An Ill-Fated Sky by Darrell Drake

Author:Darrell Drake [Drake, Darrell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780991968183
Google: ZfqjswEACAAJ
Amazon: B079CXCCDP
Publisher: Darrell Drake
Published: 2018-02-27T06:00:00+00:00

• • • • •

Eggs. Rotten, rancid, and like sulfurous steam wafting over his flesh. It was the strangest thing, because within the stench there mingled the savoury smell of breakfast, of the omelettes that had become a cornerstone of his morning routine.

For the second day in a row, he awoke to an odd scene—though decidedly more striking. Shkarag lay close enough that her steady breathing tickled his face, and explained the stench. He curled his lip, but only as long as it took him to become acclimated to the smell.

Tirdad lay there for a moment, watching the slight movements of her lips that betrayed an inner dialogue, the tips of her fangs where they curled back into her mouth. In other circumstances, he would have either wondered what she was up to, or written it off as her natural eccentricities. For the time being, he was just happy to see her.

Sober and in a better mood, it came to him how much he’d overreacted the night before. He felt silly and embarrassed, but acknowledged the authenticity of it all. The saying that one should consider a decision first while drunk, second while sober rang true as ever, and now that it was on his mind, Shkarag had advised him to do the former more often.

He sat up, meaning to speak with her, but her gaze didn’t follow him or flicker as it should have.

“Oh,” he said. He figured she had entered one of her faraway stares, and wondered whether it’d be inappropriate for him to ask her what exactly went on during those unresponsive stretches.

He entertained the possibility of them being a state of absolute quiet—an escape from the reality that caused her so much grief. Perhaps it was a time for revisiting what was no doubt a storied past, turning over those nests beneath which she so often stowed memories. Maybe she simply thought better without distractions.

Tirdad went about his morning ritual: praying, tying his sacred girdle, and cleansing in the spring. He devoured the omelette, which to his dismay had gotten cold. When he’d finished and she still showed no signs of having sobered, he frowned, but thought nothing of it—reeking as it was, he’d awoken to her breathing, after all.

It wasn’t until he went to retrieve his sword, which she had clutched in one hand between them, that he noticed the grape leaf bunched between her palm and its golden scabbard.

He took a knee and leaned in to further inspect it. Food was commonly wrapped in leaves, so it was only out of the ordinary because she didn’t make a habit of bothering with conventional meals. But the festival had only just passed; he figured she had likely scavenged something from the sweetmeats that remained.

Putting it out of mind, and careful to avoid stirring her, he eased his blade from its scabbard. The usual greeting was warm in his grasp. A heartbeat that had once been repulsive now soothed him. Transfixed on its nacreous sheen, he pondered its nature.

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