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)
“It was many generations ago. Our legends say that the child looked like Ravendor, but his coloring was that of my people.”
I think of my sister’s dark hair and dark eyes—and mine—and how we stand out in the court of blondes back in Lios. “Someone told you a story full of dragon shite,” I declare. If Erynne and I were Fellian, even a drop, we’d be tossed out of the court at Lios. We’d be pariahs, Vestalin bloodline or not. “It’s not true.”
“Is it so very terrible a thing if it is true?” he asks, his voice soft in my ear as his breath tickles my hair.
“I’m tired,” I say. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”
I huddle down in the blankets and pretend to sleep. My mind whirls with what he’s said. His story can’t be true. Ravendor was a brave hero, the champion of Lios. She didn’t seduce the enemy and betray him. Garbage. All of it garbage.
Either I disappoint Nemeth, or I disappoint my ancestors, my bloodline, and my kingdom.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
The story sits between us for a time, souring our conversations. Things remain awkward, and even though we’re friendly, the ease between us is gone. I haven’t been flirting. I haven’t been teasing him when he returns to our room, dripping and wet from a quick bath, even though he looks delectable and I find him more disturbingly attractive by the day.
It’s strange, because we’re together in the same room, yet we could not be further apart.
The weather continues to be icy cold for another week, and we burn through far too much fuel. After a few days of this, Nemeth declares no more fires for heat, and we huddle in the blankets together, fully clothed and sharing warmth. Since our conversations are fraught, he reads aloud from a book of poetry, and I pretend like they’re interesting.
Poetry is truly only exciting when it’s dedicated to you and your lover has written it on your behalf. The rest of the time, it’s dreadfully dull and complicated. This one appears to be a war poem of some kind, with lots of flashing spears and mighty heaves of weapons and it takes all of my strength not to yawn and offend Nemeth, who is quite absorbed.
I have my knife again, and I hold it sometimes and think about the questions I want to ask and I’m too scared to know the answers to. I want to ask it if my sister misses me. If Ravendor really loved the Fellian she was stuck in the tower with. If Nemeth still thinks of me when he touches himself.
I don’t ask. Sometimes it’s easier not to know the truth. And the truth would change nothing anyhow. If Erynne doesn’t miss me…I’m still trapped in the tower. If Nemeth is tired of me, it’s not as if he can leave.
If I have Fellian blood, it doesn’t change anything. It just depresses me.
I keep to safe questions. “Is Erynne well this day?” I whisper to it.
The knife vibrates with affirmation.
“And her son? Is he well?”
More affirmation.
“And Balon?”
The knife is silent.
After that, I decide to put it away.
Spring comes. At least, I assume it does. There is no hint of sunlight in the dark, oppressive tower. No sound of birds chirping or a gentle breeze or anything to tell us the seasons are passing. But my breath no longer fogs the air with cold, and when I touch the stone wall, it no longer feels like touching ice.
Another sign of spring? Nemeth is restless.
Every day, he does exercises. He tells me it’s to keep his strength up, since he cannot fly properly in the tower. Even though he was living at the Alabaster Citadel, he had an active life. Part of his training, he tells me, is to be prepared to defend the tower. When he told me that, I laughed. Nobody comes in or out. But Nemeth was very serious and replied that it was to ensure no one tried to remove us from the tower before the seven years were up.
After that, I’m no longer laughing. I think about Balon and how I’d begged him to free me. Would Nemeth have attacked him? Or me? Simply to stop the displeasure of the goddess from falling upon us? It’s a sobering thought.
I watch Nemeth one morning as he does his exercises.
“Do you want to join me?” he asks, because he always asks.
“I’ll just watch.” I always watch. Not because I’m lazy (though I am) but because the sight is spectacular. I hold a book in my hands, but I am not a reader and have no plans of actually cracking it open. Books are boring. People are far more fascinating.
Nemeth wears nothing but an unadorned linen kilt around his hips as he exercises. It allows for movement, he tells me. All I know is that it allows for some delicious viewing. He faces the fireplace, his back to me, and I watch as wings ripple outward. He does a series of stretches after this, lifting his wings up and allowing me glimpses of his magnificently strong back. He’s immensely broad, his shoulders wide, and tapers down to a thick waist that’s nothing but slabs of muscle. He’s not elegant and lithe like Balon. Every bit of him is strength, and it fascinates me.