Black as diamond, p.29
Black as Diamond, page 29
“Treveyna.” She mouthed the island’s name to herself.
And her horrible thoughts came true. The sound of bismuth shattered in the air, cracking with the wail of a claw scratching glass. Three heads jumped up. Up to Asaru. Asaru, who was staring at Wren. His haunted eyes shone like wet black stones, at the center of which sat wide rings of hazel with tiny silver pinpricks. Shock painted the scarred canvas of his pallid features.
He whispered brokenly, but they all heard.
“The king . . . Was Zaosha your father?”
The wheel in Rishé’s head crashed, burst into flames. Both the tome and tablet in her hands lay forgotten, because what? The silence was its own answer. But he had never been one to mildly upend her world in a single move alone. Stunned, she looked at Wren. He met her gaze before averting his own. With unnerving calm, he brushed his scarred jaw and let out a breath through his nose.
“Yes,” he said with a shrug. “My father was Zaosha du Velanescu. And I’m a bastard.”
It couldn’t be possible. But as she thought, she decided it was probable—more than. It was the truth. Velanescu blood was strong, yet Tilde and Wilars Palomer, the princess and prince, were said to favor their mother, with lighter skin and pale red curtains of hair. Not to mention, they hadn’t taken their father’s name—if he even was their father.
And by the same logic of heredity, Zaosha had been lulaik. As had his mother and his father and all the rest of the Velanescu line a thousand years back to Rhenitha of the Vale. The founding queen, who had hidden her identity to unite the domain of Munryvos into what would become Estyria.
Rishé didn’t need to read a slate to know it was true.
Why hadn’t he told her?
More importantly: Why hadn’t she seen?
Surprise bled into regret, which bled into guilt, miring her gut. Her pendant was warm, but her heart ached. As Wren turned, she saw it. For a second, the light caught him there, and she could almost imagine him crowned in gold. Crowned in opal.
Asaru
He liked the hearth room. It was warm and quiet, lit amber by the perpetually burning brick hearth set into the wall. Good for thinking. Grieving. Wallowing.
Asaru sat by a window overlooking the sea, arms wrapped around his knees, and a halo of bismuth slates around him. The glyphs wavered to intelligible symbols—and King Drakar ended the Devall Rebellion in—and King Drakar ended the Devall Rebellion in—and King Drakar ended the Devall Rebellion in—and nothing. Because he did not care about fucking King Drakar. Nor any of the rest of them.
He turned his cheek aside and blinked at the man in the window. Twilight touched the sky with a kiss of lavender fire as his face swam, misshapen, in the glass. Pale scars and fire—bright, bright, bloody. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the red of his hair, which had taken roost all the way to the root, leaving a band of quickly fading brown. Cutting it had been useless, and yet—
It, um, I think it looks nice.
And yet.
There was a chisel scraping at the insides of his skull. As the wreath on the back of his shoulder throbbed, Asaru buried his face in his knees. On the backs of his lids, kohl fingers found the once soft insides of his elbows, the small of his back above his tail, his wounded side.
I think it looks nice.
Something nameless flowed up his throat, threatening to choke him. What kind of warrior was he? He had strength enough to kill remnants but not to battle the swell of a lamentation song. As a hummingbird beat behind the fading jewels of his halo, that unknown feeling curdled in the gray depths within him.
That strange, hot feeling of friendship. Yes. Of course.
Facing remnants had never been as hard as facing these . . . feelings. Feelings for friends.
And what a wonderful friend he was. After all, Asaru had killed a king, lulaik, the father of the man he was bound to. The man he had feelings—of friendship—for. The thread that connected them pulled tight, tighter. A taut line from him to—“Wren,” he mouthed.
Stars winked into sight in the Sky Court as the sun glinted beneath the horizon. Wine-dark water rippled, warping his frowning reflection.
For a night and a day, Asaru had sequestered himself inside the hearth room, leaving only to grab more tablets before skittering back to avoid the source of his confusion. How was he supposed to meet that gold-brown gaze, knowing the weight of the sword that had slipped into Zaosha’s heart was still heavy in his hands?
The memory of possession hovered at the corners of his mind. Static snatches of an overpowering presence radiated to his extremities. Pained, he curled them. He was still his own. He still belonged to himself.
Possession was an explanation. Not an excuse.
He never claimed to be just. He never claimed to be nice. But he tried to be kind. Worthy of the wejat hidden on his wrist. But he was the worst person in the world. That wasn’t a lie, spoken or thought. Not for the first time, Asaru pondered the circle emblazoned in raised flesh. Eternity, too, was a wreath, a self-consuming ring. He wasn’t ready for the next day, much less eternity; he wasn’t sure if he would make it.
Several heartbeats passed, and he closed his eyes. His ears flickered at the swish of silk, then steps padding over the striated wood, approaching him.
“Asaru.”
Opening them, he was met with Rishé’s small form. She tapped an erratic pattern along the top of the hearth’s uneven bricks, purple and white like the rest of the Nest. He looked at her dully as she stood before him. Against her cocked hip, she held that waterlogged tome that never seemed to dry.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, unamused. He was not trying to be amusing.
Dropping to a crouch, Rishé set the tome across her thighs and peered up like an angry little bird. Her narrow amber eyes scrutinized him.
“Being in this castle is stifling—you are being stifling.”
“I haven’t left this room. What could I possibly have done to you?” His hands twirled fur, loosened, twirled again. Agitation prickled his nape where crimson hair brushed black diamond.
“It’s what you haven’t done that’s getting on my nerves. So”—Rishé clasped her hands, heels pressed to the ground—“for the love of all of us, before someone immolates, go talk to him.”
Asaru sent her a flat stare, wanting desperately to be left alone to wallow. To keep wallowing. “I do not know what you mean. And even if I did, that’s not your concern,” he said, voice rasping like rocks drawn against each other. “Why do you care? I thought you two hadn’t been friends in a long time.”
“We’re working on it.” She waved a hand by her head. A sigh later, she shook her head and added slyly, “Besides. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“I . . . am not exactly sure what you mean.”
Rishé returned his flat stare with her own, scoffing. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Or my eyes.” Rising, she muttered something in Nomyrs and pointed. The accusing finger maintained a respectful distance from his forehead. He scowled at it, a spark alighting from between his wings to the tip of his tail. “Against his better judgment—because he is a fool with no sense of self-preservation—he’ll forgive you.”
“I killed his father.”
Rishé rolled her eyes. “Just go to him. He’s on the tower.”
This is ridiculous, I’m not a child. Asaru pursed his lips as she pointed one last time before leaving him to the pop of the hearth. Then why do I feel scolded like one?
For a moment, he thought of Tenat and the rare scoldings he’d received as a child. It brought a bitter twist to his mouth. Once, trouble had been a difficult thing for him to come by; he’d always done what he’d been told, commanded, possessed to do.
Outside the window, the night sparkled. These were the hours during which nocturnal creatures thrived, kept their secrets with their many biting teeth. Dark, amorphous shadows rose, room aglow under the soft yellow lanterns that sat in the corners and atop tables and shelves. Asaru exhaled. Before he could overthink it, he gathered his hesitations, shoved them aside, and went to the tower.
The stairs spiraled around a thick central column, which was interrupted every twenty steps by an off-white door leading to one of many rooms. At the very top, where the column met the flat of the ceiling, was a trapdoor. It was slightly ajar, a rope ladder crawling up the wall and out the opening. Through it was a glimpse of night.
Ascending, he found Wren hunched over, staring at something in his lap. The cracked tablet with his paternal lineage, the secret etched there, unbound.
Rhenitha, Zuzandra, Tondis, Drakar, Rhenei, Cozimar, Zuminta, Zaosha—and Wren.
Closing his eyes, Asaru steeled himself, waiting a tremulous moment before opening them. A sprinkle of pale leaves tickled the pads of his feet as he crept closer. Gently knelt. His tongue felt too thick to speak. Not that he knew what to say other than an apology—he was getting good at those. He wondered, at the end of all this—if there was an end—who would have apologized more.
“I am sorry.”
Wren set the slate aside. A tragic weight burdened his slumped shoulders. Moonlight sculpted his profile as he stared across the shivering sea. His shirt was buttoned to the neck, rolled sleeves revealing a swath of black-stained skin and stitched flowers. Curls kissed his shoulders, the blue ribbon wound twice around his wrist. Releasing a breath, Wren sprawled back onto the leaves and flung an arm over his eyes.
“I should feel worse about it, shouldn’t I?” Wren muttered. “But I don’t know. I don’t really feel anything at all.”
Asaru had no answer. He moved closer, folded his legs beneath himself as a tremor made itself known from the brand. Guilt, sadness, and a conflicted miasma of unnamable—untouchable, unspeakable, uncountable—emotions. Grief was a prism through which the light of sorrow shone differently for all who gazed upon it. For himself, it was tears, hours spent sobbing at the altar of his own failures. And through the bond, Asaru sensed a deliberate blanket of numb nothingness.
As they sat in the windy lull, Asaru’s eyes traced the downward curve of Wren’s nose, the scatter of freckles, and the lilac splash of his scar. Traced the lines of hard and soft, the barest hint of stubble, and the shadow of overlong hair.
Beautiful, came the unbidden thought.
Asaru’s tail spasmed against his leg, and he grasped it firmly in his lap. “He was your father.”
“‘Father’ . . . is being generous.”
“But you’re family.”
Wren lowered his arm, and a notch appeared between his narrowed brows. “He never joined our clan, he wasn’t even there when I was born—he was not family.”
“Still, I killed him.” Asaru absently touched his halo, which leeched warmth from his fingers. “My body, my hands.”
“No.” Wren sat up suddenly. “You were possessed.”
Asaru swallowed at the determination in Wren’s gaze. Heat lapped at his skin, the heavy air so charged he could taste it. Lost for words, he gathered the remains of himself and nodded. “I was, but—”
“What does it matter anyway?”
Wren moved to his knees, intently passionate. He looked a mess in his rumpled shirt, with purple valleys beneath his drowsy eyes, and more scars than he had left home with.
Asaru couldn’t look away.
“I didn’t know him. I only ever met his sister, Sanawe. I don’t care about him. I only care about my mother. I only care about . . .” As he trailed off, darkness spread over his freckled cheeks, and Asaru watched, enraptured, as his throat bobbed. “You.”
Asaru’s breath hitched, and his face warmed. He looked down to hide it.
Khetry shimmered at the edges of his vision, the brightest it had been in a long while. Their braided connection pulsed, and the entire web trembled, vibrating with the rich vivacity of life. It was the most alive Asaru had felt since being cursed. It was the most alive he’d felt . . . ever.
Oh.
Perhaps this strange, hot feeling wasn’t only friendship.
Oh.
He’d had no frame of reference for this. He didn’t know what the tangle gnawing in his chest could mean.
Something sparked across his upper back, and he bit his lip. He shifted closer until he could see flecks of copper in a golden eye. Slowly Asaru twined their fingers together in black communion. Stone and skin, to harm and to heal.
The hand froze in his as Wren spooked. Glancing sidelong, Asaru found himself breathless at the sight of this man bathed in stars. Rather than pull away, he moved until their bodies were pressed in a burning line from arm to thigh. He craved that warmth the same as a lulaik craved touch.
“Are we friends?”
A heavy pause. Wren gulped loudly in the quiet before responding “Despite my . . . summoning you, I hope we’ve found some sort of, um, bond. Beyond the one that’s, um, branded on us, that is.”
“Then, a different . . . kind of friend?” Asaru asked quietly. As he locked onto mismatched eyes, he realized what that look he’d been wondering about was. The one that scorched him top to talon like an inferno.
Affection.
Asaru’s chest ached in a shameless happiness, bared amid an endless waterfall of sorrow and misery. Why would that gaze carry such deep and overwhelming affection?
A furiously warm forehead pressed to his, and he was unmade. He shuddered, eyes fluttering at the sensation of being undone so simply. So easily. The curse had weakened him—but the bond was flaying him apart.
Asaru whispered so as not to shatter the silence.
“Is this all right?”
As if through thick molasses, Asaru reached out, fingers brushing a flaming cheek.
“Um, I . . .”
The corner of Asaru’s lips twitched down, and he went to pull back. But a strong grasp snatched his arm wraps. A gasp stuttered half formed in his throat.
“No, wait.”
His gaze flicked to Wren’s darkened face.
“I mean, yes. Please.”
His hand was guided to rest on the curve of Wren’s golden-brown jaw. Inside, he’d been upturned, that feeling—friendship, but different—swooping through his belly. Entranced, half-mast eyes watched as Wren teased a lock of deep crimson hair between his fingers. Black and red like bloodstone. Asaru held his breath as Wren tucked the strand behind his ear and slid that hand to rest at his nape. Gentler than anything he had ever felt before. Purring, Asaru leaned into the touch. He curled his grip around Wren’s wrist, pressed his hand more firmly against Wren’s skin. A touch he wanted to drown in rather than jump from.
Wren broke into a shy smile. A tender thing, hesitant at first, before slipping seamlessly into overflowing affection. Asaru found himself returning it. The sound of the wind faded away, and it was just the two of them. They were the only two people that existed. Just the stars above and the space between them.
The trapdoor flung open, and the moment was over like light breaking through the cloud of night.
“Are you two up there?” An unwelcome voice called from below. “We found something, if you’d care to join us.”
Warmth receded as Wren drew back, dropping his hands as if burned.
Asaru slid away with a guttural growl, but before his glare could land upon that adderowl visage, Sagan had fled below, a gloved hand beckoning for them to follow. Leaving him to stew in the tightness lining his stomach and the speeding of his heart. He felt it would beat right out of his mouth.
Clenching his eyes shut, he dropped his forehead to the crook of Wren’s neck. A cool breeze blew his hair, but he was warm from head to toe. “I swear to the Triumvirate, I am going to murder that man.”
The faint pressure of a pair of lips lingered along his hairline. His face bloomed, and Asaru sank into the honeyed laugh he received in response.
On the desk was an ancient tome, thick and bound in what he hoped was leather. It sat unassuming, borders gilded, older than anything Asaru had ever seen before. In fact, it looked as though a sudden harsh glance would send it falling apart. Though it was no ordinary tome. It was—
“The primer I was sent to find.” Sagan rapped it with a knuckle.
“Where?” Asaru asked.
“Where what?” Sagan tilted his masked head, which irritated Asaru all the more. His upper lip curled back, and he took a step forward. But Rishé, clearheaded, threw a hand between them before fists or feet could fly.
“Don’t,” her eyes seemed to warn.
“Fine,” his crossed arms said in response. “Where,” he bit out. “Did you find this primer?”
“The chasm in the Great Memories.”
Mouth agape, Rishé sent Sagan an alarmed look. “At the bottom”—she began as if speaking to a child—“of that massive borehole?”
Sagan nodded. “Mmm. But not at the bottom.” He ran a hand over the puckered ridges of leather, and the back of his glove came away covered in gold dust. At the center of the cover was a trident spearing a black sun.
“Sword of Light,” Wren murmured.
Wren locked gazes with him, and heat spotted Asaru’s cheeks. The corners of Wren’s dewy eyes crinkled. Clearing his throat, Asaru took a discreet step aside and shook the thoughts back into his head.
Focus.
“Why does the Chronicler even want this in the first place?” Palenisa groused, drumming her fingers along her staff as she glowered at Sagan, the tension on her face matching what Asaru felt inside.
“I don’t know.” Sagan shrugged. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”
“So you’ve been feeding us bullshit?”
