Chapter 19
Torin
“That’s not dream walking,” the Bondsmith stated in a dry voice, her curly blonde head propped up against one of her fists as she leaned against the plush arm of her chair. She, like Peytor, took kindly to the months of recovery and respite. Her hair had strengthened, the gold a vibrant hue once again, the patch of baldness from the strands I ripped from her scalp no longer visible. The skin around her eyes that had peeled away with the blindfold when I pulled it from her face was pink and shiny, but healing.
The Bondsmith had waved my concerns away on multiple occasions whenever I tried to discuss her time imprisoned by the Matriarch and apologize for my role in her capture and containment. Her lack of reaction was alarming, and I’d had her watched closely for signs of mental and emotional distress. That was until she barked at me that I had “no idea” the “horrors” she experienced at the hands of her siblings and to “please leave her the fuck alone.”
Ever since that day, I’d given the Bondsmith a separate room in Lord d’Leocopus’ manor, away from prying eyes and ears. The rebellion knew we’d taken one of the Matriarch’s prisoners withus, but I refused to tell them her true identity—the last thing she needed was wide-eyed sycophants begging for healing and professing undying love at all hours of the day. I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t actually hex them inadvertently with some sort of rune no one knew about.
“Not dream walking?” I replied, puzzled, as the Bondsmith shook her head.
“Nope.” She seemed completely nonplussed by the revelation I brought to her.
“Then what is it?” I asked, and the Bondsmithrolled her eyes.
What a human expression for a goddess.
“You’re not asking the right question,” she admonished with a flick of her wrist. The Bondsmith unfolded herself from the chair, striding on bare feet to the far wall where a loaded bar cart stood. The room, like every other room in the d’Leocopus manor, was decorated with a particular ostentatious gaudiness. The crown molding was painted gold, the walls a deep blood-red. Even the furniture was overstuffed, the fabric a heavy velvet that matched the walls and curtains. Each of the bedrooms in the manor was one large space, a long couch acting as a divider between the formal sitting area and the sleeping area. The Bondsmith’s bed was overly large, full of red and gold brocade pillows, and it looked like it hadn’t been slept in. Maybe ever.
“Such interesting taste in design, don’t you think?” she asked, her voice devoid of emotion. The Bondsmith often talked like that, and it made it difficult to ascertain when she was joking and when she was completely serious.
So unnerving.
She took a small sip from her nearly full whiskey glass, the amber liquid sparkling in the sunlight, before resuming her position in the armchair. The Bondsmith wore simple pants and a shirt, blending in with the thousands of rebels we’d broughtwith us to Lishahl. I watched as she tucked her feet—her muddy,dirtyfeet—under herself.
Her movements reminded me of a cat, and I narrowed my eyes at her feet.
“You’ve been walking outside.” It came out more of an accusation than I intended, but the Bondsmith barely raised her eyebrows, her expression one of wry disbelief.
“Am I a prisoner?” she questioned dryly, and when I shook my head, she simply shrugged her shoulders. “Then there is your answer, Lord of Iluul.”
I sighed, running a hand through my blond hair.
“You’re more unruffled than I’ve seen you,” she remarked, taking another healthy sip of her whiskey, bright-green eyes trained on me.
I barked a dry laugh.
“You’re avoiding my question,” I countered.
“No”—she tilted her head at me—“I said you’re asking thewrongquestion. Try again.”
“Where am I dream walking?” I tried, and the Bondsmith jutted out her bottom lip, moving her head side to side as if considering my inquiry.
“That isbetter. Not great nor really the question you should be asking, but better.”
“Are you going to answer it?” My nails bit into my palms as I gritted my teeth, frustrated and tired.
Were all gods this . . . annoying?My thoughts instantly flicked to Fate, and I stifled a groan.
“Sit”—the Bondsmith gestured to the couch—“and I will tell you a story.”
Reluctantly, I sank onto the edge of the couch.
“The gods once walked Elyria, free and without burden. They each mated with a human and created descendants—mortals who possessed the same powers as their sires. These becameSolace’s and Kaos’ direct lines—the Matriarchs of the Keepers and the Patriarchs of the Truthsayers. A Matriarch was always paired with a Patriarch—one to give visions of the future and the other to weed through the mess of images to discern the truth. Balance”—she paused to take another sip of whiskey—“the humans worshiped the gods and, by default, trusted their direct descendants implicitly. But the gods grew jealous, wanting human affection for just themselves. The Sundering started because of their wrath, and they plunged Elyria into chaos and death for years. Eventually, Fate imprisoned Solace and Kaos on Meru, the home of the gods. No one can visit there except those with a god’s blood. Blood is the most powerful and ancient magic, after all.”
The Bondsmith ended her tale suddenly, her voice abruptly cutting off, and I frowned in concentration. Her cheeks were flushed and sadness and anger flashed across her face before she schooled her expression once more. For a while, I simply sat in silence, absorbing the Bondsmith’s story, and I became certain there was more to her tale than just the surface-level information she provided.
At some point during her tale, I’d sunk back against the couch as I let her words wash over me. Something about her tale seemed so familiar, yetwrongat the same time—like it was incomplete, missing vital information.
