Page 65 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Then she went back to the parlor, leaving Harlan a little confused, a little insulted…and more than a little intrigued. He didn’t know what the future held, but maybe it wasn’t as dark as he’d assumed.
Clara
FOR TWO DAYS, PRAYER HAD been Clara’s constant companion. She’d prayed for peace, for strength, and for her heart to keep beating.
Everything hurt. Her feet, her back, her shoulders, her very soul. Samuel’s hunger was constant. Even with Zelda’s help, shebarely slept at night. Her dreams were full of screams and fire and a dark hole she would never be able to climb out of.
Most of the last two nights had been closing her eyes and hoping her pitiful pleas for peace would be enough.
She just needed to beenough.
It was the missive clutched in her hand that had finally given her a surge of strength. It wasn’t until she’d read the words on the parchment—the ink dark like night itself had formed into words and summoned her—that she had begun to believe everything would be okay.
Her father-in-law was alive. His sins were reprehensible, but he’d been spared like her. Who was she to say he wasn’t deserving of a second chance if she was? She tucked Samuel closer to her chest. Harlan would know where to find Jove, Les…maybe even her mother.
She prayed harder.
Masses of people fought to get to the tent, and overworked, bedraggled soldiers pushed them back. The discordant, echoing shouts woke Samuel. Clara smoothed his hair and kissed it, but he didn’t calm at all. Some people shouted vile things at the tent. A man with crazed eyes threw mud. A soldier arrested the latter. Her own escorts formed a tighter ring around her.
“Enter the tent, Lady Shackley. Hurry,” one said gruffly, all but pushing her through the flap.
The canvas walls did little to block out the sounds from outside, but at least it was calmer inside. A few mismatched chairs sat in the middle, a small cot pushed to the other side. Two men stood conversing near the chairs. The Yalven man was tall and willowy with raven-black hair done in a braid. The other was the Stradat Lord Kapitan, his cheeks slightly sunken.
He’d lost weight since Clara had last seen him—which, other than the flash portraits in the paper, had been nearly a week ago. The last true interaction she’d had with him wasbefore Samuel’s birth. Jove had told her that he’d visited the night Kase ran away and had met Samuel while she was asleep, but that was it.
He’d aged nearly ten years in a week.
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to spit in his face and walk right back out, but she couldn’t. Not until she knew where her husband was. Not until she knew why he’d been spared.
“Lady Clara Shackley,” one of her soldier escorts announced.
Harlan stopped speaking with the Yalven man; he turned his haunted eyes on her immediately, an unexpected warmth rippling across them when he spotted Samuel in her arms. That flicker of life went out as quickly as it had come upon him, however. He bowed stiffly and gestured for her to take one of the chairs. “I am relieved to find you well and whole.”
The Stradat Lord Kapitan had never been outright rude or cruel to her, but the sentiment still took her off guard. She gave him a small smile. “I am grateful as well.”
She had a thousand questions, but she didn’t want to push him. Taking a seat, she adjusted Samuel in her arms, shushing him softly. He clasped one of his hands around her finger and squeezed. Soon, he breathed easily.
The sound outside the tent never changed.
Harlan took one of the other seats, and the Yalven man followed. Harlan gestured to the other man. “This is Lord Saldr of Myrrai, the Yalven emissary who returned with Kase and Miss Walker a few months ago.” He crossed his arms, holding them close to his chest. “Lady Clara is Jove’s wife, and this is their son, Samuel.”
Clara nodded. “Good to meet you, Lord Saldr.”
He bowed his head, suddenly appearing nervous, though Clara wasn’t certain as to why.
She took a second to breathe before asking, “Have you seen Jove? Or Lady Les? My own searches have proved fruitless.”
Harlan smoothed his mustache, looking at his scuffed and muddy boots. The silence was quickly filled with Clara’s pounding heartbeat. With each second that passed without an answer, the sound thundered in her ears.
It drowned out the people’s shouts just outside, railing against the man who sat before her.
Give me strength.
“Jove survived the attack on the city, but upon arriving at the Catacombs, we believe he fell into one of the chasms that have begun opening up.” Harlan’s words were stiff like a forgotten paintbrush. “We have not found Lady Les. I fear she may have…perished before she could reach the tunnels.”
Strength.
Clara’s chest collapsed in on itself as the burning tears in her eyes slipped down her face and sprinkled her baby’s blanket.
