Everyone in Cagmar is talking about the attacks. The trollis adolescents were savagely murdered in the middle of unclaimed, barren land. It had to be an act of war, with such a gruesome message left. The trollis mobilize, their movements a little quicker, their conversations a little lower as I pass them on the streets. More and more occupy the training grounds, including Perg. His injuries haven’t fully healed, but he’s so bent on regaining his strength, on proving himself to those around him, that he pushes himself beyond what I think wise. But he won’t hear otherwise from me. In fact, it’s hard to find him now that he’s left his bedrest. Were I not so occupied in my own matters, I might be hurt by the neglect.
Between my shifts with the slayers and Azmar’s putting in more time in Engineering to avoid his sister’s anger, I don’t see him as much, either, save for when he guards my door. But he spends the nights out in the hallway instead of on my floor. Our conversation is still easy, but I worry he regrets returning my affection so readily. I don’t visit him in Engineering, either, not wanting to attract Unach’s attention. I have to be absolutely careful with Azmar; no one can know our secret, no matter what. Not only for my own well-being, but for his as well. I will not do or say anything to jeopardize his standing, his caste, nor his relationships, even at the expense of my own heart.
Six days after our kiss, Azmar stays late in Engineering again, and Unach has an evening shift at the south dock. I let myself into their apartment anyway, to cook dinner. Unach, at least, should be home within the hour. I set two bowls of lecker stew on the table for them.
Then I notice, through Azmar’s door, that his belongings are gone. A quick pang stabs my chest, and I stand in the doorway, looking at the empty space. The bed where I recovered from the attack outside the school, the small table where a mountain of his sheaves usually sit, and the cushion in the corner are gone. Azmar isn’t a materialistic person—few in Cagmar can be—but the room looks stark without his effects.
The walls still smell like him, white cedarwood and ginger.
I lick my lips, missing him, hating the uncertainty wiggling in my stomach. If he does regret me . . . will this be it? Will he still guard my door? Could I petition to take this room, even though I’m human? At least then I’d have Unach close.
I’ll have to ask him. Taking my dinner and newly filled pitcher of water, I make my way to my narrow chamber, checking the shadows, searching for Grodd or other lurking threats. I see only a Nethens, who regards me indifferently before slipping into her own room at the end of the corridor.
Azmar doesn’t come at his usual time. I wait for him, burning a precious candle, pacing the length of the cramped room, checking, double-checking, and triple-checking my lock. Azmar is not one to turn a cold shoulder to his problems. But perhaps he would, where a human is concerned.
The room feels a little darker, a little colder, despite the exercise of my pacing. Sitting on my bed, I pull the fur he gave me around my shoulders and am about to blow out the candle when a soft, blessedly familiar knock sounds at my door. I’m both relieved and terrified, though this kind of fear isn’t the same as my usual companion. It threatens a different kind of hurt.
I pull the bolt and open the door. The faint light spills over Azmar, though his shoulders, neck, and head remain in shadow.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I whisper.
He tilts his head, his expression soft. “I would not leave you, Lark.”
And as though a magician snapped his fingers, all my fears and worries dissipate, like water spilled on hot stone in the heat of the afternoon sun. The relief escapes me in a swift breath, and Azmar’s lip ticks up at it.
“I have a safer place for you to sleep, if you’re not too tired,” he offers, his voice quiet as the canyon itself.
I perk up. He got his apartment. I’m not sure where Centra housing is. But it makes sense, suddenly, why he is so late. He wasn’t standing guard for his sister’s hired help. He was coming to escort her away. The fewer witnesses, the better.
I slip inside to blow out the candle and grab my bag. The pitcher, the dishes, and the rest can stay, for now. I follow Azmar into the dimness, walking beside him at first, but when we pass the lift, I fall a few steps behind to show deference to any others who pass by. Azmar glances back at me, a whisper of a frown on his lips, but he knows as well as I that this is safer. I will protect him.
But I want him desperately.
We take a steep road above the trade works to the east side of Cagmar, skimming by the guard barracks on the way. We pass one other trollis, who pays little attention to either of us. We take a lift up. It opens onto a floor identical to all the others, though the doors are spaced more widely apart than in my wing.
Azmar left the door unlocked and goes straight for the handle, pushing it open. It’s dark within. I slip inside first; he follows and pulls the door shut behind him. His heat whispers past me, and a moment later, the flame of a candle sparks into existence. The glow is faint, but it’s just as bright as the stony corridors outside this time of night.
The apartment is nice. It’s smaller than Unach’s by half, but it’s only meant for one Centra to occupy. No interior walls separate anything. The bed is pressed into the far corner, near a chimney that lets out the faint smell of lignite smoke, despite a fire not being lit. I imagine the chimney connects to other rooms below and above this one. The kitchen space is immediately inside the door. There’s a washbasin and some shelves, and a familiar rug lies in the center, taken from Azmar’s other apartment. Overlapping it is the cushion from his room.
“That was quick.” I pinch the strap of my bag with one hand, then run my palm across the kitchen counter, which is only a foot wide. “It’s nice.”
Azmar smirks. “It looks like every other room on the Centra floors, but I suppose it is.”
I meet his eyes, tasting a grin on my lips. “Did you design them?”
“Hardly.” He throws a bolt on the door and strides into the room, stretching one arm overhead. Two pencils poke out from his hair—I wonder if he forgot about them. “These were constructed long before I was born.”
I press my hand into the smooth stone wall, a new heaviness dragging on me. “Is Unach still angry with you?”
“Unach is always angry.” He sits on the edge of the cushion, elbows on his knees. “She’ll forgive me eventually.”
“Kesta may take your spot.”
He appears completely disinterested by the information. “Grodd won’t find you here.”
My cheeks warm. “He may have given up the chase. I haven’t seen him, even in the market.”
Azmar shakes his head. “I don’t know him well, but I don’t trust him.”
Unease bubbles in me, less about Grodd than about the fact that there is one bed in this room. I’ve never shared a bed with a man, not even Andru. As I cross over to Azmar, thoughts of that bed—of what we could do in that bed—flit through my mind, bringing heat to my skin. But I remind myself that trollis only mate with bloodstones. Between Unach’s and Perg’s talk of it, that rule appears strict.
Azmar stands when I near and clasps my shoulders in his emerald hands. I look up at him and place my open hands on his chest.
“I was worried you regretted me.” It comes to mind, after I’ve spoken, that the name of the trollis god was embedded in my words.