Page 7 of Of Shadows and Blood

A woman who has servants for this, servants for that. A proper brush or two, a wardrobe of fine gowns and beaded dresses. Perhaps a bounty of food like the tables I have read about in the few books we have at the house. Savory spices, sour fruits from exotic lands, more to drink than water.

Anything other than what we have here, which is currently nothing. Nothing more than a few potatoes, dried meat and a basket of rotting apples.

None of it really appeals to me.

Just like Sawyer, I release a tired sigh and go to find the rope Hal and I made yesterday. Binding the fibers took forever and we had to let it set. Everything takes entirely too much effort here, and while I am grateful for the work, I wish to relax.

My hip pops as I pull on the shed door, sliding it against the packed earth. Sawyer and Hal are laughing out in the pasture and I pause to look at them. Sawyer is swinging Hal around and I can hear him begging to be let down.

They, too, deserve more.

The rope is not hanging inside the door. Did Trentin get to it?

I sigh and keep digging through the shed of tools and various forgotten projects. Most of the crates are empty, but I spot extra leather scraps that I make a mental note of. My shoes could use a better sole.

No rope.

“Great,” I murmur, pulling another crate to the side. I almost turn to leave when a box in the far corner of the structure catches my eye. It’s no more than the size of a washbasin and I’ve never noticed it before. Maybe it was Ma’s once upon a time.

I climb atop junk and move planks of wood aside, coughing at the dust that stirs up. The box is wedged between a couple of bundled clay pots from Ma’s collection. Gently, I work it out without disturbing the delicate works.

The box is covered in a layer of dust and dead gnats that I wipe away as best as I can. The thing cannot be described as simple. The entire outside is painted with whorls and stars, reds and purples expertly blended across the polished wood surface. I run my fingers across it softly, afraid to ruin its beauty. My fingers trace the metal studs along the edges, finding an iron lock at the front. I pull on it, but it doesn’t give. Prying is useless as the edges stay firmly shut.

I go back to the lock, flipping up the keyhole cover. Whatever key is used for this box wouldn’t look like anything Ma has laying around. We don’t even use keys at the house.

Nothing to steal.

The iron lock is cast with initials on the side of it. The initials read E.C. No one in our village rings a bell.

I give up and slide it back in, confused at the odd nature of it being nearly hidden. I frequent this shed and it never stuck out before. Regardless, we could probably make coin from its sale.

Making my way out of the shed, my foot catches on the rope, which apparently was on the ground the entire time. I find myself level with the earth and spitting out a mouthful of dirt. The rope fibers, worn and coarse, are probably too weak to pull up the well bucket but we must try.

We’re all thirsty.

Paying one more glance to the chest in the back, I close the door and continue on towards my two friends.

Chapter 3

A millennia has come and gone, yet the thirst for life has not.

The healer moves swiftly but is keeping pace with me as I attempt to keep upright through the winding hallways, passing by darkened courtyards and staring faces.

“I–I can’t remember exactly what happened. I have so many questions,” I stammer. The woman looks back and smiles gently, silently.

Meaning I will get no answers.

I turn my focus to the walls of the corridor we’re traveling down. Thick rugs line the inner wall, shades of red and purple interwoven with black. Silver thread lines the edges of the massive tapestries. Adjacent to the rug-lined walls is a wall with several windows and openings into various gardens, landings and courtyards. Some are occupied with other bystanders, all similar in looks. Compared to my clothing, they are grossly overdressed in fine fabrics and designs. But some are underdressed, as if unbothered by the chill.

One woman is snugly fitted in a corset, framing her thin waist. Her breasts are barely covered by thin pieces of leather arranged in a swirl pattern placed expertly enough to hide her nipples. Though, I’m not sure it would matter if they slip because the woman next to her also wears a corset, but no shift underneath.

I avert my eyes as we pass them and choose to focus on Avonde in front of me. The healer, cess, whatever that means. Her dress is simple and unfitted, flowing elegantly as she walks. It is still more formal than my nightgown. Hers is made of a loose sheer fabric on the arms, tightened by cuffs on her wrists. Save for my own garb, she is the only one dressed in a shade of white.

We descend another set of stairs, though luckily these don’t go round and around. Any steeper and my body surely would add more injuries to count. Already, I’ve lost track of where we are and where we came from.

The room we enter is small and cozy, warmer than the rest of the place. I cannot place where a building of this magnitude would exist where I come from. Now in a subterranean portion, I suspect, I look around slowly. The room is low lit with no windows. Small fires here and there upon the walls seem to burn from nothing. No wood or coal supports the flames. I move my gaze down to the rest of the wall. Covering the area are shelves and shelves of books, bottles and ancient-looking orbs. I want to open them, learn their secrets, read whatever magic lies inside them, but I remember that I am not here to visit. I am being held here.

“Sit.” Avonde gestures to a sleek velvet couch adjacent to a row of tables also covered with various objects and books. I sense I can trust Avonde. Her face is friendly and she has a gentle energy about her. Most healers are this way.