“Not really.” Except for Sandrelle and the mountains north of the royal palace, where the constant iridescence grows stronger and more intrusive every year. “They’re from stress. Or too much exertion, or too little. Dehydration, skipping a meal, too much tea, not enough tea. One of my mothers says they’re from reading too late, but I refuse to believe her.”
“How the fuck do you survive the wanderer’s life?” Rakos asks.
Great question. Right. Bellamy is supposed to be a wandering minstrel.
“In a very comfortable wagon,” Bellamy says like it’s obvious, and affects a yawn that turns real, shivering through his bones. “I should sleep.”
“Good. Any longer, and I’d need you to massage the life back into my wrists.”
“Sure,” Bellamy says absently.
Rakos goes still behind him, then ruffles Bellamy’s hair and stands up.
On an instinctive whim, Bellamy rocks to his feet too and catches Rakos’s hand. “Hey.”
Rakos turns, his focus somewhere around Bellamy’s throat.
Bellamy’s lips twitch. He tucks his pendant into his pocket and says, “Thank you.”
“Whatever.” Rakos’s throat bobs, and he looks away. “Just don’t fall over again.”
“No promises,” Bellamy says, and moves to the river to drink before curling up under the tree.
Pillowing his head on his arm, he peers at Rakos’s shape out in the shadows. His dangerous prowl, a shadow himself in that black wyrmskin coat. Bellamy recalls something Mother once told him.Pay attention to what people do, instead of just what they tell you. Words are just what people want you to hear.
For all Rakos’s talk about leaving Bellamy behind, he hasn’t yet. Maybe that means something.
Or maybe Bellamy’s just been lulled into complacency by those amazing hands.
?
CHAPTER SIX
Rakos
Rakos glowers at the dry-side slums of Orthin from beneath his new straw hat. He traded a traveling farmer for it yesterday, handing over his hoe in exchange. Probably at this very moment, the farmer is describing Rakos’s appearance to a drasgard officer. But for now, Rakos’s distinctive teal hair is tucked up beneath the hat.
After four nights on the road, sleeping under trees and abandoned barns, Rakos is ready for a strong beer and a hot bath. Unfortunately, both of those involve interacting with other people, and Rakos still doesn’t know just howwantedhe is.
They also involve coin, which is a problem. His pockets were emptied during his five-day nap.
There’s no gate check at least, and Rakos and Bell cross the city limits without incident. Orthin’s slums spill outside the walls, ramshackle constructions of dark wood and blackened rooftops. Orange and violet-gray smoke smudges the sky, chimneys advertising apothecaries and blood healers. The smoke lessens as the buildings get nicer riverside. More expensive mages don’t need to advertise.
It’s a busy city, one of the largest this far west. Hopefully big enough to get lost in.
Beside him, sometimes trailing behind, Bell gawks around like he’s never seen morning merchants packing up for the afternoon, or evening merchants opening doors and setting up awnings. A half-dressed bed worker leans out from an upper story window, lit by blue lamps, and surveys the foot traffic. She makes eye contact with Rakos, then shifts her gaze to better-dressed targets.
Bell grabs Rakos’s sleeve. “There’s magic around their wrists. Binding magic.”
Rakos follows Bell’s gaze to a red awning, beneath which several young men and women are arranging tables of wood and bone jewelry. An older woman, bedecked with similar ornaments, directs them from her rocking chair. Utterly unremarkable, until Rakos remembers Bell is from Silaise, where blood magic is forbidden.
“They’re blood-bound apprentices, not thralls,” Rakos says. “You might see thralls too, though, so don’t be shocked.”
Bell’s lips tighten, his disgust clear. “Is there a difference, when they’re bound like that?”
“You won’t like that answer, minstrel.” Rakos waves for him to continue walking. “Don’t stare, or she’ll think you want to buy something.”
Bell tugs his coat around himself and follows Rakos through the market. Less gawking now, and Rakos feels absurdly guilty for dampening his sense of wonder.
