Page 44 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
It looked as she’d left it the night she was taken by Zarathos. Her sheets were rumpled from resting in it during the day. A couple of swords lay beside her bed that she was in the process of sharpening, and a book on combat rested on a table. Zarathos took it in, but his gaze lingered on the colorful tapestries lining the walls, woven pieces in shades of red and yellow, green and blue. If only stitching together the fragments of herself were as simple as combining threads of different colors. Maybe then she’d understand who she was. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to live in a world so violent and threatening.
“You enjoy weaving?” he asked, stepping closer.
He ran a clawed finger over the tapestry, a mingling of human anatomical hearts and hands rendered in delicate thread. “This is remarkable craftsmanship.”
He swiveled to glance at the loom beside her bed, as if needing to confirm she’d made them herself.
Aryana stared at him. “Are you paying me a compliment?”
He didn’t move. But then retracted his hand, giving an aloof shrug. He turned to look at her. “Where to next on our journey of betrayal and subterfuge?”
She caught her breath. That was what she was doing. Betraying her uncle. Her kingdom. Her kind. She knew that already; however, standing in her castle, in her room where so many memories surrounded her, it seemed ever more immediate and tangible. Gods, she’d been used, and now she was the one betraying her kingdom. Perhaps it was just an endless cycle.
Not only that, she was going against her father and his vision of an independent vampire nation. A sickness twisted inside her and for the first time, she doubted her plan. But the deal with Zarathos was struck. No matter how badly she felt about it, she had to go on.
“Now we get the scepter.”
“Which is located…”
She willed her racing heart to calm as her unease ratcheted higher. “My father’s study.”
They moved down several halls and another flight of stairs. There weren’t many rooms in the castle left untouched after her father’s death, but his office was an exception. They stopped outside the door. The spells and wards he’d cast to protect the scepter were so powerful, so intricate, that even her uncle hadn’t dared to interfere with them.
“Is this it?” Zarathos asked.
Aryana swallowed hard, then gave a small nod.
She hadn’t entered this room since the dayshe’dbeen betrayed, the day her world turned to ruin. The day her hesitation had cost her everything. Whenlovehad cost her everything.
Despite the time he’d already spent observing her memories, Zarathos hadn’t seenallof her traumatic life experiences.
“Aryana?” He observed her carefully.
She only needed to focus on the scepter. Placing a palm on the door and stealing her nerves, she pushed it open.
The room in front of her took form, but only in the crudest of renderings. Everything outlined but with no hues or tones. A bookcase there and the floor, and the floral designs that scrolledacross the ceiling. A portrait of her and her mother that hung on the wall. And the desk…no, not the desk, don’t look over there.Moving through the chamber, she stared steadily at the alcove across from her, the one that held the piece of the scepter. It was the only part of the space that assumed a color rendering.
“Is something wrong?” Zarathos asked as he walked behind her. “This room seems a bit…less detailed than the others.”
“There are spells protecting it and more protecting the alcove where the scepter resides. Only the castle guard, my mother, my uncle and I can enter my father’s office,” she said, ignoring his question and moving in quick strides toward the alcove. “Only those of my father’s blood may enter the alcove.”
“So only you and your uncle.”
“Yes.” She led Zarathos into the rear area and turned toward the scepter, encased in a glass display set into the wall. She focused, trying to recall every detail—the red jewel gleaming at its tip, the intricate carvings along its shaft.
The alcove curved around the back of the office, creating an unexpected extension of the space. Shelves lined with books filled most of it, and a brazier at the far end provided just enough light to see by.
“The scepter is the most heavily protected,” she said. “Only the king can break the spell guarding it.”
Zarathos studied it carefully. “Hmm, we shall see.” He reached up and touched the glass case.
“You do that in real life. It will reduce you to ash.”
He frowned. “And the alcove? What happens if I try to cross into it?”
“Burned to a crisp.”
“And the room?”
