Counting Shadows (Duplicity) (8 page)

“No,” I say, my voice a little quieter, but still loud enough to carry. “I Choose Lor.” I point again to Lor’s prone figure. He’s finally noticed the arrow next to his head, and frowns at it with a perplexed expression.

Father shakes me, making me bite my tongue. Wonderful. Now both my lip and my tongue are bleeding.

“I told you,” he hisses. “You could Choose any of the three men I selected.” He follows my gaze to Lor, and his face twists with disgust. “That Angel is
not
one of those men.”

I widen my eyes and look down, doing my best to look like an innocent child receiving a scolding. But my heart won’t stop pounding, and my lungs just keep gasping for air. It takes me a moment to realize I’m shaking.

I’m not sure what does it. Maybe it’s the shaking, or maybe my attempt at a pitiful look. Whatever it is, Father lets go of my shoulders and pulls away.

He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "I should have known better than to let you Choose. You’re a disgrace to Irrador and the throne. You’ve been ruined for years, ever since you Chose that Angel boy.”

I keep my eyes on the ground, refusing to look up and meet his words. If I do, I’ll lose it. He can’t just talk about my Ashe like that. He can’t pretend that anything is Ashe’s fault. He
can’t
.

“Sire?” Jolik says quietly. “I… I don’t think I can give the order. Not if she’s Chosen him.”

I’m glad I’m looking down; I might not be able to hide my vicious smile if I wasn’t. As my Guardian, Lor is now a part of the royal family. The guards are bound by the ancient laws to protect him, just like they protect Father and me. They can’t harm him, not without forfeiting their own life.

Father opens his mouth and pauses, as if he’s not sure how to respond. It’s a new sight for me. Father always has something to say.

I hold my breath. Father could always tell Jolik to kill Lor anyway. It would mean the end of Jolik’s life, along with every single one of the archers.

But Jolik would listen. He always does.

It would also mean the end of the support the people give Father. Half the city would be here to witness him forfeiting twelve men to take down one. One man who is now a hero to this crowd.

Father closes his mouth and shakes his head. He points a finger at me, his narrowed eyes accusing. “Jolik,” he says, his voice deadly quiet, “take Faye back to her chambers. Make sure she stays there. I don’t wish her to leave unsupervised.”

I bite my lip, keeping a curse from escaping. Father has always given me freedom; as long as I stay out of his way, he doesn’t care what happens to me.

But now I’m in his way. Now he cares.

“Of course,” Jolik says. He grabs my arm, his hand much gentler than Father’s, and leads me toward the exit of the booth. “Come along, Miss Princess,” he says quietly. “I’ll get you back to your chambers safe and sound.”

As we move past the two guards standing at the exit, Jolik hesitantly turns back to Father. “Sire… What of the Angel?”

Father doesn’t turn, his eyes focused on Lor’s prone form. “What of him?”

“Should I direct the arena guards to see him back to his cell?”

Father turns around, a small smile on his lips. “No. The Angel is Faye’s Guardian now, remember? Have the guards bring him to her chambers.”

My stomach twists. I hadn’t thought my plan out this far; saving Lor is one thing, but
rooming
with him? He’s an Angel. He has a natural grudge against humans, especially the royal ones. And, as he’s proved to the entire Amphitheater, he could easily kill me.

“Goodbye, Faye,” Father says as Jolik leads me away.

I don’t respond, other than to glance back one more time at the arena. Lor has been taken away, and nausea scratches at my gut as I realize that tattoo is now out of my reach. A pool of blood remains where Lor lay, and I take a deep breath, hoping he survives.

And hoping I do, too.

“Where shall I put him?”

The castle guard sounds exaggeratedly polite as he glares at me. I don’t know his name—he didn’t bother to give it to me, and I didn’t bother to ask.

Lor is slung over the guard’s shoulder, unconscious and dripping blood onto the stone entrance way. I shudder, remembering Ashe’s blood in that place. Lor’s is the same color, a deep maroon almost as dark as wine, both pretty and disturbing at the same time.

I shake away the thought, realizing No Name is waiting for an answer. Somehow, his expression has managed to darken even more in a matter of seconds. I’m not sure if he’s mad because he’s carrying around a filthy, bleeding prisoner, or because I disgraced Father with my Choice—again.

“Here.” I gesture for him to follow me and head toward the room next to mine.

I take a single step forward and then freeze. Was I really about to have the guard put Lor
there
? Right there, right next to my room? Where Ashe used to sleep?

I take a shuddering breath and then let it out, dispelling the sickening thought. I haven’t been in Ashe’s room since he died, and I’m never going back in there. It’s the one part of him that remains, and I won’t ever disturb it.

And that’s one promise to myself that I will never break.

I walk to the spare room two doors down from my bedroom, counting each footstep I take. It’s not enough to kill the swirling thoughts in my head–about Lor and Ashe and his killer–so I also start counting No Name’s heavy steps.

I enter the spare room, holding open the door for the guard. He glances around, taking in the bare walls and cold stone floor. I’ve never decorated the place, or even bothered to lay down a carpet.

No Name looks to Lor, and then to the dusty bed. He nods approvingly and smirks, and I have the urge to flip him off.

“Leave him on the bed,” I command.

He raises an eyebrow, as if wondering why I’m willing to give Lor even a dusty, old mattress. I point to it, holding my ground. No Name shrugs and dumps Lor on the bed.

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess,” he drawls, that arrogant smirk playing at his lips.

He’d never speak that way to anyone else in this castle, but he’s smart enough to know his place. He’s a royal guard, while I’m nothing but a royal pawn. He can get away with anything he wants to say to me.

I ignore him, and also try to ignore the knots in my stomach. Instead, I focus on Lor. His chest moves, but more slowly than before.

I grit my teeth, not wanting to feel the pity in my chest. I still remember the way people looked at me after Ashe died–even people who accused me of being a witch looked like they were sorry. It was maddening. Infuriating. They acted sad when they didn’t even know why they should be mourning.
Who
they should be mourning. And yet every time I saw one of them, with their sorrowful expressions and shaking heads, the memories would come rushing back, and I’d want to cry again.

Their pity was almost as cruel as Ashe’s death.

“Well,” No Name says, “ I suppose I’ll be going now.” He walks past me out the door. I wait until I’m sure he’s gone and then drop my head into my hands. What am I doing? That should be such an easy question to answer; I always have a goal, always know what I’m supposed to do to achieve it. Half of me is convinced that this is just another simple step toward avenging Ashe’s death, but I know that’s a lie. Taking a Guardian can never be simple.

Jolik pokes his head into the room, startling me. I pretend to brush something out of my eye, and hope he buys that my head was in my hands because I was clearing my vision, and not because I was starting to panic and fall apart. Yeah, right…

I’m not exactly sure where Jolik has been; the trip back to my chambers is a blur, and my head is just starting to clear. I think he’s been in my sitting room, guarding me from there. Typical Jolik, always avoiding emotional situations. Not that I’m any better…

“I suppose you want me to leave, too?” he says. When I nod, he sighs. “I shouldn’t leave you alone with that Angel.”

“The healer will be here soon. I won’t be alone.”

He purses his lip and then nods sharply. “Alright, then you’ll have at least one man around to protect you. That’s a bit better.”

I don’t tell him that the healer is a woman. Instead, I just wait for him to take the hint and walk away from the room, his footsteps heavy and resigned.

I close the door after him. Air comes rushing out from my chest, and I lean against the doorframe for support. My mind swirls, and I can’t figure out if I’m relieved that Jolik is gone, or bracing myself because Lor is here.

Lor lets out a moan. The sound is groggy, but it still carries his voice, which is deep and rich and masculine. It’s so different from Ashe’s elegant tone, but it’s the voice that might hold the key to avenging my Guardian.

“So,” I say, despite knowing he’s unconscious. “I guess you’re stuck with me now. How fitting. You lie to me, and now you get to deal with me.”

He lets out another moan.

Glancing around the room, I look for somewhere to sit. There’s nothing. No chairs, no benches, not even a wardrobe or a nightstand.

Ashe and I both didn’t like this room, so we never used it. He said the room was too big and the windows too small. For me, it was the smell–this place used to store ingredients for the bakery, and the pungent scent of baking yeast strikes me every time I walk in. It’s just another reason I loathe my ability to see—and smell—the past.

I bite my lip and consider the bed for a moment—Lor only takes up one side of it, and there’s plenty of room at the bottom.

I sit on the floor.

Jesel, the healer, should be here any moment. She’s looked after me since I was born, and has a gift for taking away my pain. The physical kind, at least.

“You’ll like her,” I say to Lor. I’m not sure why I’m talking to him, but I need to fill the silence
somehow
. "She’s probably the only good-hearted person in this entire castle. Well, her and Farren.”

Lor doesn’t even stir.

I stare at him for a long moment, taking him in. He reminds me a little of a draft horse: large and brawny, but somehow elegantly beautiful.

Lor lets out a long breath, and I hold mine, half expecting him not to breathe in again. But he does, taking a shallow gulp into his lungs. It’s a little pitiful to see someone as regal as him laid flat on a bed, dressed in prisoners’ garb, and covered in blood.

I shake away the thought and take a step toward Lor. Then another. I have no idea what I’m doing, and my heart quickens. I breathe deeply as I reach the edge of the bed. In and out. Slowly. Calming my nerves, just like Jackal taught me.

Lor lies on the right side of the bed, but there’s a little room between him and the edge. I sit on the open space, smoothing my dress.

“How did you end up here?” I murmur, unsure if I’m talking to him or myself.

He doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, waiting for an answer, receiving none.

I reach out and place my hand on his chest. My fingers tremble as I touch his shirt, pulling away the collar and exposing his neck. The tattoo wraps around his shoulder there, reaching back down toward his chest. I brush my finger across the ink, half expecting to feel heat from the flames. But all I feel is Lor’s clammy skin.

Closing my eyes, I trace a finger across the tattoo, remembering the contours of the flames. The swirls and the bold lines and the blackness, all so stark against Ashe’s pale skin.

Then I open my eyes and see Lor. The tattoo doesn’t look as stark on him; his skin is darker than Ashe’s, a tan color that makes his blond hair stand out.

“You remind me of him,” I murmur to Lor. “You look nothing alike, but… You both carry yourself the same way.”

I shake my head and jerk my hand away. I
won’t
do this. I won’t compare Ashe to someone like Lor, an obnoxious thief and a liar.

A knock comes at the door. I stand from the bed and rush toward it faster than I need to, but the door bursts open before I reach it.

Jesel stands in the doorway, lips pursed in her eternal frown. I used to wonder what happened to make her frown like that, but now I understand: She’s a healer who sees death every day. And death destroys people, especially the ones left alive.

Jesel ignores me, not bothering with any type of greeting, and strides over to Lor’s side. I frown, wondering what has her in such a bad mood. She always asks how I’m doing before she gets to work, demanding to know every detail of my life and health. Sometimes she’ll even give me a hug, and her ghostly-thin arms will cling to me like she’s afraid she’ll never see me again.

Jesel places her medical bag on the end of the bed and examines the Angel. “He’s not in good shape,” Jesel murmurs, checking Lor’s pulse at his wrist.

“But he’ll survive?”

Jesel looks me straight in the eye, striking me with a gaze filled with horror and… remorse. Then she quickly shakes her head. “No.”

“But… He has to. You’re the best healer we have, Jesel. He
has
to survive. You
have
to save him!” I know I sound like a child, but the words just come tumbling out, and there’s no way I can stop them.

She keeps shaking her head. After a moment, she squeezes her eyes shut, as if holding back tears. Why would she be crying? Lor isn’t even dead yet, and Jesel has learned to suppress the pain of impossible cases.

Unless it isn’t impossible. Unless…

I press a hand to my face, blocking out her expression. “You’ve been ordered to kill him,” I murmur. “Haven’t you? Father is forcing you to.”

She doesn’t respond, other than to look away. Then she quietly says, “The king believes this Angel’s presence could be harmful to you.”

I’ve never heard Jesel speak so softly. In all the years she’s acted as my healer, all my cuts and scrapes and burns she’s tended to, Jesel has always been loud and authoritative. Her defeated tone is almost as scary as what she’s admitting to.

“You can’t kill him,” I whisper.

She nods her head, like she’s trying to agree with me. Then she says, “I have to. King’s orders. If I don’t, I’ll be the one to die.”

“Let me talk to Father. Maybe I can convince him otherwise.”