Read Online Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) by Evie Manieri - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Evie Manieri
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wet his lips and whispered, ‘why won’t you say her name?’
For a moment, Daryan stood there, feeling the hurt pressing down on his chest. Then, speaking as quietly as his master, he said, ‘She’s been dead for five months and you’ve never mentioned her – not once. We served you together for three years, and when she died, it was like you didn’t even notice, like she was just another slave who didn’t matter at all. She did matter. She was
special
.’ His throat felt swollen and his eyes stung. ‘I
know
people die, but nothing feels right without her. Nothing feels … finished.’
He fixed his eyes on the ground, feeling his nerves singing.
‘The elixir,’ said Eofar. ‘Do you want to know why I took it?’
Heart beating fast, he answered, ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I need to show you what I saw.’ Eofar stepped down from the dais and started towards his trunk, but his strength deserted him again and he sank down into the heavy wooden chair, shutting his eyes and holding on to the carved armrests.
‘My Lord?’
Eofar fumbled under the table in front of him, produced the key to the trunk and laid it on the arm of the chair. ‘The writing instruments. Get them.’
Daryan remained where he was, stock-still. ‘I can’t,’ he said tightly. ‘You know I’m not allowed to touch—’
‘I know you’ve been stealing them,’ Eofar informed him curtly and he flushed, but before he could protest or even apologise his master said, ‘Your rules, not ours. I would have given them to you if you had asked. Now get them.’
Daryan went to the trunk, unlocked it and lifted up the lid. For a heady moment he breathed in the dry, musty smell of everything that made his life bearable: secrets and truth, dreams and action,
hope
. Inside the trunk were the flat squares of dried pulp – the Shadari had no word for them, but he had learned the Nomas word, ‘paper’, along with ‘book’, ‘ink’ and ‘pen’ – piled up amongst quills and little pots of dark, vinegary-smelling ink. On the other side of the trunk were leather and cloth-bound books imported from the Dead Ones’ homeland. He reached for the writing implements, then stopped.
The large book with the tattered red cover on the top of the stack belonged to Isa. He had a vivid memory of her sitting with it in her lap, her white hair tumbling down her back, staring at it, while he’d jealously spied on her from behind a chair. With a thrill of trepidation he took a moment to lift up the book. It fell open near the middle. On the left-hand page swirled a Norland script so ornate that he couldn’t tell where one word left off and another began, but on the right was a drawing alive with colours so bright they made his eyes ache. It showed a woman in a flowing cape of scarlet trimmed with gold, riding a dereshadi. Seated in front of her, wrapped up in her cape, was a little girl. In the distance a silver castle perched on a mountaintop like a wisp of cloud. The sky was dark, but bright yellow and azure flags fluttered from the castle’s innumerable spires, and ornaments of a lustrous purple were shown in the lady’s pale hair. The edges of the paper were smudged with dirt as if someone had turned to it many, many times.
‘Daryan?’ Eofar called softly.
He flipped the book closed, scooped up the requested materials and returned to his master. Eofar led him to the desk, where he set everything down, but before the Dead One could begin to write, the clay lid of the inkpot began to rattle, and then the pot itself began to skid very slowly across the desk.
Daryan watched in confusion until he became conscious of a faint, deep grinding sound, coming from a long, long way down. ‘Earthquake,’ he announced in alarm, but almost immediately the sound died away and the inkpot trembled to a stop. ‘Just a tremor,’ he breathed with relief. ‘That’s the second this month.’
Eofar moved to pick up the pen, but instead, after a moment’s hesitation
For a moment, Daryan stood there, feeling the hurt pressing down on his chest. Then, speaking as quietly as his master, he said, ‘She’s been dead for five months and you’ve never mentioned her – not once. We served you together for three years, and when she died, it was like you didn’t even notice, like she was just another slave who didn’t matter at all. She did matter. She was
special
.’ His throat felt swollen and his eyes stung. ‘I
know
people die, but nothing feels right without her. Nothing feels … finished.’
He fixed his eyes on the ground, feeling his nerves singing.
‘The elixir,’ said Eofar. ‘Do you want to know why I took it?’
Heart beating fast, he answered, ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I need to show you what I saw.’ Eofar stepped down from the dais and started towards his trunk, but his strength deserted him again and he sank down into the heavy wooden chair, shutting his eyes and holding on to the carved armrests.
‘My Lord?’
Eofar fumbled under the table in front of him, produced the key to the trunk and laid it on the arm of the chair. ‘The writing instruments. Get them.’
Daryan remained where he was, stock-still. ‘I can’t,’ he said tightly. ‘You know I’m not allowed to touch—’
‘I know you’ve been stealing them,’ Eofar informed him curtly and he flushed, but before he could protest or even apologise his master said, ‘Your rules, not ours. I would have given them to you if you had asked. Now get them.’
Daryan went to the trunk, unlocked it and lifted up the lid. For a heady moment he breathed in the dry, musty smell of everything that made his life bearable: secrets and truth, dreams and action,
hope
. Inside the trunk were the flat squares of dried pulp – the Shadari had no word for them, but he had learned the Nomas word, ‘paper’, along with ‘book’, ‘ink’ and ‘pen’ – piled up amongst quills and little pots of dark, vinegary-smelling ink. On the other side of the trunk were leather and cloth-bound books imported from the Dead Ones’ homeland. He reached for the writing implements, then stopped.
The large book with the tattered red cover on the top of the stack belonged to Isa. He had a vivid memory of her sitting with it in her lap, her white hair tumbling down her back, staring at it, while he’d jealously spied on her from behind a chair. With a thrill of trepidation he took a moment to lift up the book. It fell open near the middle. On the left-hand page swirled a Norland script so ornate that he couldn’t tell where one word left off and another began, but on the right was a drawing alive with colours so bright they made his eyes ache. It showed a woman in a flowing cape of scarlet trimmed with gold, riding a dereshadi. Seated in front of her, wrapped up in her cape, was a little girl. In the distance a silver castle perched on a mountaintop like a wisp of cloud. The sky was dark, but bright yellow and azure flags fluttered from the castle’s innumerable spires, and ornaments of a lustrous purple were shown in the lady’s pale hair. The edges of the paper were smudged with dirt as if someone had turned to it many, many times.
‘Daryan?’ Eofar called softly.
He flipped the book closed, scooped up the requested materials and returned to his master. Eofar led him to the desk, where he set everything down, but before the Dead One could begin to write, the clay lid of the inkpot began to rattle, and then the pot itself began to skid very slowly across the desk.
Daryan watched in confusion until he became conscious of a faint, deep grinding sound, coming from a long, long way down. ‘Earthquake,’ he announced in alarm, but almost immediately the sound died away and the inkpot trembled to a stop. ‘Just a tremor,’ he breathed with relief. ‘That’s the second this month.’
Eofar moved to pick up the pen, but instead, after a moment’s hesitation
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