Page 25 of Cursed Shadows 1

Hairless beasts, these steeds are grey and leathery, their skin pulled too tight over sharp bones and lean muscles. Tails like fencing swords whip at their rears. Dorcha steeds, for land or sea—but die in the light.

Kelpies.

Instinct has my body recoiling from them, and I lean into Eamon’s side. He only squeezes my wrist and, as I look up at him, eases me with a small, amused smile.

‘Harmless’, he tells me with that glance.

Of course they are. I know this from my readings on them. They pose no threat to us, not unless they’re being ridden by adokkalf warrior in battle. But then, they are a threat to many other living creatures out in the dark lands.

I decide that my fear is misplaced and turn my gaze to the carriage closest to me. Human servants are already breaking formation and headed for the transport. I watch as they lug our trunks onto the roofs.

Then I chance a look at him.

Daxeel has his back to me as he grabs the saddle of his own skeletal steed and mounts in one swift, fluid move. The others do the same, until all three of them surround us in triangle formation—Daxeel at the front—and they each look around deep into the darkness.

I forget sometimes that they can see in this black world as clearly as we see in the light one.

But I can’t give it much thought before we’re ushered into the carriages by the servants.

And then we’re moving again.

I just can’t tell time here in the dark parts of the Midlands. So I don’t know quite how long the second carriage ride took to bring us to Comlar.

The carriages—two of them—roll to a stop in a large stone courtyard, and there are no embellishments garnishing the place. No fancy gemstones or silvers and golds or marble statues or fountains to decorate. It was built for training, for battle, for the Sacrament.

Hugging the courtyard is a three-levelled stronghold, but straight ahead, illuminated by the flamed torches pinned to the stone walls all over, I see the arched blue doors that lead into theresidences. That building, the one that looms up six levels, isn’t built from stone, but rather blackwood, with a thatched roof.

Blackwood from the dark lands doesn’t burn, but I have a fleeting concern about the thatched roof. I don’t know that material.

Then, all concerns are stolen away by Daxeel as his steed wanders into view. He keeps a fair distance, far along at the left side of the courtyard, but his steed is turned towards us at the carriages. He stops.

Father only spares him a lingering look before he turns to the pair of cloaked ones coming down the way towards us. One cloak is pitch-black, the other is white. Some of our scribes work with the dark ones here.

Taroh steps forward, his father too, and Eamon’s mother, Morticia, all to stand with my father to greet the scribes.

I turn to lean into Eamon. His arm comes up around me and holds limp onto my shoulder.

My face is mostly hidden by Eamon’s fur coat, but I peer over the furs tickling my nose and look at Daxeel. How I apparently love to punish myself.

His dark eyes linger over his cousin for a beat before he lands his gaze on me. He doesn’t look down his nose at me, like a noble would. He looks at me like a warrior would. His head is tilted forward slightly, his eyes piercing through me like swords, and the anger I sense he’s flooded with at the sight of me is schooled from his face as something utterly unreadable.

The scribes start to lead us out of the courtyard, headed for the blue doors. We fall into step behind them, and Daxeel breaks our connected stares.

With a tug of the reins, he steers his kelpie away, then rides off back out into the wild darkness.

Over the murmurs of the scribe and my father, the harsh sound is all I listen to—the punishing pace of Daxeel’s steed.

The bedroom I was assigned is as small as it is bare. But what can be expected at Comlar when I’m of low birth and my father of low status?

At least I’m not sharing. Not that there’s enough room to share on that barely double bed pushed up against the wall, or at that one wooden table without any seats to go with it, or space to share in the single set of drawers or the rotting wardrobe that won’t fit all my clothes. And that’s all there is.

Not even a private tub or water closet. I’ll have to go down the corridor to the communal washroom for that.

But I do like these. These remind me of home, the little mason jars full of glowworms and fireflies. Forever trapped insects, but it’s not so bad for them, since they can breed with each other in these glowjars, and feed off each other all through the life cycles. And if I want to dim the light in here, I just toss the attached small black cloth over the jar, and I’m plunged into darkness.

I don’t bother with the lights, though. Not now that I’m tucked up in the bed, buried under feathery quilts and thick furs. It’s too much effort to get out and turn down the light. I’m already so cosy, so tired…

The scribe said that we would be fatigued for a day or two, since we have to adjust to this thick darkness—and I wondered if it was the same as some folk needing more time to adjust to high altitude than others? I didn’t ask.

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