“What is the meaning of this?” I growl.
“The halfling’s merely present in case you give me trouble.” Dante steps out of the vault whose doors are flung so wide, Meriam’s throne is on full display.
“I won’t.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, moya.” Dante pulls down his white sleeve, adjusting the cuff over a bandage that must’ve been soaked in liniment for it’s greenish and embalms the air with an eye-watering reek.
“I beg you, Dante. Threatening him is unnecessary. I will be the most well-behaved inkwell in the history of inkwells.” My nails bite into my palms, etching crescents into the entwined rings that stain my skin.
Justus turns toward the tall, green-eyed healer. “You may take your leave.”
I blink because I only now take notice of the man. Here I was expecting pointed ears and long tresses, but the man standing beside Dante sports shoulder-length locks and rounded shells. I suppose that tending to horses is far less prestigious a job than tending to Faeries. Still, it strikes me as odd that the great Xema Rossi, who seemed so very attached to her pets and the points of people’s ears, would hire a halfling to oversee her stables.
“Lastra, help the man roll up his gauze or he’ll be here all day!” Dante’s obviously impatient to see him off.
Or perhaps, he doesn’t appreciate the man’s thorough scrutiny of me.
“No need. I’m all done.” The male picks up the tray laden with pots of cream and strips of gauze, his shoulders straining the simple beige linen tunic he wears over slacks that have seen better days. They’ve been mended in so many spots that they remind me of the dresses of my youth that Nonna would have to stitch up once a fortnight because I was always snagging them against something.
Dante calls to one of his soldiers. “Escort Dottore Vanche to his chamber.”
The healer’s name gives me pause. I suppose it’s a rather odd moniker.
“Come. Meriam’s waiting.” Justus touches my wrist, stealing my gaze off the curious healer.
“Not until Antoni is uncollared,” I mutter.
Justus’s eyes grow as hard as the rest of him. Gone is the almost-kindly general, and in his place emerges the one that Luce has come to fear. “Lastra, move away from the pulley!” He charges toward the tree.
Is Justus going to free— “Iwill be manning that rope.”
I try to read his intent, but Dante steps between us, snipping my view of his general.
“Better behave for the onlyjustpart about Rossi resides in his forename.” Dante holds up his arm.
I care to touch him about as much as I cared to handle animal innards back atBottom of the Jug.
“My arm.” His tone is clipped and low. “Take it.”
I don’t.
“Rossi, rattle the prisoner’s chains!”
“No!” I clap Dante’s arm just as Justus tugs on Antoni’s rope, jostling the chain.
My friend doesn’t utter more than a grunt, but his face folds in agony when the iron links roll off his soiled shirt and anger his skin.
“Please don’t hurt him, Generali. Please.” My croak warbles across the obsidian chamber.
“Then do as you’re told from here on out, or I will keep playing with my new puppet.”
The ancient Faerie’s mercurial behavior is giving me whiplash. One second, he’s friend; the next, he’s foe. I pray his tyranny is an act. I pray he isn’t willing to sacrifice Antoni to prove a point.
Dante drops a murmur close to my ear. “That grandfather of yours is pitiless, isn’t he? I wouldn’t want him as my enemy.” He grips my arm with his bandaged hand.
Although no noose rests around my neck and no vines strangle my limbs, I’m just as much a fly in these men’s webs as Antoni.
As Dante drags me toward Meriam, I look back over my shoulder to toss Justus a pleading look, one that says,Don’t hurt him. If he grasps my unspoken words, he doesn’t react, merely stares at Antoni, whose ashen cheeks keep hollowing with ragged breaths that bloat my lids with heat and moisture. Gods, if only I could get him out.
