died on these steps, too heavy with drink. He was an uncle, wasn’t he? Not a father. Not that anyone knew it, anyone besides himself and Ceric and Jerila. Maybe he should have tried harder, harder to get Jerila to like him, harder to dissuade Ceric from her. But he didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to. It seemed wrong.
Dershik found the second landing and almost exited but remembered his room was on the third floor. As he took the first step he heard the familiar sound of kissing, squinting in the low light to see who was up ahead. A young man came down the stairs from around the corner, averting his gaze from Dershik and another young man followed, tying his trousers. Dershik just shrugged and called after them. “Don’t slip. I got sick on the stairs.”
The third floor was found, all the windows open to let in fresh air and moonlight, a half moon already making its way west. Dershik stared at the moon and put a hand over his heart, drinking from the wine jug in honor of the Goddess. Where was his sign? Where was the answer he needed? Where was his room? The hallway seemed impossibly long all of a sudden. His door had a maned bear in a cave on it, he reminded himself, feeling stupid. It had been affixed to the door after he and Jerila had taken their vows. Another lie. He found the door and pushed it open.
The room was as tidy, the way he preferred it now Jerila’s items were all put away or moved to the birthing room. His items were all in their drawers or chests, the sheepskin rug freshly washed. He pulled his boots off and set them neatly at the foot of the bed, pulling off his socks. The floor was cold so he just crawled up onto the bed and sat there, pulling his dagger out and flipping it over and over in his hand as he held the jug, sipping from it occasionally.
He didn’t know how long he sat there on the bed, playing with the blade and sipping wine. Eventually he finished the jug and he managed to set it on the floor without falling off the bed. He began nursing a pitcher of water, knowing he would regret it later if he didn’t. Even drunk he handled the dagger skillfully, the metal warming in his hand. It warmed to him. It cut true. It kept his secrets and didn’t foist any more secrets on him.
A knock came at the door and Dershik hid the dagger at his side, eyes wide. “What is it?” he called, trying not to slur his words. He expected it to be Ceric or if the Goddess hated him, his father, bidding him to return to the festivities below. Instead a female voice came through the door. It was Cira.
“It’s me,” she said. It was obvious she wanted him to hear but didn’t want to shout. Dershik blinked in the dark and wondered if he should put his shoes back on before he remembered she wanted him to answer her.
“Oh,” he started. He found a quilt and covered his feet, not sure why he did it but finding it necessary all the same. “Uh, come in.” Dershik managed to make it a statement and not a question. It was a breath before the door opened and Cira’s form filled the doorway, the priestess opening the door only enough to enter the room. The door closed with a thud behind her.
“You’re sitting here alone in the dark.” Cira held her hands together in front of her, clasped. Her hair was loose, the way she’d been wearing it lately. Dershik swore he smelled her sweet perfume already, moonflower incense and spices. It made him bite his lip.
“You know me. Not one for parties. Especially if I’m the guest of honor.” He smirked and shrugged, taking a sip of water from the jug. Cira walked across the room slowly, her eyes wandering over the furniture and decorations. She’d never been in here before. Not since Jerila moved in.
Cira sat on the edge of the bed and Dershik found himself shifting away from her, wondering what she was doing here. She took the pitcher from him and sipped from it, her brows furrowing as she swallowed. “This is water,” she laughed, looking at him. Even in the
Dershik found the second landing and almost exited but remembered his room was on the third floor. As he took the first step he heard the familiar sound of kissing, squinting in the low light to see who was up ahead. A young man came down the stairs from around the corner, averting his gaze from Dershik and another young man followed, tying his trousers. Dershik just shrugged and called after them. “Don’t slip. I got sick on the stairs.”
The third floor was found, all the windows open to let in fresh air and moonlight, a half moon already making its way west. Dershik stared at the moon and put a hand over his heart, drinking from the wine jug in honor of the Goddess. Where was his sign? Where was the answer he needed? Where was his room? The hallway seemed impossibly long all of a sudden. His door had a maned bear in a cave on it, he reminded himself, feeling stupid. It had been affixed to the door after he and Jerila had taken their vows. Another lie. He found the door and pushed it open.
The room was as tidy, the way he preferred it now Jerila’s items were all put away or moved to the birthing room. His items were all in their drawers or chests, the sheepskin rug freshly washed. He pulled his boots off and set them neatly at the foot of the bed, pulling off his socks. The floor was cold so he just crawled up onto the bed and sat there, pulling his dagger out and flipping it over and over in his hand as he held the jug, sipping from it occasionally.
He didn’t know how long he sat there on the bed, playing with the blade and sipping wine. Eventually he finished the jug and he managed to set it on the floor without falling off the bed. He began nursing a pitcher of water, knowing he would regret it later if he didn’t. Even drunk he handled the dagger skillfully, the metal warming in his hand. It warmed to him. It cut true. It kept his secrets and didn’t foist any more secrets on him.
A knock came at the door and Dershik hid the dagger at his side, eyes wide. “What is it?” he called, trying not to slur his words. He expected it to be Ceric or if the Goddess hated him, his father, bidding him to return to the festivities below. Instead a female voice came through the door. It was Cira.
“It’s me,” she said. It was obvious she wanted him to hear but didn’t want to shout. Dershik blinked in the dark and wondered if he should put his shoes back on before he remembered she wanted him to answer her.
“Oh,” he started. He found a quilt and covered his feet, not sure why he did it but finding it necessary all the same. “Uh, come in.” Dershik managed to make it a statement and not a question. It was a breath before the door opened and Cira’s form filled the doorway, the priestess opening the door only enough to enter the room. The door closed with a thud behind her.
“You’re sitting here alone in the dark.” Cira held her hands together in front of her, clasped. Her hair was loose, the way she’d been wearing it lately. Dershik swore he smelled her sweet perfume already, moonflower incense and spices. It made him bite his lip.
“You know me. Not one for parties. Especially if I’m the guest of honor.” He smirked and shrugged, taking a sip of water from the jug. Cira walked across the room slowly, her eyes wandering over the furniture and decorations. She’d never been in here before. Not since Jerila moved in.
Cira sat on the edge of the bed and Dershik found himself shifting away from her, wondering what she was doing here. She took the pitcher from him and sipped from it, her brows furrowing as she swallowed. “This is water,” she laughed, looking at him. Even in the
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