Page 16 of Romancing Rem'eb

“I will visit her again tonight,” I say. “Bring her more food.” Talk to her again. Gaze into her eyes. Hope that she smiles.

“Mm.”

His lack of enthusiasm is bothering me. This is his plan. “Would you prefer I journey to consult the oracle? Seek her advice?”

“Pah. The oracle speaks nonsense.” He shakes his head and drains his goblet, and then pours himself more drink. The strong smell of sweet fruit and fermented mushrooms drifts through the air and I frown. My father has been drinking too much lately. He does it when he feels troubled by the issues in the village. I suppose tonight it is because of Tia the Stranger, but knowing that does not ease my concern. My father must keep his wits sharp if he is to rule us.

“The oracle has good advice,” I say, even though I do not like the idea of leaving Tia alone. But going to the oracle could also give me the opportunity to steal Tia away, to get her back to the surface.

I am not ready for it, but I must consider it.

“Do not bother with the oracle.” He takes a hefty swig from his cup. “If you cannot resonate to a female when you are the only one visiting her, it will never happen. Just keep going to her. Touch her. Woo her. Encourage her khui.” Bel’eb the Mighty sets his goblet down. “But not tonight. You must continue your duties as normal even though she is here.”

My duties? Does he truly expect me to go fishing and help with the food harvesting while Tia sits in the dark and waits for me? It feels an impossible thing to ask. Even now I want to go back to her side. “How can I possibly focus on anything? You have stolen a stranger from above. A different kind of stranger! A beautiful, intelligent, female one. And now I am supposed to pretend nothing is happening?”

“That is correct,” my father tells me in a tight voice. “You must act as if nothing is amiss. You must pretend nothing in your world has changed, simply because the rebels watch everything I do closely. They watch everyone I speak with, everyone I encounter. That extends to you, my son. Or do you want the rebels to know she is here? Do you want them to rise up and free her? Take her away from you before you have even had the chance to resonate to her?”

I grit my teeth. The thought of another approaching Tia makes my tail twitch furiously. “No.”

“Then you do as I say.” He narrows his eyes at me. “And be grateful.”

Grateful. I have many emotions in me right now, but I’m not certain if any of them are gratitude. I am angry at him, worried that he breaks the rules he established, the ones that the rebels despise so. I am angry at how Tia is being treated. I am angry that she is even here…and elated at the same time.

And because I am already growing obsessed with her, I know I will do as he says and somehow go about my day as if normal…because I do not want So’ran the Bitter to discover her and steal her away. “Then I am late to go fishing.”

“You are. You should go. And hope that you have better luck tomorrow. Give her the pink-capped mushrooms. Those have been known to encourage a reluctant khui.”

Drug her? Again? I think not. Appalled at my father’s suggestion, I hide my reaction and give him a stiff nod instead. There’s no point in arguing with him. I exit his quarters, passing by his guards without meeting their curious gazes. For all that I hate his instructions, Bel’eb the Mighty is right about one thing. The Village of Those Who Remain is smaller than it has ever been, and everyone knows everyone. No one can spit without the entire cavern hearing about it.

I must be twice as careful if I am to conceal Tia’s presence.

To keep her as mine and only mine.

Even though I want nothing more than to return to Tia’s side, I force myself to go down to the lake with my fishing equipment. My thoughts are full of Tia, and the stranger R’jaal who even now resonates to another female. Are they together? Will she be crushed to hear he has mated to another? I want to protect her from that even as jealousy eats at my thoughts.

I make my way down to the calm surface of the underground lake, hopping easily down the rocky shelving that leads to the water’s edge. The other fishers are there, casting their lures, and all glance up as I approach, the ripples of their coloring acting as silent acknowledgment.

“Where have you been?” Wen’dit the Fisher calls out, eyeing me from his spot on the shore.

I have to be careful what I say. Wen’dit is friendly with So’ran the Bitter. He might even be one of the rebels. So I grimace and rub my abdomen, feigning illness. “Gut sickness. I am better now.”

His brows go up but he nods. Gut sickness is just about the only sickness one can claim without making others panicked. Everyone has had a bad mushroom from time to time, or a bad bite of lizard meat. It happens. It is other sicknesses that will stir unrest and make word travel from home to home.

Fishing, at least, allows me to settle in and relax. There is a favorite spot I have down near the water’s edge, and I move there, letting my camouflage change the shade of my skin to match the rocks I stand upon. I bait my line with remnants of fish from several meals ago, weight the cord, then cast it into the water. I allow it to trail along the bottom of the lake itself, looking for the fish that use scent rather than sight, the ones with the tiny, useless legs tucked under their bodies, and the white, milky eyes. I cast my line, running it slowly along the bottom, then cast it again.

As I do, I think about Tia. I play over our interaction repeatedly, devouring every morsel I can think of. Her clothes were crude. Furs, I think, from creatures above. She dresses in their skins, and apparently does not dress very warmly. Does the cold not affect her like it does our people? Or was she taken before she had a chance to properly dress? She was excited over the prospect of a loom, so she must know how to make fabric. But if that is the case, why not make better clothes for herself?

I ponder the small things about her. The strange riot of her mane, the tiny holes in her earlobes, the fact that she only has two arms and no tail. It helps pass the time, and when I’ve caught two large bottom-skimmers, I head back to the center of the village and hand them over to the cooks.

“Hungry?” one asks, offering me a bowl of soup.

Shaking my head, I gesture at my stomach. “Gut sickness.”

The cook—Mhen’dar the Scraper—gives me a sympathetic look and then flings one of the fish atop his cutting table, pulling out his prized metal knife and getting to work scaling the fish. He does not ask for more details, and it makes me uncomfortable. Did he believe my lie? Or should I tell him more to make it seem legitimate?

“My father has a potion,” I blurt out. “For my stomach.”

Mhen’dar looks up from his task—the one he takes his name from—and stops his descaling. “What?”

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