Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
He chuckles, and I’m glad to push some of the darkness from his gaze. He strokes my tangled hair. “You need your medicine.”
“I do. And a meal.”
“They didn’t feed you?” He practically bristles.
“They did. A bit of mushrooms. I’m still hungry, though.” I gaze up at him. “The dungeons are full of Liosian women. They thought I was just another captive who’d run away. They thought I was a slave. Your people have enslaved mine, Nemeth.”
“They lost the war.”
“You mean Lionel lost the war,” I point out. “Lionel and his men. And now the women have to suffer?”
“It is the way of war—”
“It’s dragon shite.” I realize I’m raising my voice and press a kiss to his chest, to the side of the insignia buckle he wears. His skin tastes like salt, like the ocean, and he probably hasn’t had a moment to rest since I disappeared. Immediately, I feel like a selfish arse. “I’m sorry. I just have a lot of feelings right now.”
“Remember that I am always on your side, Candra.” His wings flare out and he holds me tighter to his chest. “Let’s get you your medicine. I won’t have you fainting on me.”
Nemeth’s bedroom reminds me of his tower room, oddly enough. From wall to wall, it’s covered with shelves of books, scrolls and ancient jars stuffed between heavy-looking tomes. There’s a reading table with a large book spread upon it and a round, circular glass that magnifies the words underneath so one can read even the tiniest script. His rich-looking furniture is squeezed in between shelves and book-laden tables, and the sight of the scholarly clutter makes me smile.
Nemeth is less pleased, though. He makes an unhappy sound at the sight. “I’d forgotten how many books I have up here. My rooms are probably not up to a Liosian princess’s standards.”
I snort at that. “The floor doesn’t rock and I’m not being splashed with seawater, so it is automatically better than the ship. I don’t mind in the slightest.”
He fusses over me, insisting I sit on the bed, and wraps me in blankets. “I’m going to have servants bring food. Wait here.”
As if I can leave? I’m on the top floor of his house, which is against the ceiling of the hollow mountain’s insides, perched like a bird’s nest. I’m not going anywhere. But I nod, and he disappears for a long moment, drifting into shadows. When he returns, he appears a short distance away, in a circle drawn onto the mosaic floor. It’s not the first time I’ve seen that circle on the floors here in Darkfell, and I wonder about it.
“Someone will be up with a tray shortly,” he tells me, stepping off the circular platform and moving to my side. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” I admit. Nemeth’s blood is coursing through my veins, vivid in its potency, and I feel better than I have in a while. “So this is Darkfell.”
He grunts, his expression distant. “It is not the same as I left it.”
“What is?” I joke softly, thinking of my own home.
Nemeth moves to my side and takes my hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. “I am not making light of your homeland’s fate. It is only that…it feels off here. Strange. The halls are so deserted and everyone seems…” He pauses. “Reserved? No, that’s not right. Downtrodden, I suppose. But that makes no sense. We were the victors of the war. So why is the mood so somber?”
“Maybe a lot more went on than we know.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but a woman, a female fellian, with a longer swoop of horns and a lighter gray shade to her skin, enters the room. Nemeth is silent as the woman moves about, wearing a short tunic with a skirt not unlike Nemeth’s kilt, but made of linen instead of leather. She seems sulky, too, as if she’s displeased to be serving, and I suspect that has a lot to do with me. No one here likes humans. I can’t say I blame them, not if we started the war.
The woman sets down a tray filled with mushrooms and cheeses and a carafe of wine. She sets out a few bowls, pouring oil and a bit of spices into them, and then slices a slender loaf of crusty bread. That done, she executes a quick bow, her hands fisted over her breast as she bends at the waist, and then flits out, disappearing into the shadows.
“She didn’t look happy,” I point out, getting to my feet and approaching the tray, lured by the sight of the bread. How long has it been since I’ve had bread? No flour was sent to me in the tower because I didn’t know how to bake, so my foodstuffs were simple in nature. But by the gods, this bread is fluffy and fresh, and it smells divine. I take one fresh slice and lift it to my nose, inhaling deeply. “This shouldn’t make me nearly as happy as it does.”