The thought made Dorian's fist clench.
Hagen apparently found this amusing. "That's what I thought." He turned on his heel and started towards the door. "Do not worry for your sister's safety, little King," he called back. "Nadir will give her the space she needs to find her place, but rest assured, he'll not let anything happen to her under his watch."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BY THE TIME Dorian could limp out of his room without the aid of Corbin, seven days had passed. Hagen had allowed him to soak in the bath every day, given him the tonic every night.
The sun met him on the seventh afternoon when he pushed himself up the grand staircase to the high balcony of the Temple.
Sitting at the peak of that mountain, the balcony was the highest point in Dahrkenhill. It overlooked the northeastern ridge. That afternoon, there were no clouds in the sky. He could see far beyond the stretch of the mountains, all the way to where hills began to slope instead peaking jaggedly. West, the mountains grew larger. The Bryn was northwest. He could see the great mountain in the distance, snows covering the whole of its cap instead of spotted in places like the rest of the mountains. A great bird called out overhead. He only had to see it disappear into the waning light of the sun to know it was the Aenean Orel.
The sight of it swelled his chest, and he rested his arms against the banister. Images of Aydra jumping onto the beast and soaring off filled his mind. He almost laughed at the memories. How fearless and confident she'd been in her abilities to simply jump out of windows or off cliffs because she knew the flying beast would catch her.
Dorian ached for the safety of her arms again or for any familiarity for that matter. He was glad Nyssa had been going somewhere with familiar people. At least he knew she would feel comfortable enough to be herself and to feel like she could grieve.
But Dorian felt more alone than ever.
He decided he wouldn't have traded it. If one of them was to be forced into solidarity, he wanted it to be him. He wondered how she was doing and if she'd been able to communicate with her eagle again.
"You're walking."
Dorian glanced back over his shoulder at the noise of Reverie's voice. She was wearing a dark fur shawl around her shoulders. The tight brown leather pants hugged her hips, but the length of the wrap made it hard for him to admire her as much as he wanted. As she met beside him, he swallowed at the sight of her against the mountains and setting sun. The apples of her cheeks were an amber pinkish hue that seemed to glisten, her eyes settled with a softness he hadn't seen her wear. And when her long lashes lifted with her piercing gaze, he steadied himself against the banister.
He realized then that she was speaking, and he'd heard nothing she said.
"Sorry, what?" he said, cursing himself for faltering before her again.
"I said I'm surprised you're walking after all that complaining you've been doing," she mocked him.
His gaze rewashed over her before he leaned back on the railing. "What are you doing up here?"
"I've been coming here every day the last week," she said, mirroring him. "Honestly, I never thought I would see the mountains. I come up here to remind myself this is a reality." She glanced at him. "What about you?"
"Fresh air," he shrugged. "Finally able to straighten and walk without the pain of the bruises. Healing like a normal person is horrible. I'm not sure how you all do this."
She leaned up. "Do you feel like walking a little further? Everyone has gathered in the square and tavern for a celebration. Apparently, it's a popular birthing moons night for the Blackhands. A few people have asked about you."
"Wanting to know whether I'm dead?"
She almost smiled. "Come on. Corbin is waiting downstairs. He'll be happy to know you're out of that room. I'm tired of watching him stand guard outside the Temple at all hours of the day."
Reverie stood by his side the entire way down the stairs as an aid only if he needed it. Corbin met them at the door, his grin widening at seeing Dorian come out into fresh air. The three walked together down to the square where people were bustling with an apparent celebration, and Dorian's chest swelled at the sight of it.
There was a band playing over by the tavern entrance. Lit lanterns hung from wires overhead, with torches placed on the stone ledge barrier around the upper and lower squares. The dancing had already begun. A sort of constructed jig was being danced in the middle of the lower level square. Each couple interchanged numerous times throughout the dance to taking new partners, all the while laughing and talking.
People ran around the whole of the square like it was an obstacle course. They chased each other up and down the steps connecting the two levels, through the arched walkways of the market, around the tables, and by the edge of the stone wall; the whole time jumping, dancing, smiling, laughing, talking, and of course, drinking. Children skipped up and down between the couples, causing havoc and making the adults chase after them.
Heads turned in their direction as they entered the throng, and not because of who Dorian was, but because the three of them stood out against the crowd.
While the Dreamers had their specific characteristics, like the pointed ears, flawless skin, and dream-like appearance, the Blackhands could not have been more different.
Most of the men had a rugged quality about them, probably due to the fact that many spent much of their time in the farrier shops. Their builds were all different, though as so many were so skilled in working with their hands and pounding iron, most were all brawn and strength.
They cared not for shaving daily or keeping their hair tamed. It wasn’t that they were dirty or did not bathe regularly. They simply had more things on their mind than paying so much attention to the upkeep of their facial hair. Some's hair was long as Hagen's was, kept braided back off their faces, and some of those who spent hours in the forges had their hair short after burning so much of it off over the years.
The women had a sort of restrained yet pure beauty about them. Their hair was neither perfect nor silky, and their skin was neither flawless nor lustrous. They were an imperfectly perfect race of women, one who had intrigued Dorian since the day he stepped foot in the mountains.
The unabashed and confident quality each of them displayed without reservation was more intoxicating than even the superior beauty of a Dreamer. Dorian had fallen in love with the race on his first visit.
