The Amulet Of Nicmir (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 1)

Chapter 48

In the days after Crynia was gifted her freedom, she wandered the alleys and dark places of the city, seeking out shadows in which to hide from annoyingly curious citizens. The way they gaped and gawked when they caught a glimpse of her suggested the sad reality that a Canivera was the most exciting thing they'd seen in a long, long time. What a boring way to live.

Not that she was doing much better. She barely slept at night, instead wandering the lush shores of the oasis that crowned the center of the city, admiring the waterwheels and other brilliant, unfamiliar contraptions they'd constructed to disperse the precious water to gardens and homes. The moonlit green was easy on the eyes after so much squinting at the glaring sand and a blinding horizon. The muddy bank teemed with a mottled swathe of colors that wouldn't bloom back home until well after winter's end. Trees here probably kept their leaves year-round, considering the heat.

During the day, Crynia sought solitude constantly, plagued by the nightmares every time she blinked, avoiding Sam with the finesse of the slippery thief she was. She hadn't seen him since they'd run into each other coming out of the bathhouse after they'd been freed, and thankfully then she'd been saved by Lillian's appearance and Sam's preoccupation with seeing her alive and well. Crynia had shot her friend a small I'm-glad-you're-not-dead smile before walking away, the memory of Sam's voice sticking in her head like glue.

In her solitude, she was bored spineless. So she read until her brain felt like it'd turned to jelly and her eyes nearly rolled out of her head. The library—a pitifully small room where everything was coated in a thick layer of dust and books were strewn carelessly on every rickety old table—was locked for some reason, but she made short work of that setback with a little experience and a borrowed fork with bent tines. They'd kept weapons out of her room—including hairpins. Or, as she better knew them, lockpicks. And even after she managed to break in, it took her a while to locate any literature in the common language, which they were understandably short on.

Losing herself in ancient tales of dragons chained beneath mountains and wars older than Agnir's sorry backside only helped a little. Her mind would wander from the words inked on the yellowed paper, thinking of Sam, of the copper-colored stubble that'd shadowed his jaw in the days he'd gone without a razor and the way it'd sharpened the gold in his blue-green eyes like solid coin in the sun. Or the way he'd laughed and run a hand through his too-shaggy, damp hair when Lillian had come around the corner, his voice giddy with relief. His wilted grin when he caught Crynia's eye again. The empty patience she'd seen there, a sliver of dying hope as he waited. Maybe he'd already given up. Or maybe his stupid, hopeful heart was still pining after the decision that would either break them both or build something beautiful. Something she wasn't ready for. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Another book slammed shut with a cloud of dust in the sun-streaked air of the stuffy room, another story falling short of distracting her from her own head. She rubbed weary eyes with stiff fingers, straightening her bent legs on the fraying carpet, flexing her back against the bookcase behind her. Everything ached, and her throat hurt, a creeping cold crawling into her lungs, a germ preying on her tired body. Maybe it'd go away with a few hours' rest. Maybe she'd never sleep again and be sick forever.

With a groan, Crynia dropped the book with a thump on the ever-growing stack beside her and knocked the back of her head against the bookcase. Who knew? Maybe it'd jolt the nightmares away if she hit it hard enough. Or bonk her clean unconscious and give her a minute's peace.

Across the room, the door creaked. Crynia couldn't see it, not through the many books they'd crammed on shelves between her corner and the door, and she didn't care anymore. Let them catch her. Things couldn't get much worse.

The door shut, and the tap of footsteps bounced off the walls—and a cane hitting the floor too lightly and too many times in a step to be used for a support.