Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"
Автор книги: Ruby Dixon
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 40 страниц)
Chapter
Twenty-Four
It’s a slow, lazy day, the first I’ve enjoyed in a long time. Nemeth refuses to let me help him make dinner, and he cooks a thick stew of dried meat and mushrooms over the fire. I’m told to stay in bed and rest, and he gives me his book to “enjoy” as he tends to the food.
I flip through the pages, frowning. “There’s no pictures in this. And the words are so tiny. Are you really reading all this or are you just pretending to?”
He chuckles, the sound deep and low and does quivering things to my belly. “What is the point in pretending to read a book? Clearly it doesn’t impress you. Next time we’ll ask for books with more pictures.”
I regard him as he stands near the fire. “Are you trying to impress me, then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, princess.”
He doesn’t turn around, though, and I wonder if he’s done other things to impress me. Things like taking apart my sled for firewood, perhaps, or giving me one of his precious magical lights. Here I’ve been too obsessed with thinking of him as the enemy to think of him as a lonely man first and foremost.
A lonely man can be controlled by his needs. I wonder if I should try and pull Nemeth under my thumb, to make him fall in love with me. It’d be diverting to seduce him and keep him begging for my favors, but it also seems rather callous, considering he’s already offered to share his supplies with me and nursed me while I was sick.
I’m just…not used to having a male friend. The men I know are courtiers, who want to get in my bed for a quick fling or want an alliance with my house. They want to use me to get close to the king or Erynne. No one ever just wants to get to know me simply because of me. No one spends time with me because they want to. It’s all because of what I can do for them.
I flip through his book idly, not reading any of it. I’m not a scholar. Reading is difficult for me unless I concentrate, and the thought of staring at a book with such tiny lettering makes my head hurt. I watch Nemeth instead. “Tell me about your life back home.”
“So you can pass it on to your people? You’ll forgive me if I decline.” He stirs the food. “Not too much longer now.”
I make a face at his back. “Not about that sort of thing. Tell me about your family. Do you have one?”
“Me? No.” He continues to stir. “I have parents and siblings, but I will not speak of them to you due to the war. I do not have a wife of my own, or children, if that is what you are asking.” He sets the spoon down and glances back at me. “From a very early age I knew that my destiny would be this tower. My parents sent me off to the Alabaster Citadel so I might study under the priests there.”
I gasp in surprise. For some reason, I thought he’d spent all his life in the Darkfell mountain caverns. “The Alabaster Citadel? So you knew my sister? She was there, too!”
He is silent for a long moment. “I did know her, but only in passing.”
“What was she like?”
Nemeth turns to look at me. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “She was sent off when we were young and I only have the vaguest of memories of her. What was she like? Was she happy?” Oh, I hope she was happy. It hurts me to think that she might have had a miserable life cut short. I’ve always had to deal with my blood curse, but overall, my life has been a joyous one. “Please tell me what you recall.”
He pauses and considers this for a moment, then picks up a pair of bowls and begins to dish out the stew. “As I said, I only knew her in passing. We were kept apart because of the strain between our countries. The priests at the Alabaster Citadel didn’t want discord there. I remember her as being tall, with dark hair and pale skin. Big eyes. Quiet. She liked to sing the morning hymns with the priests.”
Oh. I take the bowl he offers me and picture my sister. Someone with Erynne’s face and form, singing and happy. I sniff at the thought, missing Erynne desperately—and the sister I never had a chance to know.
He holds a spoon out to me, a wary look on his face. “Are you crying?”
“What? No. Absolutely not. Piss off.” I rub a finger under my nose. “I’ve just got a tickle.”
Nemeth grunts. He sits and eats, while I compose myself, and he doesn’t push me on the fact that I sniff again. I’ll cry tomorrow when I’m alone, I decide. I’ll think about Meryliese then, and if she had a happy, fulfilled life. To think that Nemeth knew my sister and I did not. “So you spent a long time at the Alabaster Citadel?”
He nods. “I actually had dreams of becoming a monk there at one point. I liked the thought of spending my life working on books.”
“A monk?” I make a face at him, and then giggle. “To think that they stuck me in here with a monk!” It explains why he was so frozen at the sight of me bathing…and why he touches himself in secret instead of flirting with me.
“I do not see what is so amusing about that,” Nemeth says in a stiff voice.
“It’s funny because I’m not the most virtuous of princesses,” I say, tapping his arm with my unused spoon. “Back at court, I was known as a bit of a flirt and a rather determinedly frivolous sort. King Lionel was very vexed by me.” I smirk. “I don’t think he was sad to see me go.”
“King Lionel is a monster.”
“On that, we are agreed,” I say cheerfully. I put my spoon into my food, stirring it, and then take a tiny bite. Delicious. “You’re a good cook, by the way. This is far better than anything I’ve made.”
“I had years in which to practice my skills.”
It makes sense. I imagine one of the duties at the Alabaster Citadel was to ensure that the two “sacrifices” to the goddess were self-sufficient and had no need to abandon the tower. “At least you were somewhat prepared for this.” I gesture at our surroundings. “I had three days, and two of them were spent traveling. We found out about the shipwreck, and then suddenly I was being tossed into a carriage and sent here.”
“I am…sorry.” He watches me with dark green eyes. “It must have been quite a transition.”
“Awful,” I agree. “But I was the only choice left. The Vestalin bloodline is all but gone save for Erynne and—” I break off, because I don’t know if he knows that my sister was pregnant. Erynne had told me that the moment she was able to take Lionel to her bed again, she was going to try and get pregnant once more, because it was so very important for our bloodline to continue. “My sister the queen,” I emphasize, deciding that’s safe information. “Myself and my sister, and I’m trapped here.”
He continues to eat, saying nothing.
It’s difficult to know what we should speak of and what we shouldn’t. I want to ask him how many are left in the Darkfell line, but I suspect he won’t tell me. The gossip coming out of Darkfell’s mountains is anemic at best, and our spies are few. I don’t know how many are left in the bloodline there, or if they yet have control of the throne as they did back in the days of my ancestor. Then again, Nemeth wasn’t there all his life. He was at the Alabaster Citadel, and I had no idea. I eye him over my bowl. “You were at the Citadel, but you didn’t travel on the same ship as my sister?”
Nemeth looks uncomfortable. “I was called home a few weeks prior to the solstice. My king wished to speak with me privately. I was supposed to be on the ship, though. I…think about that a lot.”
I can imagine. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
He manages a smile and then gestures at my bowl. “Eat.”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Igo with Nemeth as he takes the dishes down to the kitchen and rinses them out. I offer to help but he won’t let me, so I sit on one of the counters and watch him, and we talk about the things we can’t wait to eat or do once we get out of here. It passes the time pleasantly, and then we head back upstairs for bed.
I take off my overdress, tugging on the bodice laces, and to my surprise, Nemeth moves to my side and loosens the ties on my oversleeves. He helps me without saying a word, and it feels comfortable and yet too intimate all the same. “I can manage,” I murmur, acutely aware of how jiggly my breasts are the moment I loosen the corset. “It’s really no problem.”
“I should learn how to undress you,” he says.
“Is that so?”
His eyes flash, and I could swear he’s blushing. “So I can know how to take care of you if you should get sick again. For your medicine.”
“Of course. That’s absolutely what I was thinking,” I purr. “Medicine.”
Nemeth looks shy as he finishes unlacing my oversleeve. Once it’s off, I roll up my chemise sleeve and examine the inside of my arm. I always use the right arm, because that’s the one Nurse used. There are bruises and scabs from my clumsy efforts, and I don’t see any sign of yesterday’s dose forming a new bruise. He is good at this. I glance up at him as I sit on the edge of the bed and steady my arm on my lap. “How did you know how to make my potion? When I was sick?”
He picks up a small pot from near the fire, and I see he’s been warming the concoction already. “You made the same foul-smelling mix in the kitchens, over and over again, and you always stared at your book as you did. I figured it was a recipe for something important, and when you fell sick, you were delirious. You kept talking about your potion, and how you needed it. So I started searching your quarters. I found your book, and when I looked inside, there were instructions there.” He gives me a grave look. “I hope I did not intrude.”
“You saved my life. I’m fine with a little intrusion.”
Nemeth fills the syringe and carefully flicks a finger against it, releasing any trapped air bubbles. “If I do something wrong, please let me know. I’m simply going off your instructions in your guide.”
“So far, so good,” I tell him, holding my arm out. I’m a little disconcerted when he pulls his stool up extremely close and cradles my arm in his lap. His knee moves between mine, and this suddenly feels more intimate than when I was lying in bed and he administered the needles before. I wonder if I should lie down again. But before I can, he wipes my arm down with a wet towel and then gives me the dose before I can even realize he’s pricked the skin. His touch is so gentle that I barely felt it, and before I know it, the medicine is rushing through my veins and he wipes my arm again, this time clean of blood.
He moves back to the fire as I fold my arm up and hug it to my chest. “I’ve been boiling these before using them, like your instructions say. Your nurse is quite thorough.”
“She’s wonderful,” I agree, feeling pleasantly lightheaded with the medicine.
“If I may ask…you have plenty of supplies for your medicine. Why is it that you were so ill?” He glances over at me. “Was it a protest of some kind?”
As if I’d be that foolish. I shake my head. “No protest. I’m too fond of living. I was stretching the doses I had left because I’d run out of firewood. That’s why I had a slight fit”—I pinch my fingers, indicating just how slight—“over the sled.”
“A slight fit,” he echoes, voice dry. “You did try to kill me.”
“Very slight,” I agree. “I didn’t try very hard. I think we both agreed on that.”
Nemeth huffs, the sound both amused and offended all at once. He pokes at the logs on the fire, settling them, and then pushes them further back into the fireplace. “I think we should get ready for sleep, unless you need something else.”
“You’re just rushing me to bed, aren’t you?” I tease.
His wings flutter. “Of course not. Tomorrow is just a busy day. Much cleaning to be done. And bathing.” His wings twitch again. “I thought you might like a bath after being ill.”
The man is not wrong. I would absolutely love a bath. “It sounds delightful.”
“Tomorrow, then.” He goes around the room, tapping the lights to turn them off, and his quarters darken. I get under the covers, checking my arm to make sure it’s no longer bleeding before he turns off the final light, and then I lie and wait, scarcely daring to breathe.
This is the first night I’m truly aware that he’s going to be in bed next to me. That he touched himself to thoughts of me only hours ago. I scarcely breathe as he climbs over the headrail on the bed and into the bedding next to me. His bed is far larger than mine, and when his wing gently brushes my arm, I realize that this bed was made for the Fellian who would be entering the tower, the sacrifice from his people. “You know, when I first got here, I thought you took the first floor just because you were being a prick,” I murmur into the darkness as he settles down in bed. “I didn’t realize your bed was so much larger than mine.”
He goes still, and then his chuckle echoes in the darkness. I catch a glimpse of shining green eyes, gleaming like a cat’s. “The furniture here seemed sized to one of my people. Perhaps I should have said something.”
“We could fill the last six months with all the things we should have said,” I joke. Having someone in the darkness here with me feels far less lonely than it did in the past. It’s rather nice. Like when Erynne used to crawl into my bed when we were children and we’d snuggle together as she told me stories.
Snuggling in bed with a Fellian isn’t quite the same, but at least I don’t feel adrift and alone any longer.
“Indeed,” is all he says, and then he shifts his weight on the bed. “Pleasant dreams.”
I pillow my head behind my arm, thinking. It’s obvious that Nemeth isn’t going to use bedtime for flirting. I could take the lead, of course. Turn and press myself against his back—and wings—and spoon him from behind. My smaller form would be ludicrous against his larger one, but after pushing my breasts against his back, I’m sure he’d get the idea. Run my hands over him. Play with his wings, see if they’re sensitive. Rake my nails down those thick thighs that seem to be made backwards from mine…
…and then what?
Have sex with a Fellian? Would it be just sex? Or would the monk-in-training view it as a long-term commitment? That it’s love instead of pure lust and boredom? I’m used to the men at court, where a fling is simply something to do to escape boredom. It’s flirting taken a little too far in the dark corners of a room, or the thrill of sneaking into a lover’s quarters. That’s all it is—a thrill.
I have a feeling that to Nemeth, it would mean something much more.
I tuck the blankets under my arms and decide that I’m not ready to make that leap. Not when I have a fire and a full belly for the first time in weeks. I’m not doing anything to mess this up.
For now, sleep is best.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
The days start to settle in. The winter rages on, but we’re tucked away in the tower, the only sign that the Gray God is in hiding is the ice that sometimes forms over the water, or breath that sometimes fogs the air.
I keep track of the days on my wall, just as I did before, and through asking questions of my knife, I learn that the Feast of the Good Father is coming up. That means an end to winter and that we are one season away from the Solstice.
An entire season left in the first year. What a depressing realization.
But it doesn’t seem as bad as it was before, not with Nemeth to talk to and share the hours with. We split the chores, and even cooking and cleaning doesn’t seem so terrible when you have company at your side and someone to share the duties. At first we’re a little on edge with one another, uncertain as to the other’s motives, but that quickly turns to an easy friendship. Nemeth is as kind and sweet as he is oversized, a big gentle giant who does his best to bluster and seem tough, but who is truly sweet inside.
He’s courteous, making sure that I have my privacy when I need it, and I try to give him his, aware of what he might be doing when he’s alone. I stop asking the knife about such things, because it seems unfair. He’s my friend, and right now I value friendship far more than a lover. Although sometimes, I truly do ache. It’s worst just before my moon-flow, when I wake up from dreams with my hands between my thighs, of feeling an aching, hollow need that can only be filled one way. Sex is a craving, and when I’m moody and irritable, I get all the cravings. On those days, I take to hiding in my rooms for a time, hastily rubbing out a climax so I can relax.
On the morning of the Feast of the Good Father, the air is so frigid that it hurts to breathe, and the water pump in the kitchen is entirely iced up.
“No bathing today,” Nemeth says, breaking a drip of frozen water off the underside of the pump. “We have water in a pitcher upstairs to drink, at least, so we will not have to go without.”
“Oh no. And today is Feast Day.” I barely manage to avoid pouting. Barely. “I wanted to celebrate.”
“Feast Day?” he asks. “Feast for what?”
“The Feast of the Good Father?” I blink up at him. “Do you not celebrate it? I thought we could do a small grain-cake to mark the passing of time or something. It’s for good luck.”
He arches one of those heavy, stony eyebrows at me, leaning on the useless water pump. Now that it’s colder, he’s taken to wearing a heavy, enormous cloak over his wings, and I can tell it bothers him, because he’s constantly slapping it out of the way. Even now, he pushes it aside as he regards me. “No, we do not celebrate such a thing. Exactly who is this Good Father you celebrate?”
“Why, Mekaon Vestalin, of course. He was the king of Lios long ago, the great-grandson of the hero Ravendor Vestalin, back when the Vestalin family still held the throne. His daughters were stolen away by Fellian princes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the story.” When he indicates I should continue, I do. “Mekaon threw a wedding feast, pretending that he wanted to honor their marriages, but when the grooms arrived, they were slaughtered and the pieces sent back to Darkfell. His daughters were returned to him and the gods were so pleased that they blessed each Vestalin daughter with a child and a new, noble Liosian husband and the Vestalin line continued.” I purse my lips. “Okay, I’m starting to see why you don’t celebrate it.”
His lips twist in a wry smile. “Celebrate the willful slaughter of my kinsmen under the false truce? No, we do not celebrate it at all.”
“Fair enough, but the gods did bless them,” I point out. “All four of the Vestalin daughters had children and not one of them had the blood curse.”
“And did those children have wings? How did their knees bend?”
Rude. “Are you insulting my ancestors by saying that they bore the children of the men that raped them?”
“I am saying that perhaps the Vestalin daughters didn’t want to come back, and that perhaps they were happy with their Fellian husbands until their father decided he didn’t like it. I’m saying the gods had nothing to do with it, and there’s no reason to feast.”
I scowl at him. It’s a story I’ve heard all my life, and one that reminds all of Lios just how important the Vestalin bloodline is. I love the Feast of the Good Father. Why is he making me doubt the story? “It’s not like we can celebrate anyhow. Our water is frozen, we can’t cook because we shouldn’t spare anything, and it’s not as if we have a good deal of pepper anyhow. Or apples.”
He blinks at me. “Pepper? Apples?”
Grinning, I flounce to the root cellar in a swirl of skirts. “You don’t know the tradition? Okay, so after the Vestalin brides returned, a second feast was held, a betrothal feast. The brides wanted stalwart husbands, so each one took an apple and studded it with peppercorns. Each suitor would take a peppercorn and pull it free from the apple with his teeth, and bite down on it. If he sneezed or spat it out, he was eliminated from consideration.” I pause. “But I guess you don’t know much about the Feast traditions, right?”
“Yes, I stopped listening after the slaughter of my ancestors,” he says dryly.
I make a face at him. “Well, anyhow, the tradition is that those at court flirt by studding apples with peppercorns and handing them to a man they’re interested in. If he’s interested back, he takes a peppercorn from the apple with his teeth. It’s truly a lot of fun.” I sigh, eyeing our dwindling supplies in the root cellar. “No apples left, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to disappoint, princess. If it makes you feel better, we have more stew to eat.”
More stew. I bite back a sigh. While I am thrilled with every bite of it, simply to have good, warm food, sometimes the monotony bothers me. “Stew is a celebration all its own,” I say cheerfully. “Especially when you’re cooking.”
Nemeth smiles at me.
