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)
My heart aches. “I wish it were simple, Nemeth.”
“It is,” he says, closing his eyes. “It is all very simple. And I am content to wait.”
Once his wing is stitched and slathered in salve, I gently help him fold it closed and then change the blankets on the bed so he can have somewhere clean to lie down. It’ll be impossible to bandage the wound itself, but I stick a bit of cloth to the thick salve to cover the worst of it and help him into bed. Nemeth is an affectionate drunk. He tries to pull me into bed with him and kisses my neck and face over and over again, until I’m breathless with need.
“I love you,” he whispers, brushing my hair back from my face. “My beautiful Candra. I would die before I would let anyone harm you.”
That just makes my heart hurt more. I force a bright smile to my face and give him a sassy wink that I don’t feel. “You think about your reward for being a good patient. But for now, get some sleep.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I hold it tight as he mumbles to himself and drifts off to sleep.
I stare down at our joined hands. His is easily twice the size of mine, his palm huge. His thick fingers are tipped with deadly looking black claws, but I’ve never been truly afraid of him. He’s always been so kind and gentle, even when it’s obvious that he could crush me in his grip. I feel safe with him, and that’s oddly ironic because I’ve never felt safe at court. I love court, and I know how to survive—and even thrive—on the games played there. But it feels like living on the edge of a knife, where the slightest wrong move could destroy you.
It’s definitely not safe or comfortable, and until Nemeth, I didn’t think those were things I wanted.
I toy with his fingers, tracing each dangerous claw, thinking of how Nemeth would fit in back at the Liosian court. Provided they didn’t immediately toss him into the dungeon, he still wouldn’t fit in. He’s a scholar who delights in his books and loves to sit by the fire and discuss what he’s read. He’s far more suited to a monastery or a college. The court is a place where fashion is discussed, not philosophy. Of who is fucking who, and which lord is about to make an advantageous marriage, and which lord has been cuckolded. It’s an aggressive, shallow place, and I think Nemeth would hate it.
And that makes me oddly sad, because he doesn’t fit into my world. If we weren’t in this tower together, we’d have never met. If Meryliese had lived, I’d still be at court, being chased by Balon, and Nemeth would be here, reading his books and enduring quietly.
Alone.
Because I don’t know if Meryliese would have been his friend. I don’t know if they would have spoken. I don’t know if she would have lived through that first long year in which all my wood ran out far too quickly.
I like to think that Meryliese would have shared with him, but what if Erynne had given her the same dagger she gave me? What if Erynne had given her the same instructions—to kill the Fellian in the tower before he killed me? Erynne is all wrong about Nemeth. He is fierce when he needs to be, but he’s also a good, kind man.
I’m more torn than ever.
Placing Nemeth’s hand carefully back on the bed, I pull the covers over him and get to my feet. With a lamp in my hand, I head upstairs for my trunk, where I’ve left Erynne’s letter. Maybe reading it again will give me more clarity of mind. I head up to my old room, and again it feels oddly empty and strange. To think that there is so much life in a room shared with Nemeth and his things. I don’t even mind the cozy clutter of his books, because it feels like we’re snug in a den together.
Or perhaps it’s the “together” part that I’m so enamored with.
I sit on the floor in front of my trunk and pull it open. Erynne’s letter is waiting there, and I unfold it, running my fingers over the parchment as I do. The light hits the thick paper with a strange angle, and as it does, I notice something peculiar. Certain letters seem to be bolder than others. Here is a large C, and in the next line, an overlarge H. I thought Erynne had sloppy writing, but perhaps it’s an encoded message?
Holding my breath, I whisper each letter aloud.
C-H-E-S-T-L-I-N-I-N-G.
By all the gods. How could I have missed this?
I jump to my feet, frantically searching the room for the chest that the letters came in. Which one was it? The one with the brass buckles or a plain one? Have we yet burned it? I race back downstairs, heading for the first floor storage room, where Nemeth painstakingly detailed our supplies and made plans for them to last us. I find the chest in question, and, panting with anticipation, I pull it free and flip it open. Still full of herbs. I pull the bags out and when they are removed, I can see a dainty fabric glued to the bottom of the chest itself, with a delicate repeating pattern. I skim my fingers over the fabric, holding the lamp up to see. Sure enough, there is a hint of a bulge, and when I run my fingers over the lining, there’s a give, as if a thick sheaf of parchment is underneath.