Page 31 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
“That would be nice.”
“Sit.”
I take my normal spot at the table. He retrieves a cup and saucer from the cupboard, throws tea leaves in a strainer, then pours water in from the rusty kettle on the stove. He sets it in front of me along with a container of sugar cubes.
“Thank you.” I pick up the spoon, look at it as if it’s the most impressive relic.
He stands across the table, looking down at me. I finally meet his gaze. He blinks a few times, taking in my clothes.
“You’re… a Skyrider?” he asks.
What? Do you think I stole this uniform to show it off?I want to ask back, but I simply nod.
He sits across from me and grabs his tea. His liver-spotted hands wrap around the cup, making it look tiny. He’s a tall man with wide shoulders and a physique contrary to his profession. He grew up on a farm, working on his family’s wheat fields. As the eldest, his parents wanted him to continue the tradition, but my father had no interest in that. Instead, he wanted to come to Emberton and go to university. He enjoyed reading and learning more than he didplaying in the dirtas he calls it. He has no elemental powers to speak of and considers himself lucky for that. He thinks they only encourage young fools to risk it all for the stupid dream of riding a dragon.
“I told you it was more than a stupid dream,” I say, then sip my tea, forgoing the sugar. The familiar scent of bergamot fills my nostrils.
He grunts in response. Disappointment washes over me. I don’t know why I expected more.
“He’s dead,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
His hazel eyes, so much like my own, rise from the teacup to meet mine. A few unkempt hairs sprout from his eyebrows, shooting in different directions.
“Mortimer Cindergrasp,” I clarify, watching his reaction closely. I expect a little more than usual, but his emotionless expression persists. It’s as if he’s unable to feel anything anymore.
I wonder if that would change if I told himIkilled the Neutro. No. It would only deepen his disappointment in me. Maybe he never blamed Mother’s death on Cindergrasp. Maybe he only ever blamed me.
Abandoning the cup on the saucer with a clink, I stand abruptly. “I came home to pick up a few things. I’m going into training for four weeks, then I’ll be deployed to Fort Ashmire.”
I walk away. When I reach the threshold, he clears his throat.
“How did he die?” he asks.
My knife plunges in through the Neutro’s ribs. Blood washes down the drain. A crimson smudge mars my hand.
“Someone stabbed him,” I say, then head up the narrow staircase.
My bedchamber is the first on the right. The door is closed, and it whines when I open it. All the hinges in this house need a thorough oiling, but I’m not here to take care of things anymore. Inside, everything is just as I left it, except for the layer of dust that covers every surface.
I meander, gaze bobbing from my bed with its baby blue embroidered duvet to the child-sized rocking chair in one corner to the dark-wood dresser in the other. I approach the latter, floorboards creaking underfoot. Four books sit atop the dresser, held in place by the wall on one side and a dragon-shaped bookend on the other. The titles describe my perpetual interests: The Great Wyrm’s Journey, Extraordinary Dragons from the Isles, Whispers of the Wind: A Skysinger’s Journey, and Heratrix’s Vow. I read each book countless times. Father refused to buy me more. I think he would have rather bought me romance novels if I’d asked—anything but thisuselessillusion.
It’s not an illusion anymore, Father. It’s a reality.
I suppose he would have me rot alongside him and this house for the rest of my life rather than make something of myself. Perhaps, he thinks I don’t deserve to live. Not after what I did. He has never openly blamed me. He has always said it was the Neutro’s fault. I only wish his actions backed his words because the way he treats me has always made me feel guilty.
Sighing, I open the dresser’s top drawer. Something makes a sound inside. I look in to find a silver baby rattle. Frowning, I pick it up. Where did this come from? It feels as if I’ve seen it before, but… I’m not sure. No, I don’t think I have. I cock my head. Father must have put it in here. It must have been mine, and he thought I should have it.
I jerk the lower drawer open, throw the rattle on top of a moth-eaten blanket, and shut the drawer close. For some reason, it bothers me.
Panic strikes me. If Father was in my room and accessing my dresser, he might have…
Quickly, I open the compact jewelry box I keep there and inspect its contents. Relief washes over me. My mother’s ring is still here. The oval of a black onyx sits like a dark unblinking eye in a silver cradle of intricate swirling patterns. It’s a simple piece, a symbol of my broken heart, and the only thing of my mother’s I can take with me. I retrieve it and hold it tightly in my closed fist.
“It’s done, Mama,” I whisper.
My fingers shake as I slip it onto my forefinger. When I was ten—misery already the inseparable companion of my shadowed heart—I made a promise to my mother. Two years without her were all I needed to grow up and grow bitter, so bitter that, at that tender age, I vowed never to wear the ring until Neutro Mortimer Cindergrasp lay dead at my hand.
Now, I will never take it off again.
