Read Online The Pegasus's Lament by Martin Hengst - Free Book Online Page B

knew they were talking about her, but the full meaning and import of their words was still lost in the haze of indescribable longing that flooded every darkened corner of her soul. She wanted to smell the lilac of mother's perfume as she leaned over to tuck Tionne in for the night. She wanted to feel the rough skin of father's fingers catching on her raven dark hair as he smoothed it away from her face. She wanted to hear the squalling of baby Raynold, a pitiful wail that usually annoyed her to no end, as he called attention to his wet swaddling, or his hunger, or his fear. All these things she wanted, but would never again have.
    Even as she sat there, rocking back and forth on the bloody floor of her family's home, the longing began to fade. Even more terrifying than the things she knew to be true, or the things she heard, was the fact that the longing left nothing but emptiness in its wake. She felt as if someone had pulled a stopper and drained out everything she was or wanted to be, leaving only a gaping, empty hole that would never be filled.
    Tionne woke, screaming. She sat bolt upright in her bed, her thin nightshirt soaked through with sweat and plastered to her thin frame. Cutting off the sound as a gardener would prune off an errant twig, she forced herself to breathe, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light of her rented bedchamber. The shutters were ajar, letting a narrow sliver of moonlight pierce her room and adding an almost ethereal quality to the glow that permeated her room. She slipped out of bed, crossing to the deep window. She opened the shutters and looked down on the city laid out below her.
    Dragonfell slept. Only a few windows flickered with light across the dark expanse of the city. Tionne cast an eye upward, judging the length of the hour by the position of the moon as it dangled in the sky. Midway between midnight and morning, if she had to guess.
    Idle fingers scratched at a half healed scar below her elbow. The fine white lines, the ghosts of long healed incisions, ran down her forearm from her elbow, as neat and tidy as farmers' furrows. Tionne no longer remembered when she had started cutting, only that she needed it. It had started as a way to feel something when nothing else seemed to fill the void inside her. The pain had helped, for a time. She felt something. Not alive, not happy, but something. Then she had become accustomed to the pain, and the emptiness returned. Now she needed something more. That was how she had discovered Aluka.
    By the light of the waxing moon, Tionne crossed to the chest at the foot of the bed. She opened it, slow and steady, to ensure that an errant squeak of the hinges wouldn't call the attention of anyone else at the inn. She lifted out her clothes. Robes and underthings, the finery Faxon had bought her on her fifteenth name day, not yet six months ago. Her fingers lingered on the black velvet tunic and pants. At least Faxon knew her well enough to not have given her a dress. The black, he had said, would bring out the subtle highlights in her hair. Tionne wasn't sure. She hadn't had occasion to wear it. Nor did she want to. She didn't trust it. She didn't trust him.
    Setting the clothing aside, she slid her hands down the inside walls of the chest and, with deft fingers, lifted the almost invisible catches that held the false bottom in place. It had taken her nearly a year to cobble together the materials she needed to create an adequate space for her secrets. Patience had paid off, however, and been rewarded with craftsmanship that would meet with envy, even among some gnomish circles.
    The thin waxed boards out of the way, Tionne could gaze with unfettered longing at her clandestine treasures. An obsidian dagger, the edge formed and enhanced by spells of her own creation, lay to one side. An intricate motif of skulls and thorns adorned the hilt, etched with a meticulous hand. On the other side of the shallow drawer were vials of thick red fluid; the blood