good sword offered better protection than a half-empty wineskin. She didn’t blame him; she knew his background and also understood he possessed a great deal to teach her when sober enough to do so. However, sometimes a strong arm is a preferable thing—this being an example of such a time.
They watched in silence as Rein and Cirril crept through the underbrush, making their way toward the abode, which had appeared practically out of nowhere. They’d come across no track or path leading to it, simply happened upon the small house built of logs in the middle of the forest as though someone dropped it there whole.
“What a beautiful little home,” the cleric said to her over his shoulder. “I’d wager wonderful people live in such a place.”
The skin above Tesfira’s nose between her eyes crinkled, as it did when she misunderstood. A shutter hung askew from one window of the cabin and ivy climbed up its sides. Shrubbery grew on the roof and even she knew the roots of such plants led to leaks and rotting shingles. The shack’s walls were built from logs unscraped of their bark, chunks of it knocked free over the years, giving the structure a patchy, unfinished appearance. She suspected Emeryn had consumed more wine than she realized, for Tesfira Florithe saw nothing of beauty in the place.
“It is, isn’t it?” Ilkari agreed. Hinter shushed them both with a hiss of air between her teeth.
Minutes passed as the men inched nearer to the shack. Sword in hand, Rein crept toward the cabin at an angle, but Cirril approached directly, no weapon in his grip—one more thing on which the two disagreed. As they got closer, Emeryn, Kove, and Ilkari moved forward, leaving Tesfira and Hinter on their own.
“Where are you fools going?” the woman hissed, putting words to thoughts the disciple’s vows didn’t allow her to speak.
None of them replied, and a minute later, the cabin door swung open on creaking hinges. Tesfira saw Rein, Jai, and Hinter crouch, doing their best to stay out of sight of whomever or whatever might emerge, so she did the same. The others did not.
A woman stepped into the doorway. She wore a dark, plain smock, her straight, black hair streaked with gray falling to her waist and half-covering her unremarkable face. They froze at her presence as her gaze swept across the space in front of her house, surveying each one of them. When it fell on Tesfira, a shiver crawled up her spine.
“Hello,” she said, a distinct note of cheeriness in her voice, but no surprise at finding a group of strangers prowling her yard. “My name is Priscilla, but my friends call me Pris. Prue and I have been expecting you.”
Somehow, the interior of the log cabin appeared much larger than Hinter thought upon observing it from outside. What she’d expected to be a one-room abode cluttered with furnishings was, instead, a spacious home divided into multiple rooms.
When the woman who called herself Priscilla invited them in, she, Rein, and Jai—as well as the girl Tesfira, who seemed determined to accompany her—hesitated. Not so for the others. Cirril Feron led the parade of men right to and through the doorway without compunction, leaving their companions the choice to follow or abandon them. She suspected the knights’ preference to be the latter, but their sense of duty, if not loyalty, persuaded them to join their comrades.
