Who would dare plumb the depths of a watery tomb?
The rest of the capital feels hardly less macabre, in no small part because of the gloomy weather of late. Mist blankets the broken bones of the city. It never seems to burn off, even when sparse midday sunshine pierces the persistent cover of clouds that hangs over the crater. Unusual conditions for Caeldera in springtime—or so I am told. But then, nothing has beenusualfor several months.
Our silence endures as we walk toward my apartments. Penn seems content to follow me without question or complaint, lost in something of a daze, his thoughts distant as his expression as we wind through the marketplace. Gone is its buzzing energy, exchanged for the somber atmosphere of a graveyard. Thecobblestones where citizens once traded crowns for all manner of goods are still stained with the blood of those who fell here beneath the cutting blades of Reaver battle-axes.
One day, I tell myself, the vendors will return, trading coin and gossip freely as their wares change hands, filling the afternoons with spices and laughter. For now, though, it, like much of this place, remains eerily vacant.
In unspoken agreement, Penn and I both increase our pace, not wanting to dwell any longer than necessary. I avert my eyes from the fountain where the old apothecary breathed his last; from the stretch of sidewalk where the cobbler and her wife met their sad end in each other’s arms. But I do not need to look to see. Such memories are etched in my bones.
The worst of the glass and debris was swept off the sidewalks weeks ago, but the more substantial damage remains. Whole blocks are boarded up, their residents either dead or fled.
And even as traces of the slaughter are wiped away, even as the rubble is cleared and carted off…things are not the same. I fear they will never be the same. A grimness has settled over all of us, much like the unseasonable haze that clings to the air. Neither shows any sign of lifting.
So lost in my own thoughts, I hardly notice we’ve reached my front door until I am standing before it with my hand on the knob. I hesitate before I twist it open, eyes sliding to the man at my side.
“This is, um…where I’ve been staying,” I say.Astoundingly adroit, Rhya.“Since I left the barracks, I mean.”
“I know.”
He knows? How can he know?
He’s never once asked me about my sleeping arrangements, nor bothered to pay a visit. Farley or Mabon could’ve told him,I suppose. Though I’m surprised he was curious enough to inquire. For weeks now I’ve harbored the rather painful suspicion that he’s forgotten my existence entirely.
My tongue feels abruptly too big for my mouth, but I force it to form a handful of faltering syllables. “Right. Well, then…Come in.”
I shove open the door and step into the dim shop without further delay. The soothing scent of dried plants and fresh linen envelops me instantly, a familiar perfume that reminds me of my childhood in Seahaven. The old apothecary’s place on High Street was a natural choice of abode after the battle. He no longer has need of his tidy shelves of bottled tinctures or well-stocked inventory of hanging herbs. His spirit has fled to the skies, his ashes scattered on the winds. I hope, wherever he is now, he does not mind my continuing his work or making myself at home in his sparse apartments.
The back staircase is narrow and in need of a dusting. Penn’s boots send up small plumes as he follows me up, each tread groaning under his weight. As we step into the parlor, my eyes scan the cluttered space, noting the books piled on practically every surface, the threadbare cushions of the sofa, the tattered edges of the rug. There is not much in the way of furniture or finery. Soft light trickles through the panes of the large picture window, the only source of illumination.
Penn stops just over the threshold. He says nothing, taking in my living quarters in silence, his eyes lingering on the crumpled throw I spend so many evenings curled beneath, the half-empty teacup I forgot to clear in my rush this morning. Chronicling each tiny trace of life like it is something worthy of acute study.
I examine him in turn, wondering why it is so difficult to find the right words to speak. Wondering why awkwardness hastaken root in the space between us, and when the safe distance we’ve been keeping stretched into this insurmountable chasm of discomfort. Most of all, wondering how to possibly breach it.
Gods, I wish he would say something. His lingering taciturnity is beginning to unnerve me. It was my idea, coming here, and yet, now that we are…I feel as though I have brought a feral wolf into my living room without a proper plan as to how to domesticate him.
Those dark, intent eyes finish their investigation and shift back to fix on mine. I lose my breath when our stares lock, all the air in my lungs used up by a burgeoning flame that bursts to life deep within my gut.
“Wait here for a moment, will you?” My voice comes out strangled. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
I escape into the kitchen like a fugitive on the run.
Cowardice, thy name is Rhya.
The old apothecary’s larder contains nothing worthy of a royal feast. Yet I doubt Penn will mind the simple fare I’ve been living on lately. He may now be a king, but he will always be a soldier at heart. On the road, in the wild, I have seen him eat hare off the bone, watched him devour strips of venison and stale bannocks without a single murmur of complaint.
I pull together a simple dinner from my stores. While the rice simmers on the stove, I grab a dishcloth, run it beneath the tap, and carry it from the kitchen, dripping across the hardwood planks with each step.
Penn’s eyes lift to me the instant I reappear, scanning me head to toe, seeming to catalog every dried bloodstain and singed tatter of my ill-fitting work uniform. It must have belonged to one of the young Life Guild novitiates at some point—probably an adolescent male, given its unembellished breeches and simple stitching. But it suits my purposes quite well. It is arare day when someone does not cough, bleed, or vomit on me at some point during my time at the infirmary.
Penn is sitting on the worn sofa, holding the book I spent last night studying by candlelight—a heavy tome of medicinal herbs and their many uses. The bookshelves along the far wall are bursting with similar reading material. It looks odd in his hands. Those hands seem meant for gripping swords and throwing punches. I have rarely had an opportunity to see them do anything so mundane as turn a page or trace the shape of a word. The sight strikes me somewhere between the ribs, a direct blow to the heart.
He is still shirtless, clad only in black breeches. There is an ornate glyphed blade tucked into the top of his boot, twin to the one I so often carry. Even now, its comforting weight is sheathed at my left thigh. I rarely go anywhere without it. When I do manage to sleep, I do so with it close at hand, on my nightstand or tucked beneath my pillow.
“Here…” I lift the damp rag. “I thought I might…”
His brows rise in silent inquiry as I move to him and kneel on the floor at his feet. He sucks in a sharp breath as he registers my intention. Leaning forward slightly, elbows to knees, he brings his face down to my level. Our gazes tangle together for a charged moment. The depths of his eyes still smolder with banked heat. I do my best to keep my expression flat, calling on all my experience as a healer to remain composed. Still, it takes considerable effort to keep my hand from trembling as I press the limp washcloth to his face.
His teeth lock down tightly as I begin to wipe his skin clean of all traces of blood. It is crusted in the shadowed rings beneath his eyes, the fragile hollows beneath his ears. I am methodical in my efforts, moving from his cheekbones to his jawline, down the tanned column of his throat and across his chest. One singulardrop of blood is dried directly over his Remnant mark, where the skin is slightly raised, like scar tissue from a brand. I wipe it away last, the whorls and spirals hot as a fever against my fingertips. His whole frame trembles as I do. The skin there, I know, is hypersensitive. By the time I am done, the white rag is red with blood and both of us are breathing fast.