The Empty Throne. Cayla KluverЧитать онлайн книгу.
on her hips. “Follow me.”
The girl led me through a swinging door and down a hallway off of which opened several private bathing rooms. She ushered me into one that was vacant, then shut the door behind us while I took stock of the area. A wooden washtub dominated the center of the floor, and a bench with folded towels sat against one wall, a water-spotted mirror hanging above it. Nothing exuded luxury, but it was nonetheless clean and inviting, and that was all I required.
“You can undress and hang your clothes here,” the girl told me, motioning to hooks set into the wall beside the door. “I’ll be back with buckets of hot water.”
I sighed. “Thank you. This will be lovely.”
She left, and I struggled out of the clothes Fi had given me. While the garments themselves were in good shape, the day’s activities had left me dirty and stinking of sweat. I heard the door open as I finished removing my tunic and, with a twinge of modesty, turned to keep my back to the serving girl.
Thud, the buckets hit the floor, followed by a half gasp, half shriek. Alarmed and confused, I shot a look over my shoulder, and my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. The serving girl’s gaze was riveted on my back. Hot water sloshed across my feet, and I hopped sideways, smacking my legs against the bench that held the stack of towels. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for one dizzy, mind-blurring moment, I thought I might scream, too.
Thick, rope-like scars crawled down my otherwise smooth back, from the tops of my shoulder blades to just above my waist. My wings had been attached by bone and muscle and skin, like any extremity, and where my body had frantically tried to repair itself, it had created a pair of raised dark red scars that spider-webbed into whiteness at the edges.
My breath coming fast and shallow, I sank heavily down on the bench, toppling a few of the folded towels onto the floor, where they immediately soaked up water. I carried a secret on my body. A secret thrust upon me by three strikes of a halberd. I could still feel the imposing shadows of the hunters like a shiver down my spine. People might look at me and see a beautiful young woman, but what lay beneath was ugly and revolting, a mutilation that would drive them away—if I needed any proof, the girl appeared ready to pass out. Who would want to be near the hideous proof of such brutalization? Not me, but I had no choice in the matter. If I did, I would run far and fast.
Then the worst prospect of all bubbled to the surface of my mind. Had my troubled fourteen-year-old cousin Illumina watched this happen to me? Left me bleeding, only to willingly relive the memory of it later? Relish it even, happily drawing pictures of my agony? Trembling, I gagged. No, no, no, it’s not possible. But something inside me disagreed, a part of me I had been trying to ignore, a part of me that not only believed she was capable of such a thing, but that she had done it.
The serving girl’s mouth was flapping soundlessly, her face going from deathly white to blazing red, but I could find no words to comfort her. Wanting to disappear, I threw on my tunic and cloak and rushed from the room and out of the inn, dragging my pack along with me.
The cold of the night air hit me like a slap on the face, and I realized there were tears on my cheeks, beginning to freeze. But I didn’t take the time to wipe them away. I was still running, running, running, desperate to outrun what I had become.
I knew where I was going, though my conscious mind insisted good sense would return to me; that I would change my decision; that I didn’t have to worry or bemoan my weakness because Anya, the principled niece of the Queen, would rear her head before the end. But the Queen’s niece only served to lend her expertise to the question of concealment as she pushed through the door of The River’s End. I pulled up my hood, unable to dispel my fear of discovery by Tom Matlock or some other Constabulary. I could not afford to be stopped now, not when I so desperately needed to lose myself.
The man seated at the table near the vestibule looked up at my approach.
“Back for another go?” he asked, his gold canine tooth the star attraction in his crooked grin.
I swallowed hard, willing my voice to come out evenly, needing to prove I was in control of what I was doing.
“More or less. I need to talk to whoever handles your, ah, inventory.”
“More you use, less you feel.” Robb snapped his ever-present deck of cards, then stood and walked to the cellar door through which lay the cloister of depravity that I craved. He muttered to a larger chap who appeared to be standing guard, and I shifted restlessly, tapping my foot and glancing over my shoulder. I was about to snipe at the men to hurry when they parted company, and I was waved over by the big fellow. I joined him, surveying the gruesome tattoos blanketing his forearms—scenes of beheadings, nooses, and weapons linked together with chains—and something inside said I should flee while I still could. But I stayed in place, seeking an alternate kind of escape.
The man examined me, presumably taking in my age, gender, rough appearance, and slight build.
“Follow me,” he gruffly instructed, apparently satisfied I represented no threat, chewing on the stub of a cigar that bounced around with every word he spoke.
I stayed on his heels while he wove his way through the pub’s patrons and into a dimly lit hallway at the rear of the establishment. He untied a ring of keys from his belt, then inserted one into a door the same color as the stone walls. I might have thought it clever camouflage if not for the unending drabness of this entire place. We stepped inside, and he produced a rusty, leaky old lighter from a trouser pocket. After a good half-dozen attempts, the contraption sparked to life, and he used it to ignite a flame on an oil lamp that rested on a block jutting forth from the wall.
The room in which we stood was cold and damp, for the pub’s heat did not stretch this far. Its floor was dirt, giving it a musty smell, and it was so small, I could have spat from one side to the other. The man from whom I hoped to purchase a supply of Cysur closed the door behind us, and goose bumps appeared on my arms. What if I was now locked inside? I checked the room for another egress, but there was none. This was an aboveground cellar.
“What you want?” the man asked, moving to stand behind a desk that took up half the floor.
I examined his broad face, trying to determine what to say. Though I was a novice with respect to this type of transaction, he didn’t seem the sort to tolerantly guide me along. My mouth opened, but no words emerged. Somewhere—perhaps just in my head—a clock ticked, and my discomfort mounted. I wanted to leave, I needed to stay, I wanted to find a bathroom, I needed to sleep. In the end, I fidgeted, no more able to regulate my nerves than to regulate the clock. The man across from me apparently found this amusing, smiling grotesquely from around the remnants of his cigar.
Thankfully, Robb saved me from further embarrassment, coming through the door bearing a metal-banded wooden chest. He set it on top of the desk, then exited.
“Seat yourself,” the tattooed fellow muttered, pointing to a chair against the wall.
I nodded, sweat running down my back despite the chill in the air. My lack of experience was evident—people were less likely to prey upon someone who appeared self-assured, and I was failing miserably in the act.
The man shifted his attention to the double-locked chest, and made use of two other keys on his ring to open it, leaving me to drag the chair closer. I sat down across the desk from him, resolved to be more assertive to regain what footing I could. He eyed me with a miniscule smirk, letting me know he could see right through my facade, then placed three pouches on the surface between us.
“How do you take your pleasure?”
“I need to know my choices.”
“Figured as much.” He yanked open the first of the pouches and held it out to me, displaying the finely ground powder inside. In the dimness, it appeared black like gunpowder, but when I squinted, I realized it was green, darker even than seaweed swaying in deep water.
“It’s already cut, ready for snortin’,” he informed me.
I yanked my head back,