Page 32 of Tortured

“You’re still bleeding.” She sighs, closes her eyes, and puts her hands over his wound. This time, she doesn’t play around while she heals him with her light. I ignore Meuric’s murmurs of discomfort and snoop through the wardrobe for new pants.

A half hour later, after Meuric and I are healed and he slips Kitrena a hefty amount of coin, we are off. This time, working our way through town. Many people nod or bow as we pass. Some of them mumble “my lord” or “Lord Meuric” in greeting.

He’s quite popular.

Lord Meuric greets people in return and smiles and throws stray balls back to children, so I don’t get a sense of all-consuming malice from him as I did from the men who came into the tavern.

I’m also getting a sense for the people in the area. There are normal humans. Those are almost too easy for me to differentiate from nonhumans.

The humans are meek. They scurry out of the way of the half-emrys. They try to stay invisible. It’s almost as if a line has been drawn, and instead of between classes, it’s between species.

The half-emrys are getting easier for me to tell. Some of them have dragon stones, which make spotting them obvious, but most of them do not. I can’t discern them with my light the way Niawen could have. Telling them apart is done chiefly in the way they carry themselves.

There is no difference between humans and half-emrys in coloring, height, or build. Most people have tan to very dark skin. And hair from every shade of brown to black or red.

No blonds.

That’s unusual. I’m grateful my hair is a sandy brown and I have eyes to match. I am definitely on the light side, but I can blend in.

Except they all know I am a seafarer.

Meuric doesn’t make small talk as we walk. I’m not sure why I follow him, but something tells me that if I try to refuse him, he won’t accept no for an answer.

Outside of town, we stop just outside a barn. The air is thick with the scent of manure, and a few cows low at the fence.

Meuric sighs as he raps on the barn door. Soft moans reach my ears. “She’s at it again.” Meuric pounds on the door.

A man inside screams. I draw my blades as my body becomes tense with fight. Meuric pounds again on the barn door, perfectly calm.

I stare him down with wide questioning eyes.

“Relax. Riahn will be with us in a second. She’s taking care of business,” Meuric says.

“I don’t like what that implies.” I relax my stance but do not put away my blades.

“It’s a little different from what you might imagine.” Meuric leans against the fence and crosses his arms over his chest. “But it’s somewhat similar to what you think.”

“Why am I here?” I ask, finally.

“Your skills need honing, and I need a new recruit.”

“You want me to work for you? You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough,” Meuric says.

“I don’t even know who I’d be working for.”

“Me. That’s all you need to know.”

“And you’re someone of great importance, Lord Meuric,” I growl.

He smirks. “That’s right.” He shakes his head. “I guess you’d find out soon enough, the longer you lived in Morvith. I’m the empress’s commander. Her brother. You can’t get a better position than working under my command for my special unit.”

“A special unit doing what?”

The barn door flies open. A woman emerges, dressed in soft brown leather. Pauldrons are strapped across her shoulders above a tight leather top that leaves her navel exposed. Something written in a foreign script is tattooed into her biceps and peeks out from just under her left pauldron.

“Assassins. We’re a special unit of assassins just for his high and mighty butt.” She juts her chin toward Meuric while adjusting a sword at her hip.

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