Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

My heart squeezes and I smile, clutching the rounded, glowing stone to my chest. It’s the most generous thing anyone has ever done for me. He’s apologizing for last night. I know he is. And this is the best way to do it. Beaming, I pull the stand out of the box. It’s a lot like a candlestick, but with claws on the end that the orb can fit into and be carried around. I snap it into place on the end of the candlestick and smile at the light that pours through my doorway.

No more sitting in the darkness for me.

I should go down and talk to Nemeth. Thank him for his thoughtful gift and apologize for flinging myself at him last night. Clearly my advances weren’t welcome, but he wants us to remain friends anyhow. I’m fine with that.

I’m just about to close the box when I notice there’s a small, cloth-wrapped bundle at the bottom.

I pick it up, and the moment I do, my blood goes cold.

I don’t even have to unwrap it to know what it is. That comfortable heft has been my companion ever since I entered this tower. I know the shape of my knife without even looking at it. I pull it from the wrappings, scarcely daring to breathe, and stare down at the small blade, still in its sheath.

The bastard lied to me. He claimed he didn’t steal it, and yet he’s had it all this time.

All of my goodwill disappears in a flash. Eyes narrowing, I tuck the blade into the front of my gown in its old familiar spot. “Did he steal you away from me?” I ask the blade.

Yes.

That prick.

I’ve changed my mind. We can’t be friends. I’ll take his glowing orb, but he can go straight to the Gray God’s death pits and stay there. He’s made it clear that he’s got the upper hand, and that he’s not afraid to lie to me. Carefully, I carry my new globe inside my quarters, pleased at the light that shines over everything. I shut the door once more and crawl back into bed.

A short time later, there’s a low tap at the door. “Candra?”

I don’t answer.

Chapter

Nineteen

After that, Nemeth doesn’t pursue friendship with me. It suits me just fine. The days pass, and as they do, we avoid each other. If I hear him heading down the stairs, I make sure to keep my door closed. I spend as little time in the kitchens as possible, only going down when I have to cook something or to make my medicine. If I wash up, I make sure to never get undressed, lest he think it’s an invitation. I’m making it quite clear to him that I’m not interested, either.

For months, I don’t see those green eyes in the shadows.

I’ve learned a way to keep track of the passing days. Each time I rouse from sleep, I ask the knife if a new day has arrived. Through a process of yes and no questions, I’m able to determine the date, and I make counting stitches along the hem of my oldest chemise. Riza sent a sewing kit with me, and while it took me a long time to figure out how to get the thread to stop coming out, I’ve mastered a simple stitch enough that I can use it to keep track of time.

I count the days, because it’s something to do.

Balon doesn’t return for three weeks. Then four. After five weeks pass, I figure he’s grown bored of visiting me and stop checking for him.

The storms pound against the tower many times after that first night, and I put a pot on the floor to catch the drippings of water. I move my bed to the far side of the wall, and head up into the storage area above to move the wood away from the dripping spot. I don’t go to check on Nemeth as the storms crackle and thunder overhead. I don’t care if he’s frightened or unnerved by their ferocity. I hope he breaks and busts his way out of the tower, and then I can return home and say see? I wasn’t the problem.

One morning (at least, I assume it’s morning) I wake up and my breath frosts in the air, and my teeth chatter with cold.

Winter has arrived.

On All Winter’s Feast, I will have been here half a year.

Half a year, and my food supplies are looking pathetic indeed. I’ve counted out my medicine components, making sure I have enough for the weeks that follow, and I should be fine. I should have enough to carry me through to the new year, when fresh supplies will be brought to me. That is both troubling and a relief. I’m glad, of course. The medicine is paramount. But that means that they probably brought me with enough food supplies, which means I’ve squandered them, somehow. Am I eating too much? The loose fit of my corsets (and the constant growling of my stomach) tells me no, I’m eating less than before.

I’ll just have to be smarter with my food. For all I know, Nemeth has been stealing from me all this time. I have no wards on my food like he does…and he’s not afraid to lie to me about it.

So I spend two days moving my foodstuffs out of the root cellar and into my quarters. I don’t know if it’ll do much good seeing as how Nemeth can slink through the shadows, but it makes me feel better to know I’m watching over them. I keep my light lit at all times, even when I sleep. It’s comforting to know I have it, to be able to open my eyes and see my surroundings instead of feeling about in the dark.

Wood for a fire remains a problem, though, and continues to be an even bigger problem as the weather turns colder. The tower, cool in the summer, is like ice in the winter. It’s miserable, and no matter how many layers I put on, I can’t seem to get warm. I end up sleeping fully clothed, my hands covered in socks, with every blanket piled atop my bed, and I still wake to my teeth chattering.

The beloved glowing orb that Nemeth gifted me is truly wondrous, but it doesn’t give off heat. Winter brings new problems when I wake up to my medicine frozen in its vial. I warm it by tucking it between my breasts, but without fire, my existence is growing increasingly miserable. Keeping my food stores isn’t a problem—I barely have the energy to gnaw on my half-frozen vegetables, much less to make a fire and bake something like my book advises. I spend my time scouring the storeroom upstairs for things to burn, but everything there is either moldy with age, made of metal, or I’ve already burned it.

I turn towards my sled.

I’ve kept it by the door, as it’s too big for me to move upstairs on my own. It’s as large as my bed, and so heavy that tugging on it only makes an offensive scrape across the floor. I’ve been saving it, determined to use it as a measurement. If I need to burn the sled, it’s an indication that I’m in dire circumstances and I need to do something drastic.

It looks like that time is now.

I have two doses of my medicine left before I need to make another fire. Three, if I’m stingy. After that, I’ve got to make a fire. Last time, I burned one of my dresses because I was out of wood, but it burned down so quickly I had to end up burning another, and I know that won’t continue to work. I’ll be running around naked before the end of the month.

And besides, the ribbons and bits of fabric are what I’m using for tinder, since my box is long empty.

Downstairs, I approach my sled with one of the heavy pots from the kitchen. Most of the trunks were fairly easy to take apart—bang something heavy on one side until the fittings come loose, or use a knife to pull out the nails. The sled is of a heavier make, though, and I’m intimidated by it.

I set my light down carefully a safe distance away, then try to turn the sled on its side. One of the runners might be easier to take off than pulling apart the entire thing. It takes me a while to turn the heavy thing over on its side, but once I manage to flip it, my back smarting, I run my fingers over the wood, feeling for joints or nails.

Nothing.

Hmm. I tilt the sled onto one side and then let it crash backward to the floor, wincing in anticipation of the tremendous crash. It makes a crash, all right, but the entire thing stays in one piece. I’ve heard one of the knights brag that our woodworkers are the finest in the land and I’m finding out, depressingly, that this might be the case. I hammer at one of the runners, then the other. I try to loosen planks. I wedge my knife into a crack and try to widen it.

Nothing gives. Nothing budges, and at the end of an afternoon, I’m covered in sweat and all I’ve managed to do is dull my knife and give myself a backache. The sled is as solid as ever.

Without the sled, I can’t have my medicine.

Without my medicine, I’ll die.

I sink into a puddle of skirts near the sled and stare at it, numb. Tears of sheer frustration threaten.

You can cry about this later, I remind myself. Tomorrow, when you’ve had a nice fire and you’ve made another batch of medicine. You can weep all you want tomorrow.

Normally the pep talk works. Normally I can put off crying. Today is not that day. Exhausted, I burst into noisy tears and sob into my hands. I feel helpless and miserable and so damned alone.

And I can’t make a fire to save my life.

I truly can’t.

The realization just makes me cry harder, and I let myself weep over the entire situation—over my sister’s death and the destruction of my life. Over being trapped here. Over cold baths and meals of raw turnips and the fact that my arm is permanently bruised from my clumsy injections. That even Balon has given up on me. That I’ve still got so far to go before I’m free and I won’t make it. That I’m going to die in this cold, lonely tower, alone and forgotten.

I cry and cry, until I’ve got nothing left. And then I cry some more.

I hear the rustle of leathery wings before I see the green eyes. “Candra.”

Not him. Not now. Not when I’m at my most vulnerable.

“Piss off,” I choke out. “You’re not wanted here, Fellian.”

To my relief, he doesn’t mock me. He just slinks back into the shadows, green eyes disappearing.

Good.

Chapter

Twenty

Imake my medicine last four days. I tap the glass tube and squeeze every droplet out, adding a bit of water to each dose to make it last. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m low on options. I don’t eat much, either. I just lie in bed and gnaw on a turnip when I’m hungry, sip a bit of water, and then go back to lying down again. The less I move about, the less vital my medicine is…or so I hope.

Nurse would have a fit if she could see me now.

Thinking about Nurse makes me lonely. I think about Nurse, and Riza, and all of the others that took care of me on a daily basis and I took for granted. I want to hug all of them and apologize for being spoiled. I want to shower them with affection and gifts so they know how much they mean to me. I want to go home. I want to go home so badly it’s a physical ache in my chest.

On the fifth day, I wake up and immediately lose the contents of my stomach. Sweating, dizzy, I know it’s because I’ve been skimping on my medicine. I’m destroying myself slowly, and I need to do something about it.

Today, I decide, sitting up. I’m going to conquer that sled today. I’m going to make it into firewood, and I’m going to make myself a huge batch of medicine, enough to last at least a week, and then I’m going to figure something out. I’m not going to let this beat me.

I get to my feet, blackness creeping before my eyes. I blink it away and hold onto the bed frame until the shakiness in my limbs goes away. I chew on a bit of dried meat and take a bite of turnip as I tighten the laces of my dress and slip on my shoes. Once I’m ready, I carefully pick up my glowing orb and carry it downstairs with me, my knife tucked into the bodice of my dress, safely between my breasts. I’ve never let it out of my sight, not since that day that Nemeth stole it from me.

When I get to the bottom floor, though, I have to blink a few times to make certain my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. I walk to the spot where I left the sled…but there’s nothing there.

It’s gone.

I shine my light and walk the large room, just in case I’m dizzier than I thought and I’ve missed something. But no, there’s no sled at all. It’s gone, the only proof that it was ever here the recent scratch marks on the stone floor.

Nemeth stole it. It has to be him.

He’s taken the last of my firewood, and with that, he’s killed me. I take a deep breath, fighting back nausea. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m overreacting. “Knife,” I say, panting as I lean against the wall. My limbs feel weak and sluggish, and it’s just going to get worse. “Was it Nemeth? Did he take it?”

The magic blade pulses once. Yes.

Dragon shite. Now I have to go kill a Fellian.

Chapter

Twenty-One

My mind races. I know if I had a full dose of medicine in my veins or if I’d been eating properly, I’d be able to think straight.

But all I can think of is that the Fellian has stolen the last of my firewood. He’s strong enough to drag it up the stairs to his room, and that sled represents days—maybe weeks—of slow-burning fires, enough to stave off the worst of my sickness through the winter. I need it. He stole my knife from me, and now this?

He has to die.

I didn’t want to kill anyone, but he’s forcing me towards this. The logic of killing him makes more sense with every breath I take.

The Fellian has plenty of supplies. He has three of the globes that produce light. He’s got wood. He’s got books, and they’ll make a finer fire than my dresses will, even if I run out of wood. If I kill him, it all belongs to me.

It’ll be more than enough to last me until the next solstice, when more supplies will be delivered to me.

If I have to choose between the enemy or myself, I’ll obviously choose myself. Setting my light down in a safe place, I touch my bodice to make sure that my knife is in place. I can do this. I eye the stairwell, hidden in shadow. The first floor is Nemeth’s. I can go up there. Kill him. Find something to burn. Return to the kitchens and make my potion. Inject it the moment it cools, and then deal with the blood and his body later, once I feel better.

One thing at a time. Murder first.

I take a step onto the stairs, then another…and nearly collapse. I’m weaker than I thought. It’s all right, I remind myself. You can rest all you want once the potion is made. Go up the stairs one at a time, but you must go up the stairs. Kill your enemy, then everything will be fine.

I go up the steps. Slowly. Achingly slowly. I have to pause several times, and I’m not sure if the blackness swimming in front of my eyes is because of dizziness or shadows. I can do this, though. I can.

I make it to the top of the stairs and sway, holding onto the wall. Panting, I wait for my breathing to calm and then I head toward his quarters, drawing my knife from my bodice. My hand trembles with weakness, but I should be able to stab his throat, I think. That will kill a man, won’t it? Or should I go for the groin? Which one bleeds more?

Pausing outside his door, I draw a breath. I can do this. He’s proved himself to be my enemy time and time again. No hesitation.

My life versus his.

Before I can knock on the heavy door, it opens. A large form melts from the shadows, coalescing in the faint light emanating from his room. Nemeth’s green eyes reflect and shine as he gazes down at me. “Candra?”

I stab.

It’s a clumsy effort, and if I was thinking clearly, I would have tried seduction first. But I can think of nothing except my medicine, and how desperately I need that wood. So I plunge my knife towards his broad chest, towards the slabs of muscle that cover his torso.

He grabs my wrist before the blade nicks the skin, stopping me.

“What do you think you’re doing, little princess?”

“Killing you,” I choke out. I struggle against his grip, but it’s useless. He holds me in a vise, and I can’t break free. Spots swim before my eyes and I glare up at him, defiant. “I won’t let you destroy me.”

“Destroy you?” Nemeth laughs, as if the idea is ludicrous.

He gazes down at me, and as I snarl up at him, the lights seem to go out. Everything dims around me, and the last thing I see before I pass out is the bright, amused glow of those great green eyes.

I’m lost in dreams.

They’re terrible dreams, though, because even in my dreams everything hurts. My body aches and I’m sweating. The space behind my eyes throbs with pain, and I can’t seem to escape any of it. I’m so thirsty, too. My mouth is a desert, and I dream of cool glasses of water, only for them to be held away from me, taunting me.

Now I’m in a desert. I stagger through the sands, and come upon a large statue of the goddess. She looks angry, and when I collapse at her feet, she lifts one enormous stone hand and clutches me in her grasp, her fingers supporting my lolling head.

“Which is it, princess? Injected or imbibed?”

I have no idea what the goddess is talking about. Her face is cruel as she leans in towards mine, and I flinch back. “W-what? I don’t understand, great lady.”

The Golden Moon Goddess clutches me in her arms. It’s like being hugged by rock, and as she leans in, I’m terrified. “Your medicine, little fool. Which is it? How do you take it?”

“N-needles,” I manage. “Needles. Injected. Please don’t kill me, goddess. I’m here, aren’t I? Haven’t I done everything you asked?”

She makes a derisive sound and sets me down gently on the sand again, and I escape to darkness once more.

“Drink this.”

A low, rumbling voice wakes me from feverish dreams. This time, it’s not the hand of the goddess that’s lifting me up, but a warm touch and a light scrape of claws as I’m pressed against a hard chest. My eyes flutter and I catch a glimpse of gray skin and broad muscle—and a far too bright light behind him. I squeeze my eyes shut again, because everything hurts.

“Princess.” Nemeth’s voice is cajoling. “I made this especially for you. You must get something in your belly or you’ll be sick again. Drink this for me.”

I lick my lips—or try to—but my tongue is dry and there’s no moisture. I think about that blinding light. “Are we…outside?”

“Alas, no. Is the light too strong? You said you liked it so I wanted it to be bright in here for you.”

“Hurts my eyes,” I manage. “Hurts my head, too.”

I’m gently set down on the bed again, and then I hear a tap tap, followed by another tap tap. Nemeth’s large form sits on the edge of the bed again, the frame groaning with effort, and then that gentle hand lifts me upright once more. “Better?”

I squeeze an eye open and there’s no stab of light this time. Thank goodness. I blink, trying to focus my gaze, but all I see is Nemeth’s green eyes in the darkness. His face is perilously close to mine, and I worry that he’s going to kill me. A whimper escapes.

“I made you a broth,” he says. “You have to drink it.”

A cup is held to my lips and I take a hesitant sip. Flavor bursts on my tongue, and I moan at how good it is. And he made this for me? He’s not trying to kill me? He’s…taking care of me? I try to take a large gulp, but he pulls the cup away and I whine in protest.

“Small sips,” he tells me. “You can’t have much. You’ve been sick and I don’t want you losing it all again.”

Losing it all…again? Oh no. I know when I miss my potion, my stomach tends to rebel. Have I puked all over him? And he’s just trying to take care of me? I grimace at the realization. He probably hates me more than ever now. I take another sip when he offers it to me, savoring the flavor and the warmth of it. How long has it been since I’ve had a warm meal of my own? At least a week, since the last time I made my potion and hastily made a quick soup of vegetables and meat while I had the fire going. Mine is never as good as this, though, and each time he lifts the cup to my lips, I drink more.

I want to protest when he pulls it away, but then I’m offered a cup of water and that’s just as delicious. I drink as much as I can, and sigh with relief when I’m done. “Thank you.”

There’s no response to my words, and my skin prickles with awareness. He gently sets me back down into the bedding again, and even though I’m exhausted, my mind races. The thick blanket that’s pulled over me is not mine. The wide, hard bedtick I lie upon? Not mine. My weak hands brush over my chest, reaching for my knife, but it’s not there. I’m not wearing my bodice or my dresses, nothing but a thin chemise.

And I’m too weak to do anything about it.

I can’t decide if he’s going to kill me or exact his revenge in other ways. “I’m in your quarters,” I point out, unnecessarily.

“You are. It seemed a good idea since you collapsed at my door after trying to murder me. No sense in going upstairs.” There’s a touch of reproach in his voice. “Not that you have a lot upstairs that you’ll be missing.”

Terrible, horrible Fellian. “Where is my knife?”

“Safely out of reach. You can have it back when I’m assured you won’t slip it into my ribs the moment I turn aside.”

“It was a gift from my sister. I want it returned.”

“And it will be. Right now you just need to rest.”

“In your bed?”

He snorts. “If I wanted you, I’d want you willing and healthy, not sickly and weeping.”

I clench my jaw at his irritatingly arrogant words. “I don’t weep.” Of course, the moment I say that, I think of how I broke down and sobbed when I couldn’t tear my sled apart, and that he watched me cry. Bastard. I hate that he saw me in my weakest moment.

“Next you’ll be telling me you don’t get sick when the proof is all over my clothes,” he says, voice dry. Those green eyes lean in close in the darkness, and then gentle fingers brush a lock of hair off my brow. “Just rest. You can pick a fight with me when you feel better.”

Am I picking a fight? He’s the enemy. We’ve been at odds since we got here. He’s a thief and a liar, and yet here he is, tucking the blankets around me and feeding me soup. I want to say more, but I’m exhausted. I close my eyes.

Before I drift off, a claw rubs against my cheek. “How often do you need your medicine? So I know when to give it again?”

“Once a day,” I mumble. “In the arm.”

“I’ll remember. Rest now.”