Deathless (Editing)

Chapter 6: The Monsters You Know

With fluid grace, the Lord High Commander gestured to the large oak table in the center of the room. "You must be famished."

Scrambling for something to say, see or feel, I turned my head to the table. It was set with food and plates and cutlery. The food was varied: breads, meats, fruits, and vegetables. The cutlery was polished. The plates were gilded, with delicate filigree etched along the edges.

Stricken and horrified, I stumbled to the table, muscles feeling like jelly. Graceless, I sank into the chair nearest to me. I felt stunned. Had there been shadows? Had they been alive? Furtively, my gaze darted to the corners of the room, where the darkness laid. It was thick. It was heavy. I swore that it could see me, that it was breathing, like a monster lying in wait.

When I imagined it staring as deeply into me as I stared into it, my gaze flitted back to the table until it settled on the empty plate. The porcelain gleamed, smooth and creamy, and my hunger waned at the prospect of serving myself without my arms breaking under the scrutiny of the dark's deathless gaze.

The Lord High Commander took a seat next to me, at the head of the table. With a smooth confidence, he leaned in. His gaze was clear and keen, drawing the blood to my cheeks when it lingered too long.

My eyes flew back to my empty plate, and I felt the burn of resentment grow in the pit of my stomach. I didn't like it—his knowing eyes. It made me feel small. It inspired loathing and doubt, which I also didn't like. A girl did not struggle to survive and provide for a small child without learning a thing or two about herself in the process, and the very notion that a man, who did not know me from a housecat, could waltz into the room and pretend to know me, made my blood boil.

I then lifted my head and met his gaze without hesitation. His stare tempered, and, for a split second, he dropped his well-honed mantle of war lord, exposing the boy underneath, a boy not much older than I.

"Riverly," he began, "that wouldn't happen to be derivative of the river that cuts through the Seamless?" His eyes were on me, burning my skin.

"Yes."

"You were born in the Seamless, just outside of Ailes?"

"I guess you could say that." Only when the words escaped did I realize just how strange they must have sounded. Even the village idiot knew where he was born.

The Lord High Commander eyed me with a soft look, as if he took some measure of amusement from my evasive answer. "But you weren't born there."

I grimaced, knowing instinctively what my next response would be, but not particularly liking it. In an unbroken motion, I lifted my head, rolled my shoulders back, stuck out my chest, and tried my damnedest to muster my tough, older sister veneer. The problem was, there was no Azure to protect. It was just me, all alone and scared, and I had never been much good at fighting for just me. "I don't know where I was born."

He saw right through my bluster, and, this time, he allowed himself a grin that lasted longer than half a second. "I see. I take it, then, that Riverly is not your true name."

"Yes," I said, clenching my jaw, lips pulling into a tight line.

"You were found at the River Lee, and you were taken--"

"I was taken to the Silts. The Morning Priest looked after me for a time." There was no need to mention Azure. It would be like handing the keys to my home to a highwayman. No good could come of it.

"How did you meet Bartholomew?"

"He was brought to the inn, where I served Mistress Daiyu." Instantly, I regretted saying it. Served. Yet, for some reason, right then, it felt like the past—a past to which I would never return.

"The local healer?" His head angled slightly to the side, as if he knew Mistress.

"Yes." I nodded, trying to make sense of his familiarity. I suppose he would have heard of her, as many of his men had come to the Inn in their time of need, and she never sent a man away.

"You're a servant to a healer?"

Another nod on my part.

"And you have this sword," his gaze dipped down to the weapon sheathed at my hip. "Where did you find it?"

"I always had it. Ever since they dragged my body from the river."

His eyes trailed to the side as he thought about this. "I see." He was editing himself, knowing more than he cared to let on. "And, your age?"

My shoulders lifted into a half-shrug. "I don't know."

This brought a dissatisfied sigh. "What did the Morning Priest divine?" The gentleness of his expression faded until he was all sharp, intense lines. There was an urgency to his stare, one that I did not understand.

"Sixteen." Then, I realized his sudden frustration. He knew the importance of age in the Silts.

Unflinching, he asked the next, more perilous question. "You are not Sullied?"

"I don't know." I settled on the factual. If the adrenalin pumping through my veins had not forced me to respond without first thinking about my answer, I probably would have added, 'It's unlikely,' because it was highly improbable. The Sullied only resided in the Silts, and I was clearly not from the Silts.

"But what did the Morning Priest divine?"

I chewed on my bottom lip. "Sullied."

The muscle tensing in his jaw told me everything I needed to know.

Without warning, he pushed his chair back. The squeal of wood sliding against wood pierced me, but my gaze was steady. He crossed the floor to a small writing desk. His movements were quick, precise. In one motion, he had the brush. The next, his cursive was sprawling across a fresh sheet of parchment. It was too far for me read the words. All I could see was the ink, wet and black, as it sank into the fibers of the page. His hand was swift; his mind decided.

"My Harvest," I began, but he silenced me with a stare. It was almost predatory, as if I may have stumbled across the source of his sudden vexation.

His gaze then slid back to the parchment. A few flicks of the wrist later, and he was finished. "You will be returned by Harvest time," he said, lips sloping into a frown, as if the words left a sour taste in his mouth. "No sooner."

"Where am I going?" Ah, the question had been there, stuck fast and hard in my chest, waiting for its chance to burst out. And, burst it did, exploding mid-air.

The Lord High Commander inclined his head slightly, as if the answer was entirely too obvious. "You are coming with me."

To the Killing Fields? My thoughts raced. My blood turned icy. My heart stopped, and it was getting harder to breathe.

I would be no use there. I'd be dead in a day. Hell, a day was generous. I'd be dead in a minute. I knew about herbs, elixirs, sutures, bandages, and potions. Sword-wielding and combat? I didn't know the first. I'd probably topple over under the heft of a broadsword one moment and be downed by a marksman's arrow the next.

"Eat," he murmured, staring at the assortment of food across from me. "You will need your strength. The river is wide, and the journey is long."

I stared at him, unblinking, as he moved to the door.

"I will send Bartholomew for you."

With that, he rolled the parchment letter he had penned, and, without so much as a parting glance, he disappeared through the door.