Nora started at Riven and folded her arms across her chest.“Porridge.”she said.“And you’d best keep it down.”
Riven nodded.
She turned on her heel and left, closing the door firmly behind her.
Riven let out his breath ever so slowly.That had been a mistake, almost letting it slip that he could use mage sight.But it was hard not to be distracted by the golden, glittering webbing that held them, all of them, in the bond.Or the sparkling drops of red that showed the blood-taint of the power used.Or the threads that stretched out behind them, linking them to the Bonded and each other.And the fifth thread that wound around them, fainter than the others, trailing off behind them.
He’d need more care.Give them no more knowledge than they needed.
Guest, he snorted.If that was the polite pretense, he’d take it, but he doubted he could just get up and walk out.
Assuming he could walk yet.
Riven held up his hand, staring at the thin wrist, the bony fingers, and the blood vessels that pulsed weakly under thin, white skin.The one with the healing skills, Mira, had told him that it was known that letheon addicts would forget to eat, starving to death even as they drank.He’d heard that.He hadn’t believed it.
His hand started to shake and he let it drop to his chest.
He supposed that he should be grateful to be alive.If they hadn’t…rescued…his sorry ass, he’d no doubt be dead.
But death wasn’t the balm he’d thought it was.No peace, no rest, no panacea.The darkness of his worthlessness swept over him, reminding him—
The craving rose in response, hot and bold, and he gasped at the weight of it.He wanted the drink so badly, oblivion in a bottle, so that he could forget and sink into—
Nora came in, tray in hand.“Let’s see if you can manage to feed yourself.”
Chapter Ten
The Black Hills
It had been a long damn day touring the old farmstead, and Jerrold felt every ache of it as he climbed back into the wagon for the trip home.
Behind them, at the gatehouse door, the damn Blood were calling their good-byes and thanks.Jerrold’s mother was climbing into her seat next to him.Old Petro made the wagon rock as he adjusted himself and his cane in the wagon bed.
“Get on,” Jerrold called, slapping the reins on the horses’s rumps.
The wagon started with a jerk, the horses eager to get home.They rolled through the gates of the Keep, down the road back to the village.It was early afternoon, the sky was clear and there was no real wind.Cold, but the hint of new growth in the air.
Jerrold sighed.
Because his son hadn’t gotten around to unloading the grain sacks from the wagon, Old Petro, who was perched on them, was close enough to hear and be heard by those on the wagon’s bench, even though he faced the away from them.
Jerrold wondered how long it would take before the grousing started.
As they eased down the road, the wheels fell into familiar ruts, the wagon creaking and rattling with a comfortable sound.No real reason to goad the horses to move faster.It was a nice enough day, and all that waited for him in the town were complaints and problems.He should be relaxing, enjoying this moment of peace and quiet.
But he felt off, as if something had wormed its way into his chest and settled there.
He wasn’t alone in his concerns.He glanced at his mother, her profile calm and serene, white hair ruffled by the breeze, her hands still, folded in her lap.
He rarely saw her gnarled fingers still.They were always working, knitting, washing dishes, soothing hurts, sharpening a blade—
“What the hell kind of Lord High Baron is that?”Old Petro barked.
Ah, there it was.Jerrold exchanged a glance with his mother.At least the old man had waited until they were out of earshot of the Keep.
“As the day is long,” Old Petro pronounced each word separately, “time was, I’d have killed the Blood of Xy with my own hands.”There was a pause, just long enough to let him get his breath.“They killed my sons,” Petro spat, his voice rising as he went on.“They laid waste to the farm, the jewel of the Barony, mind, filled the wells with stones, trampled my crops, killed my stock, and stole anything that wasn’t nailed down and a few things that were.”
Jerrold heard him choke, heard the lingering pains, the deep losses, fresh in an old man’s voice.“Time was, I’d have killed him out of hand and not thought twice.”Old Petro repeated, sounding upset and confused.“They killed your husband, Bercie.Time was, you’d have done the same.”
