Junperrijer Street bustled with activity despite the late hour; finely dressed people with glittering jewelry and overwhelming perfume wandered the pristine, cobbled streets, laughing gaily and loudly. Some staggered about, already drunk, and Lapis did not envy their friends and significant others, who would need to drag their sorry butts home after they passed out in whatever establishment they patronized.
Most side-stepped her and Ciaran, no care or concern. Hooded figures must zip up and down the street so often, residents ignored them. Even the Grey Streets cast her the odd glance or stare when she wore her black hood, and some people hustled away after they realized a chaser walked near them.
The Swan was a posh wooden building stained a deep brown with soft pinkish-white trim crisscrossing the walls. After their successful invasion, Dentheria constructed many similar structures, designating them as the temporary housing of loyal elite before they secured land for their mansions. Lapis stared up at the generous eaves and pondered how they might reach the fifth floor. No stairwell marred the exterior, and she dreaded entering the front because security for the place would immediately and suspiciously ask questions. Having no other option, she firmed her backbone and opened the wide, pinkish-white door.
The foyer was tall, reaching up to the third story. Four more pinkish-white doors with numbers etched into gold plaques above them spanned the whitewashed walls, without a smudge marring them. A larger brown door opposite the entrance led to a clear-windowed office. Men in rough grey uniforms sat inside, cards in hand, and, after a glance, paid them no heed. Bright, fruit-scented lamps marked the stairwell, so she took that way, Ciaran behind her.
“Interesting security,” he murmured as they proceeded up.
“Are you going to complain?”
“No.”
At least they knew they needed to climb to the top.
White sconces brightly lit the stairway, a contrast to the dim interiors of the Grey Streets. They illuminated dark-stained wooden stairs, the banister elegantly carved with flower designs, the shimmery gold caps atop the posts. The air felt cool, crisp, much like the sharp sound of their footsteps on the treads, creating a forlorn atmosphere.
Large gold plaques with numbers marked the two doorways leading from each landing, and cabinets with gold nametags stood between them, awaiting mail. They had no keyholes, and Lapis wondered how the residents opened them, or if the owners placed them as decorational items, a way to add elegance to an otherwise plain space.
At the top, someone had propped open the single door with a delicate gold jamb. Just inside, a bored guard with crossed arms and legs stared blankly at the blue wall opposite him. He wore a simple brown shirt and pants, which Lapis thought odd; normally sentries in richer abodes sported stuffy uniforms to differentiate themselves from the riff-raff. He studied them as they halted a few steps onto the scruffy blue runner.
“We’re here to see Varr,” Lapis said.
He pushed from the wall. “Are y’ now?”
He sounded like a Stone Streets guttershank who wormed his way into a decent job. Good for him. “Yes, thank you.”
He shuffled down the short hall and to the dark-stained double doors at the end. He pounded on one. “Summun t’ see Varr,” he shouted. She winced; too loud, for the hallway and the time of day. She did not understand the muffled reply, but the doors swung open and a man wearing Lord Adrastos’s rose guard uniform with gold trim rose from a desk placed just to the side of the entry. Pages littered it, and the scattering of pens indicated he had other work to do.
“And who shall I say is calling?” he asked in a monotone voice.
“Melanthe and Ciaran.”
She thought she saw the flicker of recognition at Ciaran’s name, and he hustled away.
“Y’know Varr?” the first guard asked idly, staring after the other one before slowly regarding them again.
“We’ve met,” Lapis said. Her chest twinged in nervous fear; what would he do, when he saw her? Would he stare in shock? Would he even recognize her? He might yell. Varr yelling was a sight to behold; muscular man towering over the target of his displeasure, his deep, booming voice as potent as his enormous fist. He intimidated with his height and build, and his no-nonsense air, coupled with black hair and beard and intense greyish-brown eyes, proved too menacing for most.
For most, but not her. Calanthe and Tiege had feared him, but Lapis always considered him gentle and kind, an uncle who read her stories when he visited. She made certain to watch him practice his martial techniques when he and Midir stayed at Nicodem. She sat on the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the dusty ring and stared, rapt, at his movements. He, as much as Patch, influenced her decision to become a chaser, however unintentional.
She tipped her hood back and fluffed at her hair, the nervousness riding her, hard. Why had Faelan decided he only trusted her? Brander and Sherridan would have made the trip as easily. He must want her to meet with Varr and Midir again, though she had no idea why he pushed. Did he not realize her emotional difficulties? Did he not realize that, sooner rather than later, she would break?
The sound of heavy boots striking a wooden floor whose carpet could not muffle the sound echoed to them. She fought not to throw up as he walked into view, as confident and stern as she remembered.
He wore stiff brown leather pants and a teal tunic that reached his thighs, a belt haphazardly tied below his belly that threaded through a thick longsword sheath, and a long brown leather vest with several pockets and one stout button that held it together. As a child, she had investigated those pockets thoroughly and delighted in the strange devices she discovered. He had laughed at her inquisitiveness and even shown her how some of the items worked. Most were common things, but the small bits of wondrous tech that flashed, or beeped, or grew warm at her touch, always attracted her.
The odd, concerned frown darkening his face completely disappeared when he focused on her. He stopped and stared, startling the two guards, his mouth falling open in shock.
“Melanthe,” he whispered.
She had not planned to cry, but she did. She had not expected him to cry, and by the flabbergasted stares of the guards, neither had they. She wrapped her arms as far around him as they could go and buried herself into his chest as she had as a child, finding a warm comfort there when childish fears overcame her sense. He clutched her too tight, and she gasped for air hard enough he loosened his hold—slightly.
“Melanthe.” His voice broke.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered. She could think of nothing else.
He pushed back and settled his large palm against her cheek. “You lived?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “Only Lady Ailis knew.”
He bowed his head as more tears came. “If . . . if I had known . . .”
“You and Midir aren’t exactly easy to track down.”
He huffed with sad laughter. “No.” He set his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “Does your brother and uncle know?”
“Faelan found out a couple of days ago. I don’t think Ulfrik’s here yet.”
“We’ve a message from Faelan to Midir,” Ciaran said quietly. Varr snuffled and straightened to his full height; despite having grown, she only reached to the middle of his chest.
“Come,” he said, waving his hand backwards.
They left the stunned guards behind. Hopefully they regained their senses before someone else showed up.
Varr guided them to the end of the hallway and through a couple of rooms before reaching a grand reception area. It contained plush sunset-blue furniture and carpets, vine-decorated wooden tables, end tables and chairs, all stained a dark walnut. Gold flakes and ornamental blue flowers marched down the deep brown wallpaper. The gold-flecked brown marble fireplace matched the animal-themed statuary and the floor vases holding long-stemmed, blue and purple blooms. Landscapes in outrageously brilliant hues, especially compared to the rest of the room, filled the upper walls.
Patch.
He sat in one of the couches, his feet planted on the coffee table and shedding dirt upon the surface, glaring moodily at the tips of his boots and holding a flask.
Patch. When her brother told her he escorted rebels to Jiy, she never anticipated he meant Midir.
She jumped to the table just as he took a drink and slammed her hands, palm down, onto the surface.
“Hey, AETHON!”
The ass, he spit the drink all over his boots, the table, her. Pissed, she reared back, hands out, looked at the splatter, and rounded her leg up, planning to ram her foot into his upper arm. He caught her boot as he hacked, which, she supposed, she should have anticipated, but it threw her off and she windmilled her arms to keep her balance.
Varr helpfully steadied her as Ciaran laughed.
Patch let her go and staggered up, heading towards a hallway lit by oil sconces, coughing. Standing just to the side, eyes only for her, was Midir.
She remembered his extravagant clothing the most, and it startled her, he wore a simple but soft, long-sleeved cobalt shirt with plain black cuffs, black pants and comfy shoes. No elaborately embroidered designs in gold thread, no tooled boots, no jeweled coat, no rings and necklaces. Even his black hair reflected a plainer man, being bound back in a loose tail rather than styled with palmfuls of goopy product. His green eyes, sharp and intense in a thinner face, remained the same.
“Melanthe.” He smiled, and the tears shocked her. She swallowed as Varr set her upright and bowed; he immediately waved his hand and walked to her, shaking his head.
“After your family died, I decided the pomp no longer reflected me,” he told her. “I think I’m happier for it.” He settled a hand on her shoulder, his eyes roaming her face, her hair. “I’d say you look like your mother, but truthfully, you look like Melanthe.”
She wiped at her face before she hugged him. He held her far tighter than she anticipated, and she hoped she did not bring too many terrible memories to the surface. Just her presence would remind him about how her family died, and on her best days, she never wished to think on it.
“I’m so happy you survived,” he whispered. “Does your brother and uncle know?”
“Faelan does, Ulfrik isn’t here yet.”
He pushed gently away, then placed a hand to her too-hot cheek, as Varr had. “I’ve two children now,” he told her. “My little girl is a lot like you, getting into trouble with every breath.”
The bodyguard laughed and she felt oddly morose.
Midir jerked his head to the hallway Patch took. “There’s a bathroom you can use to wash up,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she whispered before she scurried away.
Patch was wiping his face with a thick towel as she entered the spacious, brown-tiled room with a ceramic tub large enough for Varr, a flushable toilet, running water, and a clean, crisp soap scent. He looked at her with his one intense sky-blue eye, then flipped his pale golden locks from his face with a sharp jerk of his head. He wore tight, mottled black pants and a sleeveless shirt with a high collar, an outfit that warned the House he was in a mood and to leave him be.
“Aethon?” he whispered, his deep voice harsh, but she detected the shock. He shook his head and tossed her the towel; she dowsed it under the faucet and wiped at the wet spots. “Lapis?”
“Faelan told me after Lord Adrastos met with us.”
“You met with Lord Adrastos?” Patch eyed her skeptically. She supposed it should not surprise her he knew the man.
“He sort of introduced himself after I helped Sir Armarandos beat off a hit job by Guard Superior Nevid—”
“You helped Armarandos against Nevid?”
“Yep. And Lord Adrastos got the message to me the next day about being staked by the underground because I’m supposed to be partners with someone named Aethon. I didn’t know who that was, and the guard thinks the underground’s made a mistake. Lord Adrastos said he’s going to meet with the underbosses about it.”
Patch jerked a hand through his bangs, bewildered. “That’s . . . I haven’t been gone that long.”
“Oh, there’s more.”
He settled his hands over hers and she stopped trying to drive the towel into her shirt. She paused and watched the thin fingers, struggling to push the rush of helpless dread down into the pit of her emotions, where it belonged. “More?”
She snuffled before she sternly firmed her reaction to the night, the last few days, her life. He wrapped her in a tight and warm embrace, his hand slipping through her hair and laying against the back of her head. He settled his lips against her forehead and did not move, the solid rock she craved to steady her legs and her feelings. She clung to him because he never turned from her, and while it might embarrass him to have her so needy before Varr and Midir and whichever servants and guards were there, he would swallow it and comfort her.
“You’ve reunited with Faelan.”
“He told me he guessed.” She sounded raw; too much crying. “And since you knew—”
“Lapis—”
She shook her head, digging her cheek into his shoulder. “You should have told me.”
“I should have,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t. Not after listening to you relive the raid night after night in your nightmares. I didn’t want you to keep remembering once the sun rose and feel obliged to discuss it with me. I wanted to give you a safe time, when you didn’t have to think about it.”
She dug her hands into the towel. She had not thought much about why he kept the secret because she did not want to know the answer. That he recognized her need, one she never voiced but desperately needed, soothed and enraged her simultaneously. Why could she not rattle her emotions like dice in a cup, throw, and pick the most appropriate ones? But no, she had to smash them all together and wade through the remains, uncertain, searching, despairing.
“Drinks ‘r up!” Varr called.
She looked at Patch; he did not seem as annoyed as she might anticipate. “You know Varr and Midir, too.”
“I trained with Varr,” he told her. She poorly covered her surprise. “Before . . . well, before. I had met Midir. He basically went into hiding after Gall killed your family, and while Faelan gave me a note or two to take to him, we didn’t interact much. He knows me though, and Varr vouched for me, so I got called up to escort them into Jiy.” He shrugged. “It was a boring exercise of staying least-in-sight on a busy street.”
That sounded very much like Patch, underplaying the danger. Lapis settled the towel over the hook with exaggerated care and headed back to the room. He trailed her, his hand on her waist, a warm, steady, comforting touch. Had he realized how much she needed it?
