Read Online Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) by Evie Manieri - Free Book Online
Authors: Evie Manieri
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my room> she told Frea.
Frea replied.
Isa hooked her left foot into the near stirrup, just over the point where the tough ridge of cartilage joined Trakkar’s wing to his body, and then reached up and grabbed the pommel of the saddle. In one smooth motion, she lifted herself up and straddled her right leg over, then searched with her foot until she found the other stirrup. The floor of the stables looked much further away than it should have been. Frea’s saddle felt hard and uncompromising, as if it knew she didn’t belong there. In front of her was the harness, a complicated framework of tough leather straps and burnished brass buckles.
She saw that Daryan was sitting up now, wiping at the blood trickling from his mouth. He was not looking at her, but everyone else was. She could feel their eyes on her, Norlander and Shadari alike. She reached out for the harness, but when her fingers touched it, she felt nothing. Her hands had gone numb. She shook out her wrists and flexed her fingers but the tightness had started in her chest and the next breath she took lodged somewhere in her throat. She reached down and gripped the side of the saddle with both hands as her head began to swim. A drowsy blackness rolled through her and she felt herself listing. She was going to fall. Blindly she kicked her right foot out of the stirrup and brought her leg up over the saddle. She was trying to get down, but her left boot caught on the stirrup on the other side. She clung to the pommel, swinging crazily,until her foot finally came free and she crashed backwards down on to the floor.
She didn’t think about anything then. She just got up and ran away.
Chapter Six
Daryan raced past the refectory without stopping; his master’s breakfast could wait, especially since he never ate it anyway. He dragged his fingers along the wall as he rushed through the corridors, a habit left over from childhood when the bad light and blank walls had made him dizzy; when he reached Eofar’s room he found the curtain over the doorway still pulled shut. He halted before it, rolling his stiff jaw and calling softly, ‘Lord Eofar?’ When no answer came he called again, a little louder; then, with a sour feeling in his stomach, he brushed past the curtain and into the room.
Sure enough there was his master, just as Daryan found him most evenings now: sprawled across his bed, half-dressed, sleeping off the wine he’d drunk the night before. It had been the same for three months now, ever since Governor Eonar had transferred command of the garrison to Frea instead of Eofar. The shift had begun even earlier than that, though. It had started a few weeks after Harotha’s death, only Daryan had been too numbed by his own grief to notice or care that after twelve years of easy companionship, Eofar had suddenly shut him out completely. Now Daryan spent most of his timestaring at the wall in the corridor outside while his master drank alone, envying even a servant’s drudgery over the nights of mind-numbing boredom.
You’re his slave – not his friend. He’s lonely, that’s all,
Harotha had told him when she’d first come to the temple, refusing to listen to his explanations about why Eofar wasn’t like the other Dead Ones. It had taken three years to prove her right. He only wished he could hear her say she’d told him so.
He walked up to the dais, trying to think of some way to rouse Eofar out of this lethargy, for Isa’s sake, but just as he was about to call his master’s name more loudly, he noticed that there were no emptied jugs of wine or puddled dregs on the table, and that although his master appeared to be sleeping face-down on the bed, his hands were clutching the bedlinen so hard that Daryan could see the blue veins throbbing in his wrists.
‘Lord Eofar!’ he cried, leaping up to the dais. The Dead One’s shoulders jerked at the sound of Daryan’s voice and he twisted his neck around. His
Isa hooked her left foot into the near stirrup, just over the point where the tough ridge of cartilage joined Trakkar’s wing to his body, and then reached up and grabbed the pommel of the saddle. In one smooth motion, she lifted herself up and straddled her right leg over, then searched with her foot until she found the other stirrup. The floor of the stables looked much further away than it should have been. Frea’s saddle felt hard and uncompromising, as if it knew she didn’t belong there. In front of her was the harness, a complicated framework of tough leather straps and burnished brass buckles.
She saw that Daryan was sitting up now, wiping at the blood trickling from his mouth. He was not looking at her, but everyone else was. She could feel their eyes on her, Norlander and Shadari alike. She reached out for the harness, but when her fingers touched it, she felt nothing. Her hands had gone numb. She shook out her wrists and flexed her fingers but the tightness had started in her chest and the next breath she took lodged somewhere in her throat. She reached down and gripped the side of the saddle with both hands as her head began to swim. A drowsy blackness rolled through her and she felt herself listing. She was going to fall. Blindly she kicked her right foot out of the stirrup and brought her leg up over the saddle. She was trying to get down, but her left boot caught on the stirrup on the other side. She clung to the pommel, swinging crazily,until her foot finally came free and she crashed backwards down on to the floor.
She didn’t think about anything then. She just got up and ran away.
Chapter Six
Daryan raced past the refectory without stopping; his master’s breakfast could wait, especially since he never ate it anyway. He dragged his fingers along the wall as he rushed through the corridors, a habit left over from childhood when the bad light and blank walls had made him dizzy; when he reached Eofar’s room he found the curtain over the doorway still pulled shut. He halted before it, rolling his stiff jaw and calling softly, ‘Lord Eofar?’ When no answer came he called again, a little louder; then, with a sour feeling in his stomach, he brushed past the curtain and into the room.
Sure enough there was his master, just as Daryan found him most evenings now: sprawled across his bed, half-dressed, sleeping off the wine he’d drunk the night before. It had been the same for three months now, ever since Governor Eonar had transferred command of the garrison to Frea instead of Eofar. The shift had begun even earlier than that, though. It had started a few weeks after Harotha’s death, only Daryan had been too numbed by his own grief to notice or care that after twelve years of easy companionship, Eofar had suddenly shut him out completely. Now Daryan spent most of his timestaring at the wall in the corridor outside while his master drank alone, envying even a servant’s drudgery over the nights of mind-numbing boredom.
You’re his slave – not his friend. He’s lonely, that’s all,
Harotha had told him when she’d first come to the temple, refusing to listen to his explanations about why Eofar wasn’t like the other Dead Ones. It had taken three years to prove her right. He only wished he could hear her say she’d told him so.
He walked up to the dais, trying to think of some way to rouse Eofar out of this lethargy, for Isa’s sake, but just as he was about to call his master’s name more loudly, he noticed that there were no emptied jugs of wine or puddled dregs on the table, and that although his master appeared to be sleeping face-down on the bed, his hands were clutching the bedlinen so hard that Daryan could see the blue veins throbbing in his wrists.
‘Lord Eofar!’ he cried, leaping up to the dais. The Dead One’s shoulders jerked at the sound of Daryan’s voice and he twisted his neck around. His
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