Page 2 of The Pactbound Angel (The Soul Mirror Duet #1)

Stories Best Forgotten

"Moral o’ the story, fellas. Don't run into a brothel with yer ass on fire. Uhm, beggin' yer pardon, m'lady." The guard across the fire from me held out a hand in my direction.

An almost-smile twitched my lips.There was no point in chiding their rough speech. It wouldn’t work anyway. My longsword slid the rest of the way into its scabbard, the whetstone having sharpened it to my satisfaction, and I looked up.

My amusement dwindled when the other guards around the campfire turned my way.

Wondering why they were all staring at me, and feeling more than a little self-conscious, I frowned at each of their expectant faces.

In the silence, the soft braying of mules and oxen, the conversations and laughter of other nearby guards, and the crackle of logs splitting seemed to emphasize the quiet of our huddled group.

The wind blew the smoke from the fire into my face, causing me to jerk my head with a grimace. Why does it always seem to follow me?

“Your turn, celestial. You’ve never told one,” prompted Rorm, the guard standing off to my left side. “A real one, anyway.”

Oh.

My preference would’ve been for him to use my name instead of my heritage, but I wasn’t going to make a fuss. Some called me celestial. Few called me Nathalia. Others, m’lady. Hearing them all in one form or another became second nature.

A puff of breath lifted a lock of my hair as I considered what story to tell.

It had become a tradition for guards in our caravan to tell at least one story from their past after we’d cared for the draft animals and eaten our supper.

An anecdote. A joke, even. I wasn’t much for telling jokes.

I didn’t remember them well enough to do them justice, and embellishment wasn’t possible.

Tales I’d written long ago, barely remembered fables penned by a child’s hand, were never received well.

“Dull with no flavor,” one painfully honest guard had said.

Everyone’s a critic.

My stories were dull and lifeless for a reason I didn’t like to think about. Nevertheless, it was the only story that came to mind.

I picked up a heavy stick and poked the fire’s logs, unsure what else to do with my hands.

The soot from it stained my palm, making me regret picking it up at all.

“I was nine and heading to my studies. A carnival had been set up just outside Rowin’s walls in Camlynn, and I could see the high tops from our villa’s tallest window.

I asked my father if we could go, but he forbade it. ”

A few of the newer guards rolled their eyes, perhaps taking me for some sort of spoiled princess. Maybe they figured this would be a story of the time I broke a nail. Or even dirtied my shoes. I wished it were that kind of story.

The older guards, however, leaned forward to listen.

“My curiosity won out over my obedience. I convinced my sister Raewyn to go to the traveling faire, without our mother and father. We snuck out of our villa, managing to avoid our governess’s watchful eye.

I paid our entrance fee from my allowance, and we ran in, intent on feasting on fried sweet breads, flossed candy, and whatever else we could get our hands on.

We never won any games, but that did not stop us from trying.

I spent every coin I had in an attempt to win a stuffed animal for Raewyn. ”

Deep breath.

“When all our money was gone, our bellies full to the brim with food we were not normally allowed to eat, we decided to go into the Hall of Mirrors. It was the last thing open that was free. We ran around, laughing, watching ourselves get skinnier, older, fatter, taller in the mirrors. But we soon got confused and lost our way. That’s when we heard the cackling.

It seemed to echo from all sides. Around us, behind us. ”

I stared into the fire, hoping the heat would dry my eyes and prevent the tears that were threatening to well in them.

“We tried to find the entrance but could not. And, then, we saw her. Her unnaturally green eyes radiated malevolence. The mirrors in the area seemed to multiply her, reflecting the mischief hag in their surfaces. I couldn’t tell which reflection was attacking us until it was too late.

I hugged my sister to protect her, calm her cries, but it did not matter. We were cornered.”

All of the guards were now listening. Attentive. Some part of me appreciated that.

“If you don’t know about mischief hags, they take things.

Not just prized possessions, but capability.

Prowess. Any ability or innate gift, they can steal.

Like your sword skill, Rorm. Or your whittling, Maya.

” My eyes flicked to the guard sitting off to the side, who abruptly stopped carving her block of wood with a frown.

“Created by spiteful druids, they spread misery wherever they go. This particular mischief hag cursed us to ruin. I used to write songs, poetry, everything I could think of. She took it. Never again would I write stories or ballads, she said. Never again would I possess creativity. The stories I’ve told to you up to now, the dull ones.

I wrote those when I was nine years of age.

They were some of the last things I wrote.

” I shook my head. “And my poor sister. She was so lovely. She was cursed with horrible facial scars, which she had to hide behind a half-mask. When we managed to get home, my father was…displeased.”

Volcanic, really. Normally a calm man, he roared the night my sister was harmed as my mother tried to comfort her. I’ll never forget the look of utter disappointment in his eyes, the gold in them mirroring my own.

I poked the fire again and cleared my burning throat. “It nearly broke me. The one true gift I claimed as my own was gone, and no amount of pleading or wishing would bring it back.”

My pause made those around me lean in.

“So, what happened next?” Maya asked, her block of wood forgotten.

My reply was barely louder than a mumble, “I’ll not continue. That is the end.”

There was no proper way to tell the guards around me the next part, about how I wanted to master something else: my future.

It was far too personal. Far too intimate.

How if I could not be happy, then I would make another happy.

A big part of growing up in the service of Horyn, the God of Protection, was knowing my time would come for me to take up my father’s mantle.

Only I didn’t want to. Not exactly. My wishes were for what my parents had: a clean, quiet, comfortable existence.

My parents were always affectionate with each other. Always beaming when one looked at the other. They loved deeply and showed it often. A nagging part of me knew that was how I could be happy. So, that became my end goal: to marry someone of my station, have children, and live a nice life.

There was just one problem. A suitable husband was required and, bless them all, no young man in Camlynn fit the bill.

Most were either enamored with my unusual coloring, my last name, or my heritage, and not necessarily in that order.

None cared to know me. Looking to my parents again for inspiration, realization struck.

They met while traveling together. Perhaps I, too, needed to set out to find my future.

The only trouble was that traveling is a dirty, nasty business. Putting aside my disgust, and packing not a small amount of soap, I set out with my parents’ blessings.

“You’ll find him,” said my mother. She unhooked a plain necklace with a smoky gem off her own neck and placed it around mine. “So, you’ll have the luck I did.”

My father was more pragmatic. “Defend those who cannot defend themselves, and safeguard your virtue, for it is a precious thing.”

Meeting all sorts of people from around Laeth, perhaps even some from the Feylands if they had the ability to travel here, would be productive and efficient.

I’d find my intended within a few weeks, perhaps a month at the latest. Whoever it was.

Because that’s what the stories said. You always find who you are meant to. It’s an inevitability.

Instead, all I found is that if you are tired enough, a rock will serve as a pillow. Hunger is the best seasoning. There is no pleasure greater than the sudden absence of pain. And traveling is a very lonely business, even when surrounded by people.

Laughter jolted me out of my memories. My thumb brushed the gray stone dangling from my throat before I tucked it back underneath my armor.

“Well! I guess it’s my turn again! So, no shit, there I was.

Camped out at the entrance of a sapper’s tunnel trying to get into the city.

..” The guard, Elijah, turned to me with a sorrowful face.

“Sorry, m’lady. T’was the Siege of Rowin I be talkin’ about here.

Decades ago, aye, but I remember it like it was yesterday. ” Elijah stroked his gray beard.

Though Rowin had been rebuilt, buildings in the capital city of Camlynn still bore the scars of that war. Still, there was little point in holding onto a grudge. “I hold no ill will, Master Elijah. It was long ago, as you said.”

“Ah, right. Well, all were just beddin’ down, like.

It got quiet, so quiet. I was on my watch shift and up comes this broodling, walkin’ into camp like it was his home.

He smiled at me. I could see his long canines and curled horns.

Unnerved me, it did! But when he spoke, it was so calming.

I listened, despite myself. Told me his name was Ramiren.

He snapped his fingers and whoosh! I was elsewhere, in a room with a table, chairs, and wine.

Oh, the wine was good. Better than this shite.

” He took a drink from his wineskin to the sound of an amused audience.