Page 85 of The Shadowed Oracle
“You asshole!”
“What’s that?”
“Ass… hole!”
“Sorry,” Dean laughed. “Can’t hear you up there!”
Dangling like that with her arms flailing and her backside in the air, she was slightly embarrassed and certainly angry, but once Dean put her back on her feet and put her hands in his, she was caught up in the surrounding commotion, watching the movements of the other dancers and trying to mimic them as best she could.
“Don’t watch them,” Dean said, noticing her trepidation and gripping her tightly. “Just follow my lead.”
Her eyes instinctively fluttered to his feet, but with a gentle nudge of her chin, he brought her gaze back up. He told her to relax her shoulders and hips. The violins had descended into a series of somewhat somber notes, and at the slow pace, Dean ledin such a way that she didn’t have to think about where her feet should go next.
At ease, and happy to be among the Viator she’d been admiring just minutes before.
“Could you see yourself here?” Dean asked, chin hovering just over her head. The warmth of his breath carried a slight scent of the ale, but Ingrid didn’t mind it as much as she usually did.
“In Ealis?” she asked. “Or right here?”
“Here in Maradenn,” he said softly.
She nodded, thinking about those lovely townhomes she’d seen on the outskirts of the city, with the lush gardens, the livestock roaming around their backyards. It was a soothing thought, until the implication of what Dean had said hit her.
“I’m not staying behind here, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Dean drew his head back to meet her eyes. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. I mean, I thought about it but?—”
“Of course you did,” she interrupted. “Leave the damsel back in the castle, right?”
“That’s one way to put it. I won’t lie to you, Ingrid. I’m terrified of putting you at risk.” He didn’t break eye contact. “But when I thought about leaving you behind, I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stomach being away from you. Every moment apart would be torture. Every waking moment, I’d be wondering if you were safe. If the people I trusted to protect you were doing their job. Just, torture.”
Ingrid flushed, tucking her head close to his shoulder but not fully resting on it. “That’s very sweet,” she said lowly. “But, let’s not forget, being around me twenty-four-seven would be torture too.”
Dean raised his eyebrows, forcing the grin forming on his lips to stay put. “I’d thought about that, too.”
“Exactly.” She adopted a whiny, exaggerated voice meant to mock herself. “What’s this place called again, Dean? What is that smell, Dean? Does this flower do anything cool, Dean? What are those tattoos, Dean? Do a lot of Viator have tattoos?” She cringed at the memories.
“To be fair,” Dean said. “I thought that last one was very important.”
“What, the tattoos?”
It was a short conversation, glossed over when they’d first walked into the tavern. One of the couples sitting near their table had small but intricate markings on the tops of their foreheads, just below the hairline. They were like vines found in the forests of Ealis, with microscopic symbols woven in so discreetly you might miss them if you didn’t know what to look for.
Ingrid had noticed them immediately, however.
“You didn’t give me a full answer, by the way,” Ingrid pouted. “I figured Viator couldn’t get tattoos.”
Dean reached for the leather collar of her vest, asking permission with his eyes, then lowering it slightly to get a good look at the ghastly face tattooed over the center of her throat. “You’ve had these for how long?”
“As long as I’ve been sober,” Ingrid said, thinking back.
“It’s possible your skin absorbed them. They don’t look like they’re fading. But they still might.” He noticed her dismay and added, “Tattoos here are done with viseer stone-shavings and open flame. So you can always get new ones?”
“I wouldn’t want to replace them,” Ingrid sighed. “It’s not about the tattoos, really, it’s about the memory. What they meant to me back then.”
Dean squeezed her hand in response, shifting to their left to get a better look at the couple they’d seen when walking in. They were a stunning pair, unworried and tranquil in their youth. One had fiery red hair, braided down the middle and stretchingto her back. And the other was dark featured, short curly black locks framing her cherub visage, parted just enough to show off the tattoos.
“Those specific tattoos,” Dean said. “They’re marriage marks. Viator bonding themselves in eternal matrimony.”
