Page 42 of Mistress of Bones
“It?” he prodded when she didn’t continue. If the woman was in a sharing mood, he would not stop her. The more he knew about her, the more he’d know how to control her. It was a dangerous game, for he had a feeling that the more he knew about her, the more he wouldn’t be able to step away.
“It reminds me of home.” There was a soft, wistful quality to her words that touched something inside Enjul this malady had no right to touch. He didn’t have time to dwell on this as she arched a brow and asked, “Do you have a home, Emissary? Or do you simply go from death to death?”
He relaxed against the back of the settee and wondered if she’d take a seat or remain at arm’s length. He hoped she’d stay where she was—much easier to read—but part of him missed being toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, as they’d been back at the ambassador’s house. “My home is with my god.”
Her mouth twitched, and a wicked gleam entered her eyes. “It must be nice to carry your home along with you. Like a snail.”
Being in her half brother’s house had given Azul del Arroyo a good dose of confidence.
Slowly, he unwrapped himself from the settee and took one step toward her. She didn’t move. Perhaps the moonlight and darkened room had wrapped her in the same fanciful mood that had taken him. And perhaps, for one night, that was acceptable.
Tonight was a reprieve. Tomorrow, they’d take up arms again.
“Why did they name you Azul?”
Del Arroyo blinked at him, clearly surprised by the question. “What does it matter?”
“Names are part of who we are, are they not? If I must study you, why not start there?” His gaze flickered to the small piece of Anchor dangling from her ear. She wore it as an act of defiance and rebellion, and while the sight of the gods’ bones being used in such a way disgusted him, it’d take a lot more to rile him. “Is it a homage to the gods?”
She let out a startled laugh. “I’m named after the summer sky.”
It fit her. She thrummed with a sort of vibrancy that was hard to find in the winter months. He leaned closer, peering into her eyes. In the dim light, they were small dark pools, with no rim to speak of. If there was Valanjian blood in her, it had been in generations past.
“And you?” she dared. “Why did they name you—?” She hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure speaking his name aloud would smite her where she stood.
Enjul smiled wide. “Why did they name me Emissary of the Lord Death? Isn’t it obvious?”
He expected her to glare at him and leave. Instead, he found an answering hint of a wicked smile. “Not obvious at all. If I were the Order, I would’ve chosen a very different name.”
One more step, and he was breathing in her scent. Rain over a grassy field, he decided. Fresh and full with the thrill of the storm to come. “Such as?”
She opened her mouth, then bit her lip. “I prefer not to say.”
“If we are to… What shall we call it? ‘Help each other’? We must be truthful with one another.”
She grew serious. “The truth is that you will never give as much as you want to take from me. Keep the reasons for your name, Emissary; I do not need them. Good night.”
A pang of disappointment hit his chest as she walked out of the room. He’d hoped this strange moonlight interlude would’ve lasted a few minutes longer.
It didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time going forward to instigate, observe. And catch.
THE PRESENT
Azul woke to the early songs of birds. After meeting her personal needs, she rushed down to the same cozy dining room they had used for supper. Bathed in the morning light, it appeared twice as big as it had under candlelight. A few trays had been placed in the middle of the table, and to her relief, the only one occupying a seat was Nereida.
Fresh bread, boiled eggs, sausage, jam, butter, fruit. No porridge, no honey, no fried cake. Ah, well.
Grabbing a seat opposite Nereida, Azul chose her morsels. “Will you accompany me?”
“Where you are going, I don’t need to accompany you.”
“What will you do, then? Will you visit your brother?”
In the ensuing silence, Azul glanced over her shoulder at the open door and swallowed a half-gnawed piece of bread and jam. Badly chosen seat, badly chosen question.
“He’s still upstairs,” Nereida told her.
Enjul? Sergado? The latter, she assumed, for she had seen a few candles’ worth of light pouring from his window across the patio when she had woken in the middle of the night. As for Enjul…
