“Too bad. Are you all right? You have that look of someone who just got chastised by an ageless, omnipotent being.”
“Never better.” The lie came out as swift and easy as they always did. “You know, since we’re in Her Majesty’s castle, with its plentiful offerings, why don’t I see about sending one of Saelihn’s errand boys to Carpin Capers? We’ll get you in the queue for some pants befitting a man of your ... unique proportions.”
Benjamin plopped onto the bed, lute in lap, and ran his hand over the duvet’s textured embroidery. “If you’d like. I’ll be here in the meantime, pretending I can still feel how soft these pillows are.”
Oh, that short stab of guilt was a surprise. Sikras wondered for all of three seconds what it must have been like to lose the sensation of touch before mental self-preservation rose to perish the thought. He quietly stepped into the hall, closed the door, and locked the source of his mixed emotions behind him.
After several echoing footsteps into the corridor and one existential crisis later, he blew out a sigh, and his tension along with it. Of course, Death had to say those things. She was Death. Housing and protecting spirits until the gods came to Enos to split soul from essence and claim their worshippers’ souls was her whole deal. Surely, her heavily implied accusations were wrong; Sikras wasn’treallya gods-awful, horrible monster bent on tormenting his dear brother-in-law by shackling him to a fleshless prison of bones that couldn’t process the joys of touch, taste, or smell for the rest of his unnatural life.
... Surely.
That darkness always lingered in the back of his soul, yes. But if his childhood spent learning empathy from Vessik had proved anything, it was that Sikras could rise above his sociopathic tendencies. Hecouldbe the good man Vessik was, the good man Vessik believed him to be when they were kids, teenagers, adults.
As he continued into the depths of Queen Saelihn’s halls, a figure in the distance caught his attention—a recognizable silhouette and a far more welcoming sight than the Grim Reaper; though, if he were being honest, a sharp dagger aimed at his eye would have been a more welcoming sight than Death.
Sikras raised a brow as he studied Helspira, who loomed before a large oil painting hanging on the wall. She seemed entirely immersed. He could scarcely help himself. Intention quieted his footsteps as he slinked closer, closer, until he stood behind her, barely a sliver of light between their bodies. He leaned into her ear and whispered, “Boo.”
There was no sudden jolt. No surprised gasp. Instead, she turned, bearing a polite, almost pitying smile. “If you’d like, I can pretend to be startled out of courtesy, but it’s awfully hard to sneak up on a demon. We have excellent hearing.”
“Ahh.” Deflated, Sikras coughed into his fist and straightened the sleeves of his tunic. “You’ll have to forgive me. The attention I paid during my lessons on Chthonia’s native inhabitants was questionable at best.”
“Oh? You find demons boring?”
“No, no. Never let it be said I’m not an equal opportunity laggard. Nearly every subject was met with matching indifference.”
Something he said must’ve amused her, as she bore a small smile. “I’ll forgive you for that, but I’m still a bit irked that you ruined not one but two speeches I’d spent time preparing. It takes a lot of rehearsal for me to relate to the common man, you know.”
“Then, you’re in luck, for I am not a common man.”
“I don’t suppose you are,” she said with a good-humored gaze that landed on his scythe. “Do you ever go anywhere without that thing?”
“Not if I can help it.” Sikras’s attention shifted to the painting. “Didn’t peg you for an art connoisseur.”
“I’m not. A fan, yes, but not a connoisseur. It’s just, when I saw you in the Grand Hall ... When you were, um—”
“Lost in a full-blown, adult tantrum?”
“Your words, not mine.” She gripped her elbows. “I thought you looked—”
“Terrifying?”
“Familiar.” Her hold loosened, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “That’s you in the painting, isn’t it?”
Scrutiny wrinkled his nose, and Sikras faced the painting. An assured, contented, dark-haired man stared back at him—one of several figures immortalized on the canvas. The painted figure’s expression was strange, a visage of poise, authentic confidence. How anyone could be confident in that ridiculous nobleman’s outfit, Sikras hadn’t the faintest idea. “Yeah, that’s me. At least, it used to be. And there’s Benjamin.” He pointed to a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman who kept his dirty blond hair long, his beard well-trimmed, and his Red Sentinel armor shining in a way that showcased the artist’s natural talent for capturing light.
“Benjamin?” Helspira’s eyes widened. “Flesh suits him.”
“It did, but I think he pulls off the bald look rather well too, don’t you?” Sikras’s gaze wandered across the painting, his hovering finger sliding with it. “There’s Saelihn, ageless as ever. And that”—he pointed to another man—“was her ambassador, Joral. Over here is her adviser, Kerrick, and ...” The pad of his finger lingered just under the face of a smiling young woman, her blond hair cascading down her shoulders. “That was her cleric, Imri. All members of her royal retinue.”
“Imri?” Helspira spoke softly, as if the name itself was a blade and uttering it too loudly would put her at risk of being cut. “I heard you and Queen Saelihn talking about—I’m sorry. She must have been very dear to you both.”
“Indeed. She and Saelihn were thick as thieves. Both devout followers of Goddess Tiagon. ‘Love them in life, and she will love you in death.’ Ole Tia’s credo. I must have heard them both say that a thousand and one times.”
Helspira fiddled with her scarf. “All I know about Goddess Tiagon is that Queen Saelihn worships her. I wish I knew more. I’ve been studying as much as I can about human culture and their gods, but Siaphara has so many deities. It’s a bit overwhelming.”
“You’re not missing much. I’m no religious historian, but I know Tiagon quite well. Perhaps more than I’d like.”
“You didn’t share your wife’s religion then?”
