Page 17 of Vows of Sacrifice

He looked down at his own body, then used his index finger to trace the outline of one of the dark arabesques.

“Each line represents a curse. A curse that reminds me that I’ve done wrong and that I’ve been hated enough to be cursed.”

“Why didn’t you go see a mage or a witch to remove them?”

“It’s no use. We know how to get rid of them, and it doesn’t depend on our will.”

“We?” I repeated.

Dovah let out a long sigh.

“It’s complicated and beyond your reach, for now. We’ll talk about it another time, if you don’t mind.”

“I didn’t know it was possible to hate someone so much,” I murmured, still in shock.

To which Dovah smiled coldly.

“Is that so? Is it any wonder people hate me? They call me the Black Demon. Dovah the Bloodthirsty. The Lord of Darkness, and so on and so forth. You hate me yourself, my lady. I’m amazed I haven’t had my skin completely covered in black yet, after all this time.”

His men entered at that exact moment, creating a welcome diversion. I couldn’t deny what he’d just said. He was my father’s killer. Even though I’d decided not to wallow in self-pity or let my grief consume me, it was a fact that I could not ignore.

Before leaving, the two knights placed cold chicken, soup, a nice loaf of bread, boiled potatoes, and a small basket containing red apples and white grapes on the large table. Probably the last grapes of the season.

With a wave of his hand, Dovah invited me to sit down opposite him. He served the meal in a skillful manner. It was clear that he, too, was used to dispensing with the help of servants.

“Thank you,” I said half-heartedly.

“You can relax. I’m not resentful by nature. I’m quick to move on after this kind of conversation. Besides, it’s hard to live as long as I have and bother with trivial things like resentment.”

“Are you that old? Listening to you, one might think you were a hundred years old,” I grumbled, before gulping down some vegetable soup.

I heard him choke and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him bang his chest to get his mouthful of bread down.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked.

His falsely detached air didn’t fool me for a moment.

“Twenty-five, maybe thirty, tops. Your tanned skin is deceptive.”

He smiled with all his teeth. It was suspicious.

“You’re good. That’s exactly my age.”

“Twenty-five or thirty?” I retorted with excessive politeness.

“Whichever you please. Both are correct.”

I accepted the chicken breast he put on my plate.

“It’s one or the other, Dovah.”

When he heard me say his name, he stopped cutting his meat briefly. Oh, not for long, but long enough for me to notice.

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth.”

“You don’t know how old you are?”

He shrugged.

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