The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

She stood rigid near the door, watching him as he started a fire in an iron stove. Seeing his hands, his arms, and the tilt of his head—something was so familiar. With the fire stoked, he turned and took a step toward her. Arista shrank until her back was against the door. He hesitated, then nodded. She recognized something in his eyes.

Reaching up, he drew back his hood and unwrapped the scarf. The face before her was painful to look at. Deformed and horribly scarred, it appeared to have melted into a patchwork of red blotches. One ear was missing, along with his eyebrows and much of his hair. His mouth lacked the pale pink of lips. His appearance was at once horrid and yet so welcomed she could find no words to express herself. She broke into tears of joy and threw her arms around him, hugging as tightly as her strength allowed.

“I hope this will teach you not to run off without me, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her.

She continued to cry and squeeze, her head buried in his chest. Slowly his arms crept up returning her embrace. She looked up and he brushed strands of tear-soaked hair from her face. In more than a decade as her protector, he never touched her so intimately. As if realizing this, Hilfred straightened up and gently escorted her to a chair before reaching for his scarf.

“You’re not going back out?” she asked fearfully.

“No,” he replied, his voice dropped a tone. “The city will be filled with guards. It won’t be safe for either of us to venture in public for some time. We’ll be all right here. There are no occupied buildings around and I rented this flat from a blind man.”

“Then why are you covering up?”

He paused a moment looking at the scarf. “The sight of my face—it makes people—uneasy, and it is important that you feel safe and comfortable. That’s my job remember?”

“And you do it very well, but your face doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“You don’t find me…unpleasant to look at?”

Arista smiled warmly. “Hilfred, your face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”





***




The flat Hilfred stayed in was very small, just a single room and a closet. The floor and walls were rough pine planks weathered gray and scuffed smooth from wear. There was a rickety table, three chairs, and a ship’s hammock. The single window was hazy from the buildup of ocean salt and admitted only a muted gray light. Hilfred refused to burn a single candle after dark for fear of attracting attention. The small stove kept the drafty shack tolerably warm at night, but before dawn it was extinguished for fear of someone seeing the smoke.

For two days they stayed in the shack listening to the wind buffet the roof shingles and howl over the stovepipe. Hilfred made soup from clams and fish he bought from the old blind man. Other than that, neither of them left the little room. Arista slept a lot. It seemed like years since she had felt safe and her body surrendered to exhaustion.

Hilfred kept her covered and crept around the flat cursing to himself whenever he made a noise. On the night of the second day, she woke when he dropped a spoon. He looked at her sheepishly and cringed at the sight of her open eyes.

“Sorry, I was just warming up some soup. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you,” she told him.

“Thank you?”

“Yes, isn’t that what you say when someone does something for you?”

He raised what would have been his eyebrows. “I’ve been your servant for more than ten years, you’ve never once said thank you.”

It was the truth, and it hurt to hear it. What a monster she had been.

“Well overdue then, don’t you think? Let me check your bandage.”

“After you eat, Your Highness.”

She looked at him and smiled. “I have missed you so,” she said. Surprise crossed his face. “You know, there were times growing up that I hated you. Mostly after the fire—for not saving my mother, but later I hated the way you always followed me. I knew you reported my every move. It’s a terrible thing for a teenage girl to have a teenage boy silently following her every step, watching her eat, watching her sleep, knowing her most intimate secrets. You were always silent, always watchful. Did you know I had a crush on you when I was fourteen?”

“No,” he said, curtly.

“You were what? A dashing seventeen? I tried everything to make you jealous. I chased after all the squires at court, pretending they wanted me, but none of them did. And you…you were such the loathingly perfect gentleman. You stood by stoically, and it infuriated me. I would go to bed humiliated, knowing that you were standing just outside the door.

“When I was older I treated you like furniture—still, you treated me as you always did. During the trial—” she noticed Hilfred flinch, and decided not to finish the thought. “And afterward I thought you believed what they said and hated me.”

Hilfred put down the spoon and sighed.

“What?” she asked, suddenly fearful.

He shook his head and a small sad laugh escaped his lips. “It’s nothing, Your Highness.”

“Hilfred, call me Arista.”

He raised his brow once more. “I can’t. You’re my princess, and I am your servant. That is how it has always been.”

“Hilfred you’ve known me since I was ten. You’ve followed me day and night. You’ve seen me early in the morning. You’ve seen me drenched in sweat from fevers. I think you can call me by my first name.”

He looked almost frightened and resumed stirring the pot.

“Hilfred?”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. I cannot call you by your given name.”

“What if I command you to?”

“Do you?”

“No.” Arista sighed. “What is it with men who won’t use my name?”

Hilfred glanced at her.

“I only knew him briefly,” she explained, not knowing why. She had never spoken about Emery to anyone before. “I’ve lived so much of my life alone. It never bothered me before and there’s never been anyone—until recently.”

Hilfred looked down and stirred the soup.

“He was killed. Since then, I have felt this hole. The other night I was so scared. I thought—no, I was certain—I was going to my death. I lost hope and then you appeared. I could really use a friend—and if you called me by—”

“I can’t be your friend, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her, coldly.

“Why not?”

There was a long pause. “I can’t tell you that.”

A loud silence filled the room.

Arista stood, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. She stared at Hilfred’s back until it seemed her stare caused him to turn and face her. When he did, he avoided looking in her eyes. He set out bowls on the table. She stood before him, blocking his way.

“Hilfred, look at me.”

“The soup is done.”

“I’m not huy. Look at me,” Arista repeated.

“I don’t want it to burn.”

“Hilfred.”

He said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the floor.

“What have you done that you can’t face me?”

He did not answer.