The room is neat, bordering on obsessive. Though furnished similarly to mine, Shaw’s bedsheets are tucked and folded in a manner that is far more ceremonious than what I just witnessed from Rhonwen. Shined boots form a neat line next to the armoire. There are no discarded clothes strewn about, nothing littered on any of the surfaces. Light pours in from the southern facing window, illuminating the clear air and distinct lack of dust.
I follow the light to the opposite wall where a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding pours out of me in a delighted hum.
Books of every size and color, all stacked neatly on shelves that extend from both floor to ceiling and wall to wall. It’s hard to imagine someone as tightly coiled as Shaw sitting quietly in a chair and pouring over every one of these. Is such a thing even possible? Is there enough time in one’s life?
The idea of trying sends a thrill of excitement through me. I move to the shelves with reverent fingers, running my hands lightly over each cover. Each title beckons more than the last and for the first time I can remember, I feel as though there is something in the world capable of sating the unyielding need in me. The want for knowledge that has burned, consuming in its urgency, no matter how I’ve tried to push it down in service of my Community.
I pick up one, two, three books and am about to head toward another when the glint of a metal frame catches my eye. It’s the only personal touch in the room, aside from the books, small and compact.
Suddenly, it feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked from the room, as though a tempest sweeps through it and it’s all I can do to hold on to something solid. Something flutters, and I can’t tell whether it’s in me or outside of me. The books I’ve gathered fall to the floor with unceremoniousthwacks.
Because a younger version of Shaw peers out at me from the frame. Unsmiling, lankier, but just as handsome as he is now. And next to him, eyes crinkled in a happy grin, is my father.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Shaw
By the time the morning sun spills over the mountain and floods Nadjaa’s white streets, I’ve been wandering for hours. The heart blood of the city has just begun to stir, though the bakers began working only a few hours after midnight. Puffs of flour linger outside their shops like odd little clouds in the dawn light.
I stop at Evie’s bakery and boarding house. She greets me with a hand on her wide hips and a warm smile, scolding me for appearing so thin and asking after Max and Cal. I tell her about Luwei and Sura and she assures me she’ll look after them until I can make my way back to Nadjaa. She asks if I’m attending tonight’s celebration and I mumble a noncommittal response, which she accepts as good-naturedly as she accepts everything else. Evie’s shop was one of the first places I discovered after Denver brought me here. She’s never once treated me as if I were anything other than an ordinary boy, and in return, I’ve bought more sweets than any one person should eat.
I order some now, to be delivered to Mirren along with a parcel of clothes I procured from the seamstress. I check in with a few of Denver’s investments to be sure all is well in his absence. Their reception of me is colder than Evie’s, but it’s more familiar, ranging from abject wariness to outright terror.
After, I ride slowly along the shore. It’s faster to take a skiff from the manor to the market, but I opted to ride Dahiitii around the bay instead. The air from the Storven Sea is fresh and crisp and the city gleams in the morning light. I ride through the quiet arts district, it’s artists still sleeping off the fervor of the night before, and then through the city center, which has begun to bustle with businessmen and women. The city gleams and breathes and I vow to take Mirren on a tour as soon as she wakes. The clang of merchants bartering at the docks, the ring of children’s laughter as they race through the grass, the way the buildings themselves seem alive in the southern sun; I know she’ll appreciate the vibrancy of it all after a lifetime of monotony.
I breathe it all in slowly, the place where I was remade. The city has grown so much since Denver and I settled here. It was always a bustling port, but was rarely settled permanently. Its access to the Storven Sea, along with the Averitbas and Shadiil mountain passes, made it a target for warlords and mercenaries, a volatile place with a bustling trade in flesh. Until Denver, I thought the only way to establish order was through violence, but I watched him do it with just his words. He was the first to teach me their power, eventually becoming the latent inspiration for my love of books.
I mutter a curse. I should have left Mirren some books.
I pledge to do it as soon as I return. Her lips will part in excitement and that wild curiosity will spread until she glows with it. Her hands will spread across the pages and then, maybe, across my skin…
I’m ripped abruptly from my daydream.
The man is tall; clean cut and dressed in clothes that are expensive enough to fund a Nadjaan family for well over a year, but it isn’t him who caught my attention. It’s the two children who trail behind him, tattered clothes open to the crisp spring breeze. A boy and a girl, eyes darting nervously. Their shoulders hunch and when the man turns to speak to them, his tone harsh and clipped, shudders run through their frail bodies. Though the words aren’t shouted, the little boy squeezes his eyes shut against them as though this will protect him.
It’s a practice I know well, a habit learned from a childhood being exploited instead of protected.
Another man appears from the shadows of the alley. I’m already moving. It isn’t the killing calm of the abyss that overtakes me; there is no cool planning, no strategy. There is only the flame of a wildfire, raging and consuming every conscious thought—everything except the need tohurt.
The man from the alleyway is on the ground with one well aimed blow to the neck. The first man’s mouth gapes wide, like the ghastly maw of a river trout, and I drink his fear in like a fine spirit, savoring the sour taste of it. “Go now,” I tell the children. I don’t need to look to see if they’ve obeyed. I know they have, the same way I know the man in front of me is terrified of the punishment he’s reaped.
“N-n-now, sir, what is it you’re after?” he stammers, his hands raised. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. I’m a very rich man, with contacts all around Ferusa—"
I cut off his words with a sharp jab to his stomach. As he doubles over, I bring a fist down on the back of his neck and he sprawls out on the ground, face first. I kick him in the ribs and twist my face in disgust as I notice fat tears pouring over his ruddy face. Of course he’s a coward. Too weak to take even a fraction of what he’s bestowed on others. The fire inside me surges and I no longer feel the individual lick of flames, only the swirling heat of the whole, a hurricane of ash and rage.
I don’t stop to think, don’t stop to consider where the fine edge of the man’s life resides as I let my fists and feet fly. I can no longer make out his face, no longer see that he was ever a person at all. All I see is the terrified face of that little boy. That, and red—of fire and of blood.
* * *
Mirren
I dash from Shaw’s room as if a yamardu is hot on my heels. I half sprint, half slide down the three flights of stairs and over the marble floor of the foyer. Rhonwen calls to me, but her voice is lost beneath the rush of blood in my ears. I wave my hand dismissively, hoping she takes the gesture to mean everything is fine even though everything is far from it. I shove my feet haphazardly into my boots, which are now shined and devoid of mud, and take off down the drive without bothering to tie them.
It’d probably be faster to take a horse, at least to the small dock at the end of the manor drive, but the thought of stopping, even for a moment to find where the hell the stables are is unthinkable. It’s all I can do not to pull my dagger, to be ready to attack Shaw as soon as I see him; to demand he tell me the truth about why my father’s picture is in his room. Why my father’s lips are curled in a delighted smile and why his eyes, the same green as mine, are twinkling atShawwhen they left me cold and alone.
Why, why, why.
The word rings in my head in time to the stomp of my boots and I break into a sprint.
