Page 76 of Mistress of Bones
He was in his room on the second floor of De Gracia’s impressive house, half sitting on the windowsill with one leg propped up to balance his folder and the sheet of paper, leaning his back against the frame. The itch to put on his emissary mask was almost overpowering.
The need to hide his nature chafed him. The need to stake his claim as the Emissary of the Lord Death among the souls in Cienpuentes at times choked him. He yearned to remind these people who gave their prayers to the Lady Dream and the Blessed Heart that the Lord Death reigned beyond dreams and abundance.
He needed to be a constant reminder to Azul del Arroyo that her fate was sealed.
Even now she sat on a rock in the patio below, brown hair tumbling over her shoulders and knee-high boots kicking back and forth.Planning her little schemes, no doubt, thinking she had bested him after their talk when he already predicted what moves she would make from now until she was back in Valanje by his side.
His hand paused its trip across the sheet.
By his side.The arrangement of the words felt companionable, friendly, as if two people had freely agreed to travel somewhere rather than one forcing the other. Yet,until he brought her back to Valanje, in chains if neededno longer had the same satisfying ring to it as it had mere days ago. It lacked something. Subtlety, perhaps. It carried the grim sense of duty rather than the satisfaction of Azul del Arroyo seeing the truth of her ways, admitting that her gift must be contained, that going against the Lord Death was a grave affront.
The drawing resumed.
After their conversation by the blue tabards’ headquarters, he had an inkling of hope that she might come around. After all, while her gift was foul, her brain was not. Her thoughts were shaped by grief, a feeling Virel Enjul was familiar with. He had experienced it himself and had seen it often enough in others to know how it warped reason and belief.
Azul del Arroyo’s urge to defy the Lord Death by bringing back her sister would pass once her bone-seeking schemes came to an end, just as the grief he felt for leaving his family to join the Order had, and she’d see that the Lord Death existed, that the god welcomed everyone’s souls and offered a refuge after the storm that was life. That her sister was safe and taken care of in ways a cage of flesh and bones could never hope to achieve.
That life was nothing but a short trip between the Lord Life and the Lord Death.
Once she understood this reality, there would be no need to drag her to Valanje. Then she’d truly be by his side, for what better way to be reminded of her sister than standing by the Lord Death’s emissary?
With a scowl, Enjul added a few precise strokes, then licked his finger and lightly smudged a few lines. Still unhappy with the result, he moved the sheet to access a clear spot and began anew.
Azul del Arroyo’s mask should not have the same fangs his did. He didn’t often smile, but the young woman downstairs did. If she must stand by his side, if they must hunt maladies and serve the Lord Death together, he must design a mask worthy of her, not an unfitting thing she would resent day after day.
Being an Emissary of the Lord Death was a solitary job. It had never bothered him—Virel Enjul needed nothing of the path of life save his god, his drawings, and himself—but now he wondered if he had erred by not acquiring a pupil. There were few emissaries, and the head of the Order had once or twice attempted to force some child to his side, but Enjul wasn’t a teacher. Yet here he found himself trying to teach Azul del Arroyo the wrongness of her ways.
The wrongness that, in a world where everything was on the way to the Lord Death, she alone stood defiant, a beacon of life among the dead stones in the patio, the dying bushes, and the dying flowers.
Unique. Marvelous.
The sight of her scared him as much as it locked his gaze to her as he began sketching again: the smooth line of her jaw, the roundness of her eyes, the way her nose upturned just so. Features already imprinted into his memory, but that he couldn’t help seeking out again and again.
They were… fascinating. They made the itch to take up pencil and paper an undeniable urge, and since his god didn’t seem to mind, he didn’t see why he ought to stop himself.
Some kind of noise drew Azul’s attention away from her silent scheming, and she stood up from the rock, her face filling with satisfaction bordering on smugness.
Ah, Enjul thought,one of her plans must have come to fruition.
He abandoned folder, paper, and pencil on his bed and strode out of the room, heedless of making noise with his boots on the expensive tiled floors. By the time he made it downstairs and to the front door of the house, a small delegation had gathered.
“Sirese Del Arroyo,” a tall woman dressed in full City Guard blue finery was saying. She held two small, thin metal sheets. Behind her, four guards stood at attention, rapier hilts and pike spikes gleaming in the afternoon sun. Across the street, Azul’s shadow lounged against the opposite building’s wall, expression insolent. As much as Enjul disliked the look, he’d take it over boredom. Insolence meant interest; boredom meant losing Azul again.
The thought made him want to snarl.
Azul was his to watch over, to contain, to keep—not part of some petty court game, the Lord Death lose her brother’s soul.
“This is Captain de Macia of the City Guard,” Azul said, defiant. Even her chin lifted with the emotion, as if she were a head taller than he and was attempting to look at him down her nose. Her gumption, her obstinate need to stick to her beliefs frustrated him to no end. Frustrated and kept him on alert. Excited him.
And perhaps this was why he was contemplating the idea of her standing by his side. Perhaps it was the thought of having someone who would raise his spirits that brought out that longing in him. Someone who would never tire of challenging him.
Nobody ever dared challenge an Emissary of the Lord Death.
De Macia studied him with narrowed eyes. Enjul knew what she saw—the height, the breadth of his shoulders, the light hair, rare in Sancia. His golden-and-violet eyes, even rarer.
She showed no shock at being in the presence of a man from the land of the Lord Death. Would she, if she knew who he really was? Would her tan skin turn sickly at the knowledge that the Lord Death’s own stood in front of her?
Somehow, he thought not. She would show due respect, he knew, but she would not hide behind her guards.
