Page 75 of Mistress of Bones
“And what is your proof? Show it to me.” He extended his hand, palm up.
Edine hesitated. “I cannot. It’s a feeling I have from what I’ve overheard while delivering her messages.”
“If you’re that worried, talk to her, explain the situation.”
Edine shook her head. “She won’t believe me. She will assume I read everything wrong.”
“It will give her an excuse to revisit the loyalties of those she does business with.”
“It’s only a suspicion. If I go to her and I’m wrong, it will follow me.”
Sío crossed his arms in irritation. “You came to me for advice, and that’s the advice I’m giving you.”
Her easy grin came again. “You are wrong, Brother. I came to you to see if you’d like to accompany me in some late-night spying.”
Unease grew at the dare in her words. “What do you mean?”
“I think something is going to happen in a week, and I mean to be there to see what it is. Cienpuentes can be dangerous at night, and I could use another rapier to go with mine.”
“No,” he said, resolute. “Tell Iriana and step aside. This is not your fight. And,” he added, pointing at her, “donotgo to Esparza for help.”
“Bah!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t want to go with me, I will go myself.”
“Don’t!”
“We must both do as we see fit,” she said haughtily before whirling on her heel and leaving the room.
“Didín,” he called after her. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
Edine didn’t hear or didn’t care to answer.
Once more, Sío asked the Blessed Heart why they had given his mother four children instead of simply his person. He resigned himself to having to follow his younger sister late at night in a week to make sure she didn’t come to harm. He returned to his stool, intent on catching some sleep while leaning against the windowsill, the safety of Cienpé’s citizens be damned.
THE PRESENT
Sío woke up to a scream—his own—and a sensation of having been thrown into a lake—his sweat. Cold, it stuck his shirt to his flesh like a second skin. Unnerved, he tore the shirt off his back, balling it into a bundle and throwing it to the corner of the room.
The action didn’t make anything better. Trembling, he brought his fingers to his face. The mask was still there, as soaked as his shirt had been. Where was the Witch?
He tore off that piece of fabric, too, and went to splash some water from the basin onto his face.
It didn’t help either.
Sunlight shone outside, although he could not tell the exact time. All he could tell was the vague reflection of his face on the glass pane. It was the face he had seen in his nightmares.
Heart pounding, he retied the mask and sat on the edge of the bed, praying for the Lady Dream to come save his mind before he remembered anything more.
“Witch,” he let out in a savage growl. “We had a deal. Take me.”
Not a moment later, she did, and Sío de Guzmán was free to lose himself in his dreams instead of his nightmares.
XXVIIDEATH
Enjul’s pencil moved leisurely across the sheaf of paper, leaving lazy lines behind.Leisurelyandlazy, two concepts that ought never apply to him, yet there were no other words to describe the way his hand moved whenever his mind was elsewhere and his body craved the outlet of action. Some took up fights to relieve the urge, some took lovers, some delved into the flow of gossip.
Enjul took pen and ink and surfaces to leave his mark upon the world.
Because in his art, nothing ever died.
