“Yes, Lord d’Refan. We can make our way to the formal dining room at any time,” Father admitted softly.
“Well?” Lord d’Refan said, gesturing with the hand holding his whiskey glass. My father bristled a bit, back straightening, before he tossed back his own drink and strode from the room. Matteo followed close behind with Finian and Peytor taking up the rear. Mother grabbed my forearm and allbut dragged me from the room after them, never leaving me in close proximity to Lord d’Refan.
I didn’t look behind me as we left the room or walked through the manor, but I could feel his eyes on my back the entire time, a predatory awareness causing my skin to crawl.
Chapter 61
Ellowyn
Silverware clinked against plates and glasses were set on the table with heavythunksthroughout dinner, creating a strange melody of sorts that was only occasionally disrupted by the clearing of a throat.
It was, by far, the most uncomfortable dinner I’d ever eaten.
The food was delicious, but I couldn’t taste any of it—too preoccupied with the tension in the room and my father’s ominous warning bouncing around in my head. I tried my best to still my nervous tells, keeping my mother’s teaching at the forefront of my mind, but inevitably one or two slipped through.
More than once throughout dinner, my mother glared at me from across the table as I bounced my leg. After enough murderous looks from her, I stopped glancing in her direction and took as long as I could to finish each course. At least that way I had something to occupy my hands and my mind. Even if it was something as trivial as moving the soup spoon from the bowl to my lips.
My father sat at the head of the table as usual, with Lord d’Refan on the opposite end, staring a hole through my father’s head the entire night. Mother sat to Father’s left, while Peytor occupied his right. I sat directlynext to Peytor and across from Matteo, Finian between Lord d’Refan and his father. Fay sat next to me, the General on her other side.
Fay’s nervous tells were much more obvious than my own, and she constantly fiddled with her dress and silverware. More than once, she grabbed the wrong utensil for the dish placed in front of us and, after a few derisive noises from Mother, I silently helped her by picking up the proper fork or spoon before the course was even placed.
The look Fay shot me was of pure relief, and I offered her a small smile out of the corner of my mouth, much to Mother’s disappointment.
The minutes dragged on, feeling more like hours, as we continued our empty song of dinner. Eventually, I simply couldn’t take the iciness anymore, my need to dissipate the tension and bring all of this to a head, too great.
“W-” I started, but stopped to clear my throat, “what are the markings on your arms, Fay?” I asked quietly, turning my attention to the woman directly next to me. She seemed like the safest bet to start a conversation with, aside from Peytor or Finian, but their guard was up, hackles raised, and I doubted any conversation I started with them would be carried.
Fay startled at the question and promptly dropped her spoon on the floor. Her face turned a deep shade of red and she instantly bent to retrieve it, bumping her head on the table on her way back up. She let out a soft curse and rubbed the spot as she emerged, curls cascading into her face. I covered a laugh with my hand, not wanting to embarrass her further, but distinctly appreciating the sudden evaporation of tension.
The General put a hand on her right arm and whispered something in her ear. If possible, she turned an even deeper shade of red before setting the spoon back on the table. Instantly, a servant was there to replace it and Fay muttered a quiet “thank you” as they disappeared.
“I’m sorry, what was the question?” she finally asked me once she had her emotions back under control.
I smiled softly. “Your markings.” I gestured to the black symbols that snaked along her forearms and spattered her hands and knuckles. “What are they for?”
“Oh. They’re runes for various purposes. Some are for protection or to recover from an illness—those uses burn out quickly and I have to re-scribethem often, which is why there are many that are the same.” She pointed to a few markings that, sure enough, were the same design. “Others, I don’t know what they mean. I’m figuring it out as I go.” She shrugged her shoulders before picking up the new spoon again.
I frowned at the same time Peytor asked, “What do you mean, you don’t know what they mean?”
The earlier melody of dinner was silent now, as we all waited for Fay’s answer. She was intriguing and completely not what we were used to seeing in Hestin, or the North, for that matter.
She shrugged again. “Just that. Sometimes I read something in a book and I quickly etch it into my skin. Other times I have a dream and wake with the design in my head and the urge to mark it. Others were inked by my mentor and I’ve yet to puzzle through them. Nothing has hurt me so far.” She absently traced a few runes on her skin as she spoke.
The table was silent as we processed her words and looked at the tattoos on her skin. I’d seen the Bonding Ceremonies more times than I could count working with the acolytes, but her marks seemed so different than the ones I was used to seeing.
“Fay is a Rune Master. Perhaps the only one left in Elyria,” the General spoke for the first time tonight. His voice held notes of respect and even reverence, but there was an undertone of scorn there as well. “She discovered this newBond,” he practically spat the word, “from a book she’s reading and somehow knew it would work.”
Fay flinched slightly at his words and avoided his gaze, choosing to look at her plate instead.
There’s a history there.
“Did it work? The Bond?” Finian asked this time.
“We wouldn’t be here if it didn’t, boy,” Lord d’Refan rumbled, easing back into his chair, suddenly in command of the room and the conversation.
My father set down his utensils and wiped his short beard with his napkin before easing back in his chair as well, eyes trained on Lord d’Refan. “And why are you here, Lord d’Refan? Your letter hinted at some cure to Mage Sickness, but we have few of those in the city. At least in the upper class. There are whisperings of it in the working class, but something tells me you’re not concerned so much about them.”
I involuntarily flinched at my father’s words. No onereally cared about the working class, as long as they continued to serve and dig in the mines to unearth crystals for them to use.
