“How’s that?” Elam asked, as he climbed back up and closed the trapdoor.
Tollan sighed. There were a million reasons, but in this case, he had one thing in mind. “I’m not the king. Not really. I don’t have the mark anymore, and everyone thinks I’m responsible for my father’s death. No one at the castle will listen to me, and I’ve got no assets to help rescue my brother, if there’s even anything left to rescue. I’ve been trying to do the right thing, but it’s useless. It’s all pricked.”
Elam shrugged. “I learned a long time ago that the lines between right and wrong aren’t worth paying attention to. Those of you from Above think you’re in the right, that your hands are clean. But those of us from Under—the ones lining your pockets—we know that there’s no magic wall that divides us. We’re all just doing what we can to get by. We hope that at the end of the day, when we lay down, at least our hands don’t look too dirty.”
Tollan stared down at his own hands. After his night spent on the lawn, his search in the alley for Wince’s coin, his escape through the tunnels—there was a map of filth laid out on his hands. He chuckled ruefully. “At least there’s no blood.”
Elam’s gaze softened. “Some days, that’s the best you can hope for.”
Sobered, Tollan nodded. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I’ve just told you that I’m not really the king. So, will you call me Tollan?”
“As you wish,” he said softly.
Tollan turned to see what was keeping Wince, but he felt the Dalinn’s eyes following him long after he’d left the room.
Hours passed. Sitting off to the side of the wide north-facing window, they took turns watching the safe house. They raided the larder and played a game of cards. Elam won handily, and Tollan turned out his pockets. “I guess I’ll have to owe you,” Tollan said.
“I look forward to cashing that in,” Elam replied.
Tollan turned away, unsure what Elam meant—or what he wanted him to mean. An embarrassed silence settled over the room until Wince whispered, “Someone’s leaving!”
Elam crawled across the floor, rising up just enough to peer over the sill. Too curious to wait, Tollan followed suit. A man was standing in the front garden of the safe house, arms crossed in a stance that spoke of frustration or anger. He began to pace the walk—running his hand through his hair and occasionally stopping to stare off into the distance.
“What’s got you so irked, Devery?” Elam whispered, never taking his eyes off the man.
“That’s Devery Nightsbane?” Tollan asked.
Elam nodded, his mouth turned downward. “Yes, and he is anxious about something.”
“How do you know?” Wince whispered, his back still pressed to the wall beside the window.
“I just know. How do you know where the sun rises?”
“Some things you just know,” Tollan answered.
“Exactly,” Elam said. “And the last person anyone wants to meet is an anxious Devery Nightsbane.”
In the dark of the root cellar, Tollan could barely breathe. If he did, he drew in the scent of Elam—who lay so near to him, Tollan could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck. The scent of the prayer keeper had driven him to the point of distraction, and he could not push aside his desire to touch him, here in the dark where it was safe. He would have never dared, in the light of day, in the world Above.
Fighting the urge to flee, Tollan found he had only two options—to give up entirely, or to be brave. His decision made, he rolled over, his hand coming to rest very near Elam’s. His fingers were close enough that he could feel warmth radiating off Elam.
He heard Wince tossing once more and realized that Elam’s breathing was no longer even. He was awake. Long, empty moments in the dark spread out between them until Tollan’s finger brushed gently against Elam’s hand. Tollan held his breath, waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Elam stretched out, curling his fingers around Tollan’s trembling hand. Tollan gasped at his touch but said nothing, afraid to break the perfect sweetness of the moment. And soon, fingers intertwined with Tollan’s, Elam’s breathing steadied and the prayer keeper drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later Tollan awoke. Elam’s breathing still had the ring of slumber, and he heard Wince’s quiet snores. His hand, still clinging to Elam’s, was warm despite the chill of the cellar.
His heart hurt from too much grief, his shoulders ached from the stone floor on which they slept and his head throbbed from lack of sleep. He felt weary beyond his years. He longed for some sense of normalcy, a thread of familiarity in the unknown waters he found himself in. He longed to feel safe and at home. He knew he should let go of Elam’s hand, but he didn’t. It was the only safety he could find.
On the evening of their second day in Brighthold, Tollan and Wince were sitting in the sweltering attic of the manor house, their gazes fixed on the newly discovered view of Dockside. They had exhausted their desire for cards and dice games and had fallen into a watchful stupor.
A handful of people scuttled along the shore, their movements as fleeting and mysterious as that of an anthill. There was no telling whether the people there were friend or enemy, the distance was too great, but Tollan was infatuated with them as they went about their business.
Suddenly, beside him, Wince gasped. “Look,” he said, pointing away from the shore and into the depths of the Hadriak.
Tollan’s gaze followed where he indicated and his heart began to pound. There were ships coming, a whole fleet of ships. As he watched Tollan counted at least ten. Then, across the horizon, he saw the crimson sails of his mother’s ship. “Oh, Aegos,” he said, his mouth dry. “The pirates have come home.”
As he raced down the attic’s ladder and through the rooms of the manor’s top floor, Tollan pondered the arrival of the pirate fleet, and more personally important, his mother. Just days before, he had wished fervently for her return, but now all he felt was a nervous panic.
Without stopping to think, Tollan burst into the library, trembling with pent up energy.
“Ships!” he hissed, flailing his arm to point in the general vicinity of Dockside. “Ten, at least!” His hand struck a tall vase, which tumbled off its pedestal, hit the floor and shattered with enough noise to wake the dead.
“Oh, prick,” Elam moaned, turning back to the library window. He looked out the window with a pained expression before a hint of relief crossed his face. He held his hand up before the window and snapped his fingers twice in the same odd way he’d done to Gemma at the hospit.
Tollan cleared his throat, drawing Elam’s attention back to the library. “I’m sorry,” he said, bending to pick up a piece of the shattered vase. “Did someone see you?” His voice trembled slightly.
Elam moved toward where he knelt. “Devery was out there,” he said, bending to help Tollan pick up the pieces. “For good or ill, we’re not alone any longer.” His hand brushed Tollan’s, and their eyes met for a long moment as each of them leaned over the shards. “You were saying, about the ships?” Elam leaned closer, a soft, reckless smile on his lips. Tollan, eyes wide and heart pounding unevenly, leaned in, too. Tollan took a shaky breath. Their lips met. A thrill of excitement raced through Tollan as his lips parted slightly at the probe of Elam’s tongue.
“What are we going to do about those prickling boats?” Wince blurted, bursting into the room.
Tollan bent to examine the piece of vase in his hands, while Elam scooted quickly away. Neither one made eye contact with Wince, who stood in the doorway, mouth open and eyes wide.
“What in the Void happened to that vase?” Wince stammered. “I, um, I’ll go look for a broom in the kitchen.”
“Sorry, uh, ships!” Tollan said, before he, too, fled the library. His face was flush with desire and embarrassment. He felt both like he could fly, and also like he was drowning. Afraid to look back, he ran to find someplace to hide from Wince.