Read Online Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows by Winterborn - Free Book Online
Authors: Winterborn
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that felt… wrong. She was afraid to relax.
But he was warm, very warm; he radiated heat in a way that the distant fire, surrounded by what she was certain were angry women, did not. "You're not mine," she said, whispering the words. "I don't own you. If you think I do, you don't understand what our argument—hers and mine— was about."
His nose touched the skin of her cheek. She met his eyes, large eyes, dark and round; she swallowed and looked away. She could
see
what lay beneath the facade of animal face, animal form. Little things like this made the talent of sight a burden. And she knew with certainty that she would understand just how much of a burden it was in the months to follow. His skin brushed her skin as if he were touching her; she looked back.
Oh, I heard your argument
, the stag said, in a voice so deep she felt it as a sensation rather than a sound.
And while I benefited from its outcome, I do not entirely understand it
.
"Why?"
Because by right of victory, she ruled. By right of victory, you rule. The world has always been thus. The strong and the weak clash, and the weak give way. If they are pleasing, they are kept; if they are displeasing, they are discarded.
"You sound like Avandar," Jewel snorted, uncomfortable.
"You speak with her mount," Lord Celleriant said.
She did not reply. Nor did she look at the disgraced lordling of the Winter Court; he was beautiful in a way that reminded her of his Queen. She had seen women—and men—attempt to use beauty as a weapon before, but she had never been scarred in that particular battle.
She was now. Kalliaris had chosen to smile; the scars were invisible. But the Winter Queen lingered like both dream and nightmare when she closed her eyes.
She had told no one because she felt foolish doing it, but she had spent three days weaving the long strands of the Queen's hair into a bracelet; she wore it around her left wrist. She had seen such keepsakes before; they were usually fastened to gold or silver clasps because hair wasn't very good at staying in place. They were also usually taken from the dead.
Although she had developed an appreciation for finer metals—in her duties as merchant, among other things— she had no skill at working them, and besides, lacked the necessary tools. But the hair thus braided and twined clung as if made of links of chain, circling her wrist three times before ending in a rough knot.
She had a feeling that nothing would remove it; that the knots she had tied were true knots. Jewel ATerafin was seerborn. She trusted her feelings. So there was no reason whatever to sit in the dark, fingering the handmade bracelet as if to make sure it hadn't somehow vanished into the strange and perfect darkness that had swallowed the Winter Queen.
But she did. Her fingers stroked the texture of pale, pale braid as if she couldn't believe it was there, as if somehow touch could stop things from vanishing.
As if. Hadn't she learned better? She could feel, for just a moment, aged skin beneath her fingers; could see the wide-open, unblinking stare that was the end of all stories, the end of all shelter. Her Oma's death. She could hear her father's steps, wide, as he took the stairs two at a time in an effort to spare her this: death, the knowledge of what death looked like, felt like, smelt like.
And she could see the story of death, like moving, cursive script, as it traveled the length of his face, altering his expression. He struggled to be calm and accepting for her sake, but he grieved for his own. Her Oma was his mother, and Jewel had come to understand, as she had gotten older and had the time and leisure to observe people, that the death of a mother—to a person who remembered having one clearly—always struck some hidden place in the heart, no matter how old the person was when the loss happened.
Her den, most of it, had lost mothers so long ago that the loss was just a natural part of their lives, like heartbeat or breath. It
But he was warm, very warm; he radiated heat in a way that the distant fire, surrounded by what she was certain were angry women, did not. "You're not mine," she said, whispering the words. "I don't own you. If you think I do, you don't understand what our argument—hers and mine— was about."
His nose touched the skin of her cheek. She met his eyes, large eyes, dark and round; she swallowed and looked away. She could
see
what lay beneath the facade of animal face, animal form. Little things like this made the talent of sight a burden. And she knew with certainty that she would understand just how much of a burden it was in the months to follow. His skin brushed her skin as if he were touching her; she looked back.
Oh, I heard your argument
, the stag said, in a voice so deep she felt it as a sensation rather than a sound.
And while I benefited from its outcome, I do not entirely understand it
.
"Why?"
Because by right of victory, she ruled. By right of victory, you rule. The world has always been thus. The strong and the weak clash, and the weak give way. If they are pleasing, they are kept; if they are displeasing, they are discarded.
"You sound like Avandar," Jewel snorted, uncomfortable.
"You speak with her mount," Lord Celleriant said.
She did not reply. Nor did she look at the disgraced lordling of the Winter Court; he was beautiful in a way that reminded her of his Queen. She had seen women—and men—attempt to use beauty as a weapon before, but she had never been scarred in that particular battle.
She was now. Kalliaris had chosen to smile; the scars were invisible. But the Winter Queen lingered like both dream and nightmare when she closed her eyes.
She had told no one because she felt foolish doing it, but she had spent three days weaving the long strands of the Queen's hair into a bracelet; she wore it around her left wrist. She had seen such keepsakes before; they were usually fastened to gold or silver clasps because hair wasn't very good at staying in place. They were also usually taken from the dead.
Although she had developed an appreciation for finer metals—in her duties as merchant, among other things— she had no skill at working them, and besides, lacked the necessary tools. But the hair thus braided and twined clung as if made of links of chain, circling her wrist three times before ending in a rough knot.
She had a feeling that nothing would remove it; that the knots she had tied were true knots. Jewel ATerafin was seerborn. She trusted her feelings. So there was no reason whatever to sit in the dark, fingering the handmade bracelet as if to make sure it hadn't somehow vanished into the strange and perfect darkness that had swallowed the Winter Queen.
But she did. Her fingers stroked the texture of pale, pale braid as if she couldn't believe it was there, as if somehow touch could stop things from vanishing.
As if. Hadn't she learned better? She could feel, for just a moment, aged skin beneath her fingers; could see the wide-open, unblinking stare that was the end of all stories, the end of all shelter. Her Oma's death. She could hear her father's steps, wide, as he took the stairs two at a time in an effort to spare her this: death, the knowledge of what death looked like, felt like, smelt like.
And she could see the story of death, like moving, cursive script, as it traveled the length of his face, altering his expression. He struggled to be calm and accepting for her sake, but he grieved for his own. Her Oma was his mother, and Jewel had come to understand, as she had gotten older and had the time and leisure to observe people, that the death of a mother—to a person who remembered having one clearly—always struck some hidden place in the heart, no matter how old the person was when the loss happened.
Her den, most of it, had lost mothers so long ago that the loss was just a natural part of their lives, like heartbeat or breath. It
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