Dreams were the only place you felt real. The one who hovered just left of the heart. Every hair follicle on your smooth, bald head felt alive; the scratchiness of your worn robe was irksome but unavoidable. You used it to hide the mark on your back.
It also meant you bathed in pitch-black darkness, lurking away from the safety of the campfire and approaching the river’s edge when the wolves did. You disrobed only when you were certain it was only you, the stars, and glowing eyes in the brush that deemed you unworthy of a meal.
“Who are you speaking to?” A man sat across the fire. You did not realize you were speaking aloud. The others did not stir at the stranger’s presence. His booted foot was an inch from Percy’s head, and he sat close to Clem’s saddlebags, which were perched on a log. “Are you not here as well?”
His mouth did not move. The words echoed between your ears. You winced and cringed, the pressure at your temples making you see stars—not the ones above. He grinned, his teeth stark white against his beard. His eyes were black pools, boring into yours as the pressure built.
A bird chirped. It appeared atop Clemence’s huddled form, shook its feathers, and flew to you. You opened your hand. It nuzzled against your palm.
“The stupid bird was supposed to be dead,” the man grumbled. His voice turned childish. “As should you.”
You could not move as he rose, striding over the dying flame between you to kneel and meet your gaze. The pressure was unbearable; your eyes watered and your chest seized.
“Yet here you sit. Weak. Sad. You may be of use yet. Bring them to me and I will release you.” He lifted a hand, and you balked before he caressed your cheek. The pressure eased.
“What say you, Priest?” A lilting voice whispered into my ear as a delicate nose nuzzled my neck. “Care to dance? Or is that against the rules?” A woman leaned into me, one shoulder bare, her low neckline revealing all of her. I stared, instinctively leaning closer. She caught my shoulders. “Now, now. There is something to be exchanged for that.”
I blushed. My gaze darted past her, searching for the Head Maester. We were in Madame De La Luna’s private receiving parlor, a place for senators, clergymen, married men unable to risk the front door. It was not my first time. The Maester brought me as his eyes. If the King’s Guard arrived I would shout the secret phrase and he would flee, likely in nothing but his leather sandals.
In that scenario I would be arrested. What was my life against the most pious of them all?
The courtesan remained close. She smelled of jasmine mixed with the lingering scent of other men.
“I am all right, thank you.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I prefer to wait here.”
The Maester sometimes finished early. It had happened before. I knew he’d be furious to find me gone.
I used to admire the man. He was the reason I took the sacred vow. I’d been a fool then, and I was still one now, babysitting a grown man who loved to fuck more than men who did not know what celibacy meant. That was the least attractive part of it. I’d expected salvation. Respect. A life that left me fulfilled and calm.
Instead, I was horny and angry all the time.
“Excuse me.” The parlor was suddenly stifling. “I will be outside.” She barely registered my words. Her attention shifted to a newcomer. I caught a flash of what looked like a badge emblazoned on leather. Panic sent me toward the exit next to the fireplace.
My breath hitched. I turned the knob and slipped through into the main common room. I found myself beneath the stairs, my view blocked by a row of hanging cloaks.
Voices argued just beyond the wall of cloth.
“We can’t tonight!” A man said, followed by the crack of a palm. “Ouch! What the fuck?”
“We cannot divert from the plan. The Heartkeep will be vulnerable.”
“How do you know that?” The other voice was smaller, whinier. “They would hang us for this.”
“Then it is best we do not get caught.” The voices faded into the distance as I strained to hear. Behind me, I heard a chuckle. I turned to find only the door.
“You know who did it.” A deep voice whispered. “What are you going to do about it, Drummond?”
You snapped awake. The man was gone. The log empty.
Drummond. A Priest.
He was talking to you. You pressed a hand to your chest to quell your beating heart. You knew who blew up The Heartkeep.
The voice was familiar. You had heard it before, but from where? But it faded as you sat up from your bedroll
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The bard was awake. He watched you from the ground where he lay at your feet. “Do you always talk in your sleep?”
“Not that I know of.” You said. “I think I just remembered something.”