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12
Náli knew the moment he woke that he was home.
Ah, home. That hellish place.
For a while, he hadn’t dreamed; it had been only the peaceful black of true, undisturbed sleep. But then he became aware – that lucid state that meant he had fallen into the crack between dreams and the constant, tugging magic of the well. He’d been made to drink that water, when he was only a little lad; he couldn’t remember much of the first time, save its oily, mineral tang, and spitting it all down his front, so that his mother exclaimed in dismay. He remembered Mattias cupping his chin gently, and bringing the cup back to his lips for a second try. That water, its magic, had gotten into his bloodstream. It lived within him still, in the center of each bone, in the coils of his brain, in the roadways of his heart, beating now sluggish and unhappy, as he clawed up through the layers of magic and dream and blinked his eyes open.
Between its natural cloud cover, and the constant curls of dark smoke that trickled up from the peak of the fire mountain, the light was always a dim silver, the same color as his hair. A light that filled his familiar bedchamber, as he turned his head to find that nothing about it had changed in his absence. He lay on the same four-poster, canopied bed, its gray drapes drawn back with silver cord, the feather-tick mattresses, a stack of two, soft and downy beneath him. The same granite floors, walls, and ceiling greeted his blurred gaze, gray flecked with black and white, large, reddish veins running in streaks like claw marks. He saw his trunks, and his writing desk; his table, and chairs, his armoire, and his dressing table and silver-framed looking glass. Lying down, his view through the three, leaded-glass windows was of a bleak sky smudged with smoke.
He'd spent the whole trip back here unconscious. Been washed, and dressed in a soft shirt, and tucked beneath warm blankets and furs all without waking. His stomach rumbled, and his tongue was dry when he flicked it across his lips. The drag of the well was much more concentrated here; it felt as though someone was sitting on his chest; his bones felt weighted down to the mattress.
Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes, he could fall back asleep. But that would only delay the inevitable.
With a groan, and no small amount of effort, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He wasn’t just sore, but actively in pain, bolts of it shooting up his arms and legs. He gritted his teeth, threw back the covers, and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. His slippers, gray suede lined with lambswool, awaited him on the rug below. He bit his tongue as he stepped down into them, when the pain crackled through his feet and ankles. His body was punishing him for being away so long, and using so much magic.
Each step he took toward the window winnowed what little strength remained, shaved it off slice by slice, until, when he finally reached the glass, he had to catch himself on the granite window ledge and grip, white-knuckled, to keep from toppling over. His head swam, and the floor tilted, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from being sick.
When he felt steadier, he opened them again, and then felt sick all over again when he beheld the view.
Through the fog of his breath on the glass, he could see the sloping plains that led down from the Keep toward the Nár River, edged with ice-slick boulders, its surface half-frozen, too dangerous to cross save for at the black granite bridge that joined Náli’s lands with the Capital Road. The snow was streaked with heavy deposits of dried lava, layers of black coils like a vast snake basking beneath the hidden sun. Náli’s rooms had once been his parents’: the Corpse Lord’s suite. After his father’s death, his mother had moved to the dowager’s suite, leaving him here, alone, in this cold stone space, with its perfect, dreaded view of the fire mountain, in all its jagged, snow-dusted glory. It belched smoke at an alarming rate now, angered by his long absence. The lava rock that marred the hillsides now was evidence of small, regular trickles; a true eruption, had Náli stayed away indefinitely, would sweep the land, fill the river, and melt the shepherd’s crofts on the opposite bank. It was that – the threat of innocent lives and homes lost – that drew him back here, time and again, when all he wanted to do was climb on his horse, ride for the coast and never look back.
He rested his forehead against the cold glass, and let it ground him a moment, willing himself to stop shaking – to move to his bureau, don proper clothes, his diamond, and go down the many staircases that would take him to the well. He dreaded the thought – nearly as much as he dreaded the thought of encountering his mother. All things in perspective, he supposed.
The door whispered open behind him, and he recognized Mattias’s soft tread across the floor.
“You’re awake.”
“Unfortunately.”
Mattias stepped in beside him – and then, to Náli’s delight, slipped a supportive arm around his waist, held him close, and kissed the side of his head.
“Mm. I thought I’d dreamed that.”
“Dreamed what?”
“That you love me.”
Mattias hummed, and kissed him again, warm and lingering on the skin of his temple. His breath rushed warm across Náli’s ear as he drew back. “I always have.”
“But you never kissed me before.”
“Náli,” Mattias said, sighing fondly. But he would address it no further. “You should eat something, before you go down.”
A knot formed in Náli’s stomach.
“I’ve brought your favorite.”
He rolled his head against the window so he could look at him, finally, and the sight of him was worth all the grim, bleak landscapes of the Fault Lands, with his cold-chapped face, and his dark braid, and his even darker, warmer eyes. “You have?”
Mattias leaned down to kiss his mouth, gentle and sweet. “Come and eat.”
His stomach rumbled noisily, so there was no point resisting. Arm still secured around his waist, Mattias helped him over to the table, where a small basket of steaming, sausage-filled pastries waited. The first bite left his eyes rolling back in his head. However much he hated the Fault Lands, there had always been sources of pleasure and comfort, and one of those was Agattha’s cooking. The pasty itself was light and flaky, its surface brushed with butter and sprinkled with coarse salt; the filling was ground lamb sausage seasoned with sage, thyme, and rosemary grown in their hothouse garden. Mattias must have rushed up from the kitchen given how warm they still were.
Náli ate three with hardly a breath between bites, before Mattias nudged a cup of lavender tea toward him. Spiked tea, he realized, after the first sip. The gin would give him enough steadiness to manage the labyrinth of stairs he was about to face. He drank it down faster than he should have – to the sound of Mattias’s chuckling reprimand – and then pushed the cup aside with a deep sigh.
“Better?”
Náli wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his dressing gown. “Considerably.” Then he thought of what he must ask next, and his breakfast turned over in his stomach. “How long have I been abed?”
