Page 35 of The War and Deceit Series omnibus

Pushing away from the table, I leave my barely touched porridge and walk towards the door, hearing him sigh and begin to follow me.

“Clarissa, where are you going?”

Frustration pulses through me like I’ve never felt before, and with an anger I didn’t know I possessed, I turn again to face him.

“Whatever the priests have planned for me will be far more pleasant than this conversation.” My words lash out like a whip, and they almost seem to hurt him physically as he winces, falling back down into his seat, rubbing his hand over his face, messing up his hair in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters behind his hand, before dropping it and looking at me with his own frustration clear in his blue eyes. “I just feel so useless. I want to help, but Ican’t. I’m tied in ways I can’t even begin to explain.”

Watching him, I can almost feel his self-loathing as he leans back in his chair, scowling at the pile of papers at his side. Do I trust him? Yes, despite what I said to him, I do trust him. It’s a fragile, newly formed trust, and I still half expect someone to jump around the corner and tell me this is some sort of elaborate joke. I wait by the door for a moment longer, but with a quiet sigh I return to the table, taking my seat opposite him and picking up my glass.

“Okay,” I say softly, not bothering to expand or explain, and from the look of quiet relief he gives me, I know he feels the same.

“Okay,” he replies, going back to his breakfast.

The walk to meet Priest Rodrick is tense and silent, the only noise is the clicking of our shoes on the stone floor, almost in time to the beat of my thundering heart. Once we reach the chapel, Grayson pulls the priest to the side and has a tense, heated conversation before he storms out with barely a goodbye. Whatever the priest said to Grayson really wound him up, and from the smug grin plastered on his face, he knows it.

For once, the priest is silent as he leads me deeper into the castle, but from the sick, satisfied glances he keeps shooting me, I can tell he is enjoying my discomfort. Discomfort which turns to fear with each step taking us closer to the elf. Part of my brain is screaming at me to turn and run. After all, I’m not wearing chains anymore, I could take my chances with the guards. Dressed like this, they would pause before reaching for their crossbows, but…no, I’ve seen the guards train, they are ruthless—shoot first, ask questions later. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Go.” Rodrick’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I realise we’ve reached the hidden staircase. Swallowing the bile that’s threatening to make an appearance, I take a deep breath and step into the hidden alcove, and slowly start to descend the stairs. When I reach the bottom, the same guards lead me into the locked underground room, and the roaring sound of the forge and a hammer hitting metal greets me, a wave of heat making sweat bead on my skin.

I debate not going into the room, knowing I’m going to end up getting hurt either way, but the thought that they could take me away from Grayson if I don’t comply has me stepping over the threshold. There are some things worse than death, and Iknow Grayson is saving me from many of those, not to mention I’m beginning to like the mage.

As soon as I enter the room, the pounding of the hammer stops, and although part of me is screaming not to do it, I raise my eyes to see the elf is glaring back at me. It’s a long distance, so I shouldn’t be able to see his expression, but I canfeelhis disgust. Scurrying into the cubby, I collect my supplies and take a moment to breathe and calm my racing heart.

Returning to the same place in the room from the other day, I ignore the dagger-like stare of the elf and frown down at the floor. There is a patch where the marble of the floor is starting to peer through, but there’s still muck coating it and the surrounding area, so I set to my task. Last time I mopped the floor first and ended up turning the dirt to mud, which made my task that much harder, so I decide to sweep the floor first, removing as much of the surface dirt as possible. However, this means I have to leave my little corner of relative safety.

You’ve survived in situations far worse than this. He’s a prisoner, just like you. Get on with it,my inner voice chimes, and I realise that it’s right—Ihavesurvived worse than this. The elf might hate me, but he hates the guards more.

Gripping onto my broom as if it’s a weapon, I begin to sweep, refusing to let him terrorise me. I’m acutely aware of his presence and ignore that tuggingpullI feel every time I’m near him. A couple of times I think I see him raise his hand to his chest, rubbing at a spot just under his collarbone, but every time I lift my head to look, he’s studiously ignoring me.

After the first hour, I realise I’m waiting for something to happen—what, I’m not sure—but when it doesn’t come I find myself falling into a trance. The work is menial, I don’t really need to focus, and as I switch from sweeping to mopping the rest of the dirt ground into the floor, I switch off. Although as a slave you’re always alert, waiting for the next task or punishment, youbegin to tune out of the tasks, your mind taking you somewhere more pleasant. You have to, otherwise the reality of your life would drive you mad. So although I’m aware of the elf, that pull in my chest telling me where he is even when I’m not looking, my mind starts to drift.

I lug my second bucket of clean water over to the spot I’ve been cleaning when I start humming under my breath. It’s quiet, and I’m far enough from the elf that he shouldn’t be able to hear, especially over all the noise he’s making as he pounds the metal against the anvil. I don’t know where I learned the song, perhaps from one of the other slaves, or from some long-lost part of my past, but it comforts me. If there are any words to it, I don’t know them, but the tune is lilting and always struck me as magical. When I hum it, I feel strong, protected, like I’ve got someone watching over me, and even if that’s all stuff I’ve made up in my head, it helps me through my days.

I’m so caught up in my task and the song that I don’t realise the ring of metal on metal has stopped. The elf seems to have a routine, putting the metal into the forge and then working it on the anvil only to repeat the whole process until it suits his standards, so it’s not unusual that the hammering halts. However, I should have noticed when he was quieter than usual.

“What are you singing?” I almost drop the mop when he speaks, my head jolting up so quickly that my neck screams in pain as I jerk a muscle. He’s watching me, his slanted, feline eyes tracking my every movement. I think about not responding, I don’t owe him anything, after all, but seeing his frustrated expression makes me pause. He doesn’t want to talk to me, that much is obvious, but he can’t hide his curiosity, and it’s clear to see that’s annoying him.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly.

I could elaborate, tell him that the song comes to me in my dreams, always when I’m at my lowest, like the Mother knows Ineed to hear it. But I don’t, I simply stare at him. I wish I wasn’t, but I can’t seem to pull my eyes from him. He’s shirtless, wearing only a leather sash that crosses over his chest with various tools hanging off it, his dark leggings hugging his legs. Tattoo’s cover his chest and back, some are words, all in a twisting font that seems to wrap around his body. I don’t recognise the letters as our own, so even if I could read, I still wouldn’t be able to understand what they say. On his back, he has a large tattoo of a huge, twisting tree. I want to see it up close, see the detail and run my fingers along the—

What are you thinking? He’s an elf, the enemy!my inner voice chides, and I rip my eyes away, lifting my mop once more as I drop my head, using my hair to hide the furious blush covering my cheeks.

“It’s one of the songs from the mountain tribes. I recognise it.” My mop stills, his words reverberating through me. The mountain tribes, formidable people who are used to living in harsh conditions. Their warriors are renowned for their ferocity in battle, and as a people they’re very protective of their women. How would I have learned a song from them? The Kingdom of Arhaven doesn’t have the best relationship with them, although I don’t know why. I once saw their party of dignitaries they sent to the peace talks several years ago. I had been scrubbing the ground in the front courtyard when they arrived, covered in furs and emitting a vibe that felt anything but peace-like.

Why is the elf telling me this? He doesn’t have to give me this information, I haven’t asked for it, so why would he do this? Frowning to myself, I continue with my task, my thoughts twisting with the new information I have, and the confusing elf who gave it to me. Silence stretches between us, and the shuffling of chains and banging of metal begins again, so I know the elf has returned to his work. I’m not sure how longwe continue like this for, but I have refilled my bucket of water several times before he speaks again.

“Your injuries—they’re healed?” Blinking at his sudden words, I realise I had zoned out, my thoughts completely caught up on the mountain people. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been fascinated by them, and now I find that I’ve been hearing their song in my darkest hours, it’s making me think.

I don’t reply, but I can feel his gaze burning into me, so I stop mopping and when I glance up, I see he’s watching me once again. His expression is confusing. Whilst his words were carefully neutral, like he was just asking about the weather, he looks angry, no, furious, enough so that I flinch away when his eyes flick up to meet mine. What have I done to invoke that kind of hatred? Is it because I’m human? Is it as simple as that?

Don’t play coy. You hate him because of his race as well, you shouldn’t be so surprised.Sure, we’re mortal enemies, but it’s not hate I feel towards him, I don’t know what I feel. Scared, anxious, curious… My feelings are just so tangled that it’s difficult for me to separate any of them. Does that make me a traitor to my own people?

I certainly don’t like him and don’t want to be around him, but that’s because of how he acts, not because of his race. Why should I blindly hate someone who hasn’t done anything to me just because we are told to?

I don’t know what he sees as I go through this thought process, as something in his face changes, almost a flash of surprise before he’s scowling again and turns away to work on his task.

---