Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [166]
Then he resumed crying.
Eir held his hand. “It’s understandable you’re upset, Rand, so don’t be so harsh on yourself.”
She got up and lit lanterns and soothing incense and waited for him to compose himself. He realized he was comfortable being vulnerable in front of her. Soon he began to feel better, until somehow his failings as a son didn’t seem to matter quite as much.
CHAPTER 40
THERE WERE TIMES IN HIS LONG LIFE WHERE JERYD HAD BEEN AFRAID. Cornered in an alley with a sword against his throat. Going undercover with gangs in his youth. Chasing suspects along icy bridges and precarious rooftops. Dealing with crime, you’d expect that.
But as he now awaited Marysa to wake from her slumber, he was truly frightened.
She had slept right through for two nights as if under some spell. His life was balanced, waiting for these moments for her to wake up. He’d already forgiven her for her misdemeanor. Didn’t matter that she’d found something, momentarily, with someone else. That wouldn’t be the first thing he would think about when she finally opened her eyes. His tactic was to pretend it had not happened. He loved her so much, it caused him an entirely new level of pain inside.
As the milky light of day began to filter through from the window, he looked around at the clutter of junk filling the bedroom. It was all hers, of course. Jeryd was one of those who didn’t care to accumulate anything much. As soon as he’d finished with it, it was gone. His rooms had been bare, before she was around. She’d filled the void systematically, buying steadily over the years, nearly all of it antiques. Maybe much of it was junk, but it was her junk.
He had got comfortably used to her filling his otherwise empty life with objects of uncertain purpose, and he’d often wander around the house, simply to uncover items he’d have no recognition of. It seemed to suggest something deeper about their relationship.
As he rested a hand affectionately on her arm, she finally stirred, her fingers gripping the white bedsheets gently. He sprang to life, a silent prayer to Bohr on the tips of his lips.
She lifted herself up, and stared at him vacantly.
“Good morning,” he said. “You’ve slept through two nights without waking. I hope someone didn’t try any love potions on you. There’s a lot of it about these days.”
“Two nights?” she said, her eyes focusing on him intently, a million thoughts clearly darting through her mind. “I had such a weird dream … I dreamed I came home and you were really angry. It’s strange how real it all seemed. The mind can do scary things …”
With those few words he knew he was safe. All he had to do now was behave as normal.
Jeryd knew he had to leave the house before too long. Minor cases were mounting up in his office, and he still had to solve the councilor murders. Today not even that tiny snowball army, the Gamall Gata kids, annoyed him. Jerrryd.
As he walked the ice-slicked streets of Villjamur he felt in a particularly strange mood. His eyes felt heavy, barely took in the constant streams of people passing him. The keening of a banshee echoed somewhere unnaturally far away. His mind was left abandoned on a melancholy plane neither here nor there.
In the melting sun, an icicle detached from one of the high ledges and shattered on the cobbles near his feet. Not even that could interrupt his torpor.
Reaching the headquarters of the Inquisition, he opened the door of his office to find Tuya Daluud standing there with her back to him.
She turned her head, her thick hair flowing in an alluring arc. You couldn’t really see her scar in the dim light. She was wearing a thick black coat and smelled of a decent perfume. She stared at him in discomforting silence, and her eyes looked red and sore as if she had been weeping.
“Can I help?” Jeryd said at last, indicating the visitor’s chair in front of his desk.
She shook her head, but he didn’t know whether that was in response to the question or